Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy(94)

She responds in fervor, a guttural moan bursting from her lips.

“More. More. More,” she begs, and then reaches up with both of her hands to pull my mouth back down to hers.

Her kisses are greedy and erratic and only make me feel more addicted to her.

Like she is the only one who can give me what I need, what I want.

Like she’s everything I’ll ever need, filling all the voids and missing parts in my life.

Like she’s it for me.

Because she is.

That realization makes me feel both terrified and on top of the fucking world.

And it urges me to slow down, to savor this moment with her.

To press soft kisses on every inch of her body.

To taste her skin.

To feast on her breasts and her pussy.

To stare deep into her eyes when I slide back inside her.

To memorize the way her eyes look when she’s reaching her climax and the way her lips part and her fingers grasp at my skin like the pleasure is too much to bear.

Once the pleasure washes through us and our breaths slow down, I pull her into my arms and keep her perfect body pressed against mine.

“I’m so sleepy,” she whispers, and I smirk down at her. “What time is it?”

“Almost five.”

“Holy moly.” A raspy giggle leaves her lips. “I should be pissed at you for keeping me up so late.”

“You being pissed at me isn’t anything new, sweetheart.”

“You sure about that?” She looks up at me. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t been mad at you lately.”

“That’s true,” I agree, and a gentle smile plays at the corners of my lips. “What do you make of that?”

“I think…” She pauses and yawns again. “It’s a combination of several things.”

I raise a questioning brow. “And what would those things be?”

“Well, for one, you’ve stopped being such a dick to me,” she teases. “And you give me lots of orgasms.”

“Which might be my favorite thing in the world to do.” I flash a little wink in her direction. “And what else has kept angry Birdie at bay?”

“The fact that you do sweet things for me.” Her brown eyes turn tender. “Like being there for me when I’m having a hard time or remembering the significance of blueberry waffles or throwing an outrageous surprise party for me,” she rambles off a few of my happiest memories over the past several weeks. “Things like that. Those are the things that make it impossible for me to be pissed at you.” She yawns again, and her eyes grow heavy.

“You need to sleep,” I whisper and press a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Mmhmm. I sure do.” Birdie snuggles closer against me, and it takes all of two minutes for her breaths to slow and her body to grow lax against me.

My heart expands in my chest as I stare down at her sleeping face and gently brush a few rogue locks away from her cheek. And in the quiet of the hotel room, my mind whispers, You’re in love with this woman.

Because I am.





Birdie



Andrew sure knows how to wake a girl up.

My eyes flutter open when I feel the softest of kisses, from the most perfect mouth, move across my lower back, just barely above the curve of my ass.

“Mmmm.” I moan and stretch my arms as full lips continue a path up my spine and don’t stop until they reach my shoulders and neck.

“Morning,” he whispers into my ear and rests his chin on my shoulder, his arms now wrapped around my waist and hugging me closer to his chest.

“Mornin’,” I rasp out, my voice still groggy with sleep. “What time is it?”

“A little after ten.”

“It’s already ten?” I question and turn to meet his eyes. “It feels crazy early.”

“That probably because you only slept five hours.”

“What about you?” I question and reach up to smooth a finger across a wrinkle on his forehead. “Did you get any sleep?”

He shrugs. “I did okay.”

“Just okay?” I raise a brow. “How many hours is just okay?”

“More than two, but less than four?”

I giggle at the absurdity of that response. “So, three?”

“Something like that.” He grins. “Hungry?”

“I could definitely eat.”

“How about I order us some room service, and then we can try to rearrange our flights so we’re both heading back to LA on the same plane?”

We’re both due to fly back to LA today, but his flight leaves about four hours later than mine.

“If that order includes pancakes and coffee, then I’d say it’s a brilliant plan.”

“Consider it done,” he says and slides off the bed to grab the hotel phone.

While he’s busy chatting with the hotel concierge, I get up to snag my cell from where it was discarded last night—on the floor, still in the back pocket of my jeans. But before I can climb back into bed and leisurely scroll through social media, I notice several notifications on the screen.

Five missed texts from my group chat with Billie and Rocky.

Eight missed calls from my publicist and Samantha.