"I hate you," I say again.

He smiles, that same cocky smile he gets when he knows he's turning me on.

He raises my arms above my head and holds them in place with one hand, the other moving to my chin, lifting it so he can look into my eyes. Whatever he sees makes his eyes widen slightly. He blinks once, long and hard—like he's trying to refocus. He leans down, licking his lips as he does, then runs his tongue lightly between my lips. "You don't hate me," he whispers.

But my mind is a fog and I have no clue what the hell we're even talking about anymore. "Yes I do," I say anyway.

He pulls back, that same cocky smile still in place. He moves his hand from my chin, down my neck and onto my chest. The backs of his fingers brush down my strained nipples. My hips jerk forward, grinding into his leg. His hand flattens on my stomach, moving higher and lifting my shirt. I feel the cold air hit my breasts before I realize what’s happening. He pulls his leg back; the same time I feel the warmth of his breath between my breasts. I arch my back, inviting him for more.

Dammit, I need more. I reach for him, but his grip on my hands tightens, again. "I want to touch you."

"I thought you hated me."

I'm too far gone. Not from the buzz of the alcohol, but from letting him have me like this. "I do hate you," I breathe out.

He moves his hand to my back, his fingers deftly unzipping my skirt. It falls silently and bunches at my feet.

"I bet you don't," he murmurs, his teeth brushing against my nipple. He runs a finger between my legs, over my panties. "Yup," he says, popping the 'p'. "You definitely don't hate me."

His hand moves under my panties and onto my ass. Moaning, he starts to move in again.

I turn my head to the side, avoiding his kiss. "I want to touch you. Please, Cameron." I feel his fingers relax on my wrists, and I try to move. This time he lets me.

I flatten my palms under his shirt and finger the dips of his abs.

He pushes my panties past my hips, past my ass, and watches them fall to the floor. Then he dips his finger inside me, slowly moving in and out.

I unbutton and unzip his jeans and roughly tug them down. I sense his body go rigid, but I don't stop, not until he's freed and my fingers are curled around him. I moan when I feel the warmth of his dick in my hands. "Show me what to do?"

He removes his mouth from my breast and kisses me softly, using his spare hand to guide mine to his pleasure.

It only takes minutes for that ache in my stomach to reach its peak. "Something's happening," I whimper while my eyes shut tight and my body tenses.

"You want me to stop?" He sounds panicked.

I am panicked. "Fuck no."

"Good," he says, our eyes locking. His fingers work while my hand moves up and down.

"Oh my God."

His fingers...

"Oh my God."

In. Out.

"Oh my God," I repeat.

"Lucy, I'm so close."

In. Out.

"Cameron!"

"Kiss me."

So I do.

My eyes roll to the back of my head.

My hips jerk forward. And if possible, he gets even harder in my hands.

His mouth.

His fingers.

"FUCK!" I moan.

And then it happens. Over and over. And over. And over. It builds. Slow. But fast.

I roar. ROAR. My head thrashes, smashing against the wall behind it.

He comes at the same time—on my hand, his jeans, my shirt, everywhere.

My body goes limp.

He pulls back, his eyes closed and his jaw tense.

His breathing is heavy, matching mine. His eyes open but they seem distant.

"Oh my God."

A hint of a smile forms on his perfect face. "Was that okay?

I nod.

"We should probably clean up."

I chuckle as he walks to the sink. He runs the tap and leads my hands under the running water. When I'm done, he uses a hand towel to clean my shirt, his jeans, and then finally his hands. I sit up on the counter and wait for him to finish. When he is, he looks at me with eyebrows raised and a smirk on his face.

"That was amazing," I tell him, wrapping my legs around his knees and bringing him between me.

He finishes buttoning his jeans and rests his forehead on my shoulder. "You were amazing." He kisses my neck, up my jaw and to my mouth. "We should probably get out of here before we do something stupid."

I laugh. "I think I need a drink."

*

He gives me a drink.

I ask for more.

And now I'm puking into the bushes while he holds my hair out of the way. "I'm sorry, babe. I should've stopped you."

It's not his fault. I wanted to drink so that I could stop myself from raping him in public.

"Oh my God," I mumble, thinking about the way his fingers felt inside me.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

I puke again.

When I'm done, he helps me to sit down on the sidewalk. He was halfway to helping me get to the car when my stomach decided it didn't want whatever was in there.

"Are you okay?"

I nod, but my head is heavy and I'm ridiculously tired all of a sudden.

"Will you be alright here while I get the car?"

I nod again.

"Just don't talk to anyone, okay? I'll be quick."

I see him stand, his phone halfway to his ear before I drop my head and take a nap.

Naps are good.