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“Because hating you would be easier, smarter.” His jaw shifted. “I could let go of this, of you, and not give a fuck.”
He was being so honest.
His throat jumped. “Hating you is easier than loving you,” he said, his nostrils flaring. “And you loving me back…”
Back?
His thumb brushed my cheek, and the digit came away wet again.
“Is this,” he said before his mouth touched the tear’s trail on my check. He closed his eyes. “It might always be, but I don’t fucking care.” His tongue drew down my skin. “I can’t fucking care.”
He licked away tears before unbuckling his pants.
“I can’t care, Noa.” Leaving the pants open, he unbuttoned his shirt. “I won’t care.”
He tugged me to him by the thighs and didn’t even take my panties off before shoving my skirt up and burying his face between my legs.
“This is mine,” he ground out, the cry falling from my lips. I wriggled against his face, and he growled. “This is mine, and I don’t fucking care. I’m going to have it. You’re mine.”
His.
He nibbled my lower lips through my underwear, my chest hiking with hard pants. I wanted him to stop. This was starting to hurt, but not physically. My stupid goddamn heart was taking the brunt of this.
Especially when he slowed down.
He kissed me down there, light and feathery kisses across my sex. He hooked my panties over and his tongue did a sweep between my lower lips.
“Please,” I whimpered. “Please stop.”
It hurt, killed being this close to him, physically, emotionally. It did, and my chest tightened, his hair bunching in my hands.
“No,” he rasped, warm breath so gentle against my sensitive flesh. “No, Sloane. I can’t. I won’t.”
He continued to kiss me, making love to me between my legs. I’d told him to make love to me, but I hadn’t thought it was possible. He was too hard, too callous.
Too perfect.
My lids squeezed down more fucking tears, bucking when his kisses picked up. Dorian held me to his mouth, his fingers embedded in my thighs and his tongue fucking me.
“You’ll come for me,” he commanded, and I did so damn hard I thought I’d pass out, my back arching off his bed.
He funneled me down, lapping at my sex hungrily. He didn’t wait for me to finish before he tugged his shirt off and pressed that huge body on top of me. He pumped himself in his pants, grinding against my stomach.
“Taste what you fucking do to me.” He kissed me hard, solid. He swept my own juices across my tongue. “Taste it, Sloane.”
I did, trembling. I cradled his head, and he opened my blouse.
His kisses were even softer there, one by one softer. I didn’t think I could fucking take it. It was easier to do this, be with him, when he was fucking me and making it hurt. I didn’t know how to deal with anything different.
He wet my nipples through my bra, sucking and letting them pop out of his mouth. He didn’t stop until I had my legs hooked around his waist, and I was bucking against him again.
Only then did he strip me bare, only then did he push his pants down his muscled legs. In boxers and on his knees, he appeared godlike.
And almost sad.
He studied me, his hand sliding up to my neck. His fingers flicked my curls. “You’re so beautiful.”
I couldn’t breathe, my chest tight. “Shut up.”
