Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

Her jaw worked. “Is that a no on that second chance?”

“God, you’re so fucking . . .” He shook his head, and then caged hers between his hands, leaning closer. Breathing in her scent. “I love you, Rue. You are the only chance there is.”

Her eyes shone bright. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He felt a bone-deep, chest-warming amount of joy—like she’d taken a knife from his heart and placed it back in her drawer. She still had the power to destroy him. Always would, he suspected, hold him in the palm of her hand.

He hoped she’d be merciful.

“Does this mean that we’re going to be dating?” she asked solemnly. Her mouth struggled to shape that last word. He couldn’t help pressing his thumb against her full lower lip.

“It means that . . .” That you’re mine, the uncivilized part of him screamed. That I’m going to take you and hoard you. “I’m going to be open with you, because I wasn’t always, and that was a mistake. Okay?”

She nodded.

“It means that I’m not going into this thinking that there will be an ending. Do you get my meaning?”

She nodded again.

“And I’m going to—I’m going to want to see you every day. I’m going to learn more dishes and pack your lunch and write cute little notes on it. I’m going to ask you if you want to sleep at your place or mine and always assume that we’re spending the night together. I’m going to think about you all the damn time. I’m going to assume I’m watering your plants when you’re out of town. I’m going to hold your hand in public. I’m going to kiss you in public. I’m going to organize surprise parties for you with your friend. I’m going to send a hundred texts per day with stupid online shit I think you should see. Clingy as fuck, Rue. Can you do it? Can you live with me as your boyfriend?” The word seemed as reductive as dating. For now, he told himself. For a short while.

“I am really bad at replying to texts.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t love surprise parties.”

“I know.”

“But the rest . . .” She smiled against his thumb. “Yes, please.”

He leaned into her ear. “I’m going to do the filthiest things to you.”

Her breath hitched. “You do have a ridiculous sex drive.”

“So do you.”

“So do I.”

He pulled back, and it was her turn to press a soft kiss against his thumb, even if her eyes were serious as she warned, “I’ll never be easy to be around, Eli.”

He knew that. He loved that. He wanted nothing more than to learn every inch of her, his complicated, mercurial dream girl.

He leaned in for a kiss. But before, he said, “I can imagine worse fates.”





EPILOGUE





RUE

ONE YEAR LATER

My voice was muffled by the pillow, dampened by my own gritted teeth, but I hated how reedy and desperate it still sounded when I said, “I hate this.”

“Really?” Eli remained motionless inside me, but the heel of his palm traced every knob of my spine, soothing my tremors. It made no difference, because his other hand was busy pinning my wrists to the mattress. “Because I am into it.”

Of course he was.

He had come.

Twice.

Inside me, wherever struck his fancy.

I, however, had not. It had been hours, and I was a trembling, unsatisfied mess. He got like that, sometimes—pushy and overbearing and everywhere, and I just couldn’t . . .

I groaned into the pillow.

“You’re really not enjoying yourself?” he whispered, this time against my ear.

“I’m not,” I lied.

“My poor girl.” He clucked his tongue, and I was going to kill him. As soon as he let go of me. And let me come. “Why is that?”

Because.

“Is it too much, Rue?” He nuzzled the curve of my throat, and the movement made him surge deeper inside me. I was swollen and used, and it felt so good, I might cry. In fact, I was already tearing up. “Is it broccoli, baby?”

“No! No. It’s just . . .”

“Just?”

I circled my ass against his groin, and his muted, amused grunt ended with him gripping my hip bone and holding me still. Asshole.

“Why are you grinding against me, sweetheart?” He kissed the ball of my shoulder. “We both know that you can’t come in this position, anyway.”

“Then why don’t you just let me move?”

“Because I can come in this position. And I’m trying to save myself for you.”

I whimpered—half plea, all frustration. “Please. I need you to—”

“I know exactly what you need.” His mouth on my earlobe was, briefly, all teeth. “You don’t have to tell me.” He tsked. “Come on,

Rue. I’m offended.”

“Then why don’t you—”

“Because I’m having fun. Want me to stop? Just say the words.”

I could have. I could have told him to put an end to this. I’d done it before, when it had become too much, when I’d felt like I was going to squirm out of my own skin, and he’d stopped without asking questions. I let myself contemplate the possibility: Eli turning me around, making me come with his mouth, rocking me in his arms for long minutes, until I pushed him away or fell asleep, whatever came first.