He groans into my mouth, and I use that moment to push back, trying to take control again. But Han is stronger than he looks, and for once, he's not letting me win.
"Frustrated?" he murmurs between kisses, smirking against my lips.
I bite at his jaw...
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After all the progress Han and I made, we're back to square one.
Back to me hating him.
But this time, I hate him for making me feel this way. For making me crave him in a way that borders on desperation, for sinking his claws into my fucking soul and then walking away like none of it meant a thing.
Days have passed since the museum event. Days of silence, of nothing but the ghost of his touch still burning against my skin. He hasn't reached out. Not that I expected him to—Han has always been good at pretending things don't exist. Pretending we don't exist.
And yet I know he felt it that night.
The way he melted into me when I kissed him. The way his body surrendered beneath my hands like he was made for me to touch, to own, to completely unravel.
And you're telling me he feels nothing?
It pisses me off. It makes me fucking livid.
I press my palms against the marble counter of my bathroom sink, my reflection staring back at me—wild-eyed, restless, obsessed. My jacket is discarded somewhere on the floor, my white shirt unbuttoned, exposing the tension coiled tight in my chest.
I exhale harshly, gripping the edge of the sink until my knuckles go white. I feel like I'm clawing at my own skin, like something inside me is tearing itself apart piece by piece.
I want him.
I want him so bad it's ruining me.
I slam a hand against the mirror, frustration clawing up my throat. "Fuck," I whisper, closing my eyes, willing his face out of my head—but it's there, carved into my mind like a sickness.
The curve of his lips when he smirks at me like I'm nothing but a game to him. The way his breath hitches when I touch him, like he's fighting himself. The way his eyes soften right before he gives in.
And yet, he still left. Still pushed me away. Like I meant nothing.
I hate him for it.
I hate that I would still let him ruin me all over again.
I hate that I still want to chase him.
That no matter how much I try to convince myself I'm done, that I hate him, my body betrays me every damn time. I still feel him everywhere—his scent, his warmth, the way his voice slithers through my chest like smoke, suffocating me in his absence.
I hate that I know I'll go after him again. That no matter how much I try to deny it, I will follow him.
Like a fucking dog.
Like I don't have any pride left.
Because the truth is, I don't. Not when it comes to Han. Not when it comes to the way he makes my pulse hammer with just a glance. The way my body fucking aches at the thought of his lips, his touch, his breath ghosting over my skin like he owns me.
