Sasha’s POV
His mouth was on my collarbone and my blouse was already on the floor when the argument started again.
“You don’t get to do this,” I said, voice rough. My hands were in his hair anyway, pulling hard enough to hurt. “You don’t get to show up after everything and act like you own the air I breathe.”
“I do own it.” His teeth scraped skin. Not hard.
Just enough. “Say it.”
“f**k you.”
He laughed against my throat, low and dark, and the sound went straight between my legs. One of his hands slid under the waistband of my skirt, palm hot against my stomach, fingers stopping just short of where I already ached.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured. “And you still want to fight me with your mouth. I like that.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.” His fingers finally dipped lower, slowly , deliber
