Free Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) by N.A. Alcorn

No, hurt isn’t even a factor in this scenario. I’m beyond pissed. Enraged.
    “Fuck you,” I hiss.
    And it’s when a humorless laugh leaves his mouth that my vision blurs. Bright, flaming red—it’s all I see. My hand smacks across his cheek so hard, it knocks the cigarette from his lips.
    “What the fuck, Brooke?” He stands upright, hovering over me.
    My palm moves to slap him again, but he’s stops me, long fingers gripping my wrist.
    “I fucking hate you. I wish I could just forget you,” I snap, attempting to smack him with my other hand. But he’s too quick, grabbing hold of my other wrist.
    In the blink of an eye, my back is pressed against the brick wall. Both of my wrists are still in his hold, hands held tightly above my head. His emerald gaze morphs into darkness. “You don’t hate me, Brooke. You wish you could hate me, but you can’t.”
    “How do you know how I feel?”
    “Because I feel the same bloody way,” he growls. “You don’t think I wish I could hate you? Forget you? But I can’t. I can’t fucking get you out of my head.”
    My lungs heave erratically, breasts brushing against his chest.
    “I can’t hate you, Brooke. Not when I can remember how fucking good we were together.”
    Tears burn the back of my throat. I turn my head, unable to keep my eyes locked with his; too afraid the intensity of that emerald gaze will push me over the edge.
    “I know what you taste like,” he whispers against my cheek. “I know what you sound like when you come.” His voice turns husky. “I can still remember what it feels like to have your pussy wrapped around me like a bloody vice, milking my cock for every last drop.” He releases one of my hands, gripping my chin and forcing me to look at him. “Tell me, Brooke. How do I forget that?” His lips hover over mine, too close. “How. The. Fuck. Do. I. Forget. That?”
    It’s when he starts to move towards my mouth, fully intent on melding our lips together, that I yank my face away. “No,” I say, whisper-soft.
    His brow furrows, eyes interrogating my soul.
    And for the second time, before he can kiss me, I beg, “Please, no, not on the mouth.” I know I should say more, tell him how I really feel, but the words, I can’t bear it, your kiss will break me , get stuck in my throat.
    Dylan’s angered growl vibrates against the pulse of my neck, letting me know it’s the first time he’s actually hearing those words. He latches on, sucking and licking and kissing my skin. It’s as if my refusal to give him my mouth is a punishment. Like I’ve just denied him the world.
    Which is wrong, so completely wrong. I’m the one being denied. I’m denying myself everything. Not being able to kiss him feels like breathing under water—my lungs filling with fluid, causing this scalding burn inside my chest. My body desperate for it’s lifeline, for it’s will to live and reason to breathe.
    I whimper when his teeth sink into my skin, nipping at the sensitive flesh below my ear. His mouth turns soft, kissing and licking across my skin, down my shoulder, across my collarbone. He hovers above the hint of cleavage that’s bared beneath my simple black cocktail dress. And then swoops in, raining hard, open-mouthed kisses between my breasts, moving the dress down with his chin, eventually baring my chest.
    His tongue darts out, licking across his bottom lip. His hands cup my breasts, kneading the aching, heavy flesh. My eyelids flutter, head falling back against the brick. I clench my thighs, trying to relieve the throbbing between my legs. Dylan’s calloused thumbs rub across my nipples, urging them to tighten and pucker beneath his ministrations. His breath is a rough rasp across my skin as he leans forward, sucking one pert nipple into his mouth for a brief moment.
    I moan, chest moving up and down in short, erratic pants as he moves south. His fingers grip my hips, sliding the material of my dress further up my thighs. I cry out, knees