Page 57 of Hate Me Like You Mean It
“Got it,” he muttered once he’d pulled the earring out and dropped it into his palm. “That’s one.”
He tipped my head to the other side, repeating the process. “Two. I’m taking your purse, so that’s three. And…” He stuffed his hand between the couch and my lower back, unclasping the clip holding the shorts up. “Four.”
He added it to the small pile of other stolen treasures, then scratched at his jaw, eyeing me up and down. “You sure you don’t want to back out?”
“Yup. But you’re welcome to.”
“I’m good.” He went for my shorts first, hesitating before he stripped them off my legs, careful to only touch the fabric. “Like you said, it’s not a big deal.”
His gaze lingered on my bare thighs before he dragged it away, and I might as well have been standing on the edge of an active volcano with how sharply my temperature spiked.
My heart did a funny little trick when his fingers reached out again, this time grazing the hem of my sweater. We locked eyes, and he waited to see if I would finally voice an objection. When I didn’t, he slipped his hand underneath.
It was my fault.
I shouldn’t have assumed he’d choose the sweater as the final item. Panties had the higher shock value, and he wanted a reaction. His mouth twitched when my eyes flared, and he stilled, quirking a brow as if to ask whether I was really,reallysure.
I mirrored his expression as if to ask why he’d even stopped.
His smirk grew more pronounced, a cheeky glint lighting up his eyes as his fingers slipped up to my right hip, curling around the waist of my panties. He tugged at it before moving on to the next side, slowly working the fabric down my legs while my heart did everything it could to beat out of my chest.
“And that’s six.”
The black cotton was tossed onto the pile, and I adjusted myself on the couch when he turned around, pulling at thesweater to ensure all my important bits were covered. Lucky for me, Dominic was huge, so the sweater was longer on me than half the cocktail dresses in my closet.
“Drink,” I demanded, tossing down the ten of gluttony before his ass had even hit the seat.
“Again? You trying to get me drunk?”
“You’re stupider when you’re drunk, so yes.” I studied my hand again as he took another shot. “You could even say it’s the only reason I agreed to turn this into a drinking game.”
“That’s not why you agreed.” The five of gluttony flicked onto the field. “But it’s not a bad strategy. Drink.”
18
Dear me/ journal/ god.
It’s over. We are so dead.
Do you remember the sad clown ghost prank from two weeks ago? Well, in order to get back at me, Loch Ness poured a whole bunch of sugar sticks into all the pockets of my backpack last week to make everything sticky and I didn’t know.
Long story short now our school has ants.
“Die, peasant!”
I crumpled the jack of diamonds in my palm and threw his sorry ass toward the fire. The slimy bastard bounced clean off an invisible shield, flopping undramatically onto the rug.
So I stomped on him.
Dominic snorted into the bottle of whiskey before taking a sip.
“Andyou!” I pointed an accusatory finger at the half-peeled duct tape hanging off his rosy cheek. “Your tongue was cut off three turns ago.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t drink,” he pointed out.
I snatched the bottle out of his hand, pressing the tape back over his mouth. We’d run out of gluttony cards two turns ago. Greed was scarce. And wrath was on its last legs.
I dropped back down in my seat, frowning at my hand.
