" As though he’s reading my mind, he grits out a pained, irritated “Fuck, it should be me.”
I squeeze my thighs together to relieve the pressure between my legs. Sorry. Better luck next time. The pulse only grows stronger, and I know there is no stopping my unraveling.
“Why the fuck isn’t it me, L?” His voice has this carnal edge to it. “Why am I not the one touching you right now? Fucking why?”
I visualize it.
Imagine it.
See his tongue teasing my pierced nipple, and a soft moan shoots out of my mouth before I can stop it. This seems to trigger him because he groans a low, desperate “Christ, just tell me who you are. Fuck the pact. Fuck the secrets. Fuck it all. Just tell me who are you, L. Please. Let this be real.”
The sentiment fractures my heart into a billion tiny pieces.
I want it to be real, too. "

― Eliah Greenwood , Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High, #1)