Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            He has undone my brace. He sets it aside, next to the pajama bottoms that I threw on the floor this morning, then helps me wiggle out of my jeans. “Red? And spotty?”

            I laugh a little harder. “Yup.”

            “That’s what I—”

            I press him down till he’s lying on the bed. Then I straddle him and peel off my top, ignoring the slight sting in my ankle. This should be familiar ground for me: bodies against bodies, flesh against flesh. Just seeing what feels good and then doing more of it. It should be familiar, but I’m not sure it is. Being here with Ian is more like hearing a song I’ve listened to millions of times, this time with a new arrangement.

            “God, you look so— What works best for you?” he asks between breaths. “For your ankle?”

            “Don’t worry, it doesn’t really hu—” I stop myself as something occurs to me. “You’re right. I am injured.”

            His eyes widen. “We don’t have to—”

            “Which means that I should probably be in charge.”

            He nods. “But we don’t have to—”

            He shuts up the moment my hand reaches the zipper of his jeans. And he stays silent, breathing sharply, staring mesmerized at the way I undo it, slow, methodical, determined. His boxers are tented. He is hard, big. I remember touching him for the first time and thinking how good the sex was going to be.

            I just didn’t think it would take us five years to get there.

            “Hannah,” he says.

            I reach inside the slit of his boxers to cup him. The second my fingers close around him, his nostrils flare. “Yes?”

            “I don’t think you understand how— Fuck.”

            He is hot and huge. Closing his eyes, arching his neck before looking at me again with a half-warning, half-pleading expression. He finds me sitting on his knees, his cock spasming in my grip as I lean over. “Hannah,” he says, even deeper than usual. “What are you . . .”

            I start by licking the head, thoroughly, delicately. But he feels smooth and warm against my tongue, and I immediately get impatient. I flip my hair so it’s not in the way and seal my lips around him, suck gently once, twice, and then . . .

            I hear a growl. Then the sound of something ripping. With the corner of my eye, I notice Ian’s large hand fisting the sheet. Did he just tear my—

            “Stop,” he says, pleads, orders me.

            My brow furrows. “You don’t like it?”

            “It’s not—” I tighten my grip around his length, and I can almost hear his teeth grind. His cheeks are bright red. Mars Red. “We can’t. Not the first time. We need to do it in a way that won’t make me . . .”

            I press a soft, lingering kiss at the base. He inhales once, audibly, from his nose. “So what you’re saying is . . . you don’t want to come?”

            “It’s more—shit—about keeping my dignity,” he rushes out.

            “Dignity is overrated,” I say before running my teeth up his length to take the head in my mouth again. This time, he seems to just give in. His hand slides through my hair, cups the back of my skull, and for a second he keeps me there. Pulls me closer. Presses me against him until I feel the tip of his cock hitting the back of my throat. I yield to Ian, enjoying the feeling of him losing control, the salty flavor, his trembling thighs, the helpless way he tugs at my hair to get me to take more, deeper, better—

            Suddenly, it’s all upside down. I’m being dragged up his body, flipped on my back, pinned to the bed. One of his hands can hold both my wrists above my head, and when I look up I find him caging me. I first notice the panic in his eyes, then how close he was to coming, then the sheer relief that he managed to stave it off.

            “Hannah,” he says. His tone is laced with command.

            “What?”

            His cock twitches against my abdomen. “I think I’ll be in charge now.”

            I pout. “But I—”