Tremble

"Stop talking," he demands, pressing his lips fiercely against my own.

There was an electricity between us that didn't belong, that wasn't right. His every touch had me reeling -- desperately searching for more of his skin to meet with mine and wondering how something so unutterably wrong as this could feel this fucking good.

We slam into a wall in a tangle of limbs. He's everywhere against me but I only want him closer, tipping my head back in an invitation almost entirely unnecessary. There's a dull ache throughout my body, a need that can only be satisfied by the boy who even now is slipping his hands beneath my skirt and pressing me harder into the wall.

I should've put an end to this weeks ago.

"I hate you," I breathed, his lips ghosting down my neck. I hate Christian Walker. I hate him. With everything that I am, with every fibre of my being, I hate him. But no matter how much that was true, it didn't stop me from curling my fingers through his gloriously thick black hair. "I really, really, really hate you."

"Believe me, babe, the feeling's mutual."