He slides his pants and boxers down, stepping out of them. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

There’s a finality to his words. That familiar hidden warning Luke always projects when I touch on a subject that is too personal for him. Twelve months ago I would’ve backed off, changed the subject, not dug for answers to things I desperately wanted to know about. But I can’t be like that anymore. Not when I know how it ends for me.

I hold my hands out, palms facing him as he crawls toward me. “Wait. I want to talk.”

“So talk.” He grabs my ankle and pulls me ’til I’m flat on the bed. “Nothing’s ever stopped you from being vocal before. You know I get off on that.” He presses my legs apart, and I flatten my hands against his head, keeping him inches away from where I know he wants to be.

I wait ’til he lifts his eyes to mine before I explain. “That’s not the kind of talking I mean, and you know it. You gotta give me something. If you don’t want to tell me about the guitar, fine, but I want to know who Sara is.”

He presses his lips to my inner thigh, trailing higher on my skin, pushing into my hands. “Stop fighting me.”

“Tell me who she is,” I repeat, tilting my head to read the name scrolled across his ribcage. I push harder against him, meeting his resistance. “Luke, I’m serious. I… oh, God. Don’t do that.” I keep one hand on his head, reaching between my legs and grabbing a hold of his wrist as his finger slides along the front of the briefs I’m wearing. I close my eyes when I feel his lips press against my hip, and suddenly my hands go limp, falling in surrender to the mattress. “I want to talk. Please talk to me.”

“Go ahead and talk, babe. Nothing’s stopping you.” He blows against my clit, cooling me through the thin material separating us as his hands slide under my ass.

I need to be strong right now. To demand answers. To reach down and grab the briefs he’s sliding down my legs. Why does he do this to me? Why can’t I block him out and focus on anything but the rough grip of his hands? The sound he makes when he bites my skin, or the urgent slide of his tongue? Practiced. Familiar. But never routine. The only predictable facet regarding the way Luke Evans eats pussy is that he’s getting at least one orgasm out of you. Most likely several, and good fucking luck saying anything but his name while he’s doing it.

I bunch the sheet I’m lying on in my hands. “Goddamn it. Why can’t you just wait a couple minutes before you… Oh, God, just wait… That’s… fuuuck.” I take in a shaky breath, then sigh. “I hate you right now.”

“Yeah?” he asks, stroking my clit with his tongue. “What do you hate? This?” He tilts my hips up, slides his tongue inside me, and fucks me with it. “You hate this?”

“Yes,” I answer through a moan.

“Tell me everything you hate. Make me feel it.”

I arch my back when two fingers replace his tongue. “I hate that you know I like that.” I scratch along his scalp when he sucks on my clit. “I hate… mmm, I really hate when you use your—” I gasp. “Teeth, right there.”

“What else?”

I go to open my eyes, to stare down at him ’cause I know he’s looking at me, but they just roll farther back into my head the moment he pinches my nipple. “I don’t know. I hate a lot of things.”

He pushes my knees against my chest and bites my ass. “Don’t give me some vague bullshit answer. You don’t just hate me because of what I can do to you, and right now, you’re gonna get that shit off your chest before you come all over my face.” He drops my legs over his shoulders, and our eyes meet. “Because when I swallow that last drop, it’ll be my turn, and I'm not holding back. I’m gonna tell you everything I hate about you and you're gonna feel it. So start talking."

I grab his head, arch my back, and cry out the second I feel his tongue between my legs. “I hate that you don’t talk to me. I wanna know everything about you, and I…” I gasp when his thumb moves over my clit. “I feel like you were just with me because you wanted sex.” I bite my lip, digging my nails into the mattress. “I hate that I want this, and that I stop caring about how much you don’t give me the second you… shiiit, the second you make me feel this way.” My breathing becomes heavy as my shirt clings to my skin. “I hate that I’ll always want more, and I hate that you won’t give it to me. Oh, God, right there.” I groan, feeling the pressure build and slowly spread out from my core. My body submits to this, to what he can do to me, and I fill my lungs to capacity one last time just as the wave of pleasure rolls through me.

“I hate that I can’t hate you enough to forget you. That for the past year I never stopped thinking about you. Not even for one day.”

My legs fall off his shoulders as he shifts his weight, kneeling between my legs. I think he’s going to give me a few seconds, stare at me a little, maybe respond to what I’ve just said, but he digs his fingers into my hips, lifts me off the bed, and drives straight into me.

“Luke,” I pant, digging my nails into his shoulders.

He wraps my legs around his waist before bracing himself with a hand on either side of me. Arms flexed, ink covering his skin, lips wet and inches from mine. “My turn,” he says through a soft voice. “I hate what you did to us. That what I gave you wasn’t enough, and that you fucking kept shit from me that I had every right to know about.” He begins thrusting into me, so hard my body slides up the bed and he has to wrap his arm around my waist to keep me still. “I hate you for not telling me why you broke up with me. That shit came out of nowhere, and you just dropped me like I never meant anything to you. I was going fucking crazy, and you ignored me. You wouldn’t talk to me. You wouldn’t give me shit. I deserved a fucking reason, and you treated me like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.” His lips fall open with a groan, and I reach up and flatten my hand against his chest, right over his tattoo.