I Swear I Still Hate Him (Atlas Lawson) novel Chapter 100

Chapter 100

Emery’s POV

If there were Olympic medals for morning sex? Atlas Lawson would’ve brought home the gold. Twice.

I felt like I’d been run over by a truck in the best way possible, freshly showered, hair still dripping wet, wearing nothing but tiny denim shorts that barely covered my ass and one of Atlas’s massive T-shirts that hit mid-thigh. My legs were shaky, my core ached in that delicious, used-up way, and every time I shifted, I could still feel him inside me from this morning. I was floating. Blissed out. Ruined in the most perfect way.

And the view? Chef’s-kiss perfection.

Atlas stood in the kitchen wearing nothing but gray sweats slung low on his hips and a ridiculous “Kiss the Cook” apron tied around his waist. Every time he moved, the muscles in his back flexed, and when he bent over to slide the tray of muffins (or bread? Whatever, he’d said something about it, but my brain had blanked out the second his perfect ass was pointed right at me), I had to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.

My teeth sank into my bottom lip. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Not stare at the most edible man alive?

My mind drifted, completely unsupervised, back to the feel of his mouth on my neck, hot and open. The way he’d growled my name when he first slid inside me, slow at first, then deep, punishing thrusts that had me clawing at his back. His hands pinning my wrists above my head, hips snapping, cock stretching me so perfectly I’d seen stars. The way he’d licked into my mouth while he fucked me senseless, whispering filthy promises about how he was gonna fill me up again and again.

Fuck. If I didn’t stop fantasizing right now, I was gonna climb him like a tree and beg him to bend me over this kitchen island. (And honestly? Not the worst idea. I’ve seen it in movies. It looks hot as hell.)

Atlas straightened up, closed the oven, then moved back to the stove. He stirred whatever was sizzling in the pan, eggs, maybe bacon, who cares, then glanced over his shoulder at me with that slow, knowing smirk that always made my stomach flip.

I leaned my hip against the counter, crossing my arms under my chest (which only pushed his shirt up higher on my thighs), and raised a brow.

“Hey,” I said, voice coming out huskier than I intended. “What’s the craziest place you’ve ever had sex?”

He froze mid-stir for half a second, then turned fully to face me, spatula still in hand. His eyes dragged down my body, lingering on the bare legs, the hem of his shirt barely covering my thigh, the way my nipples were already hard and poking through the fabric, before flicking back up to my face.

A slow, dangerous grin spread across his lips. “Why?” he asked, voice low and rough. “You tryna top it right now, baby?”

I bit my lip again, heat flooding my cheeks (and everywhere else). “Maybe,” I teased, pushing off the counter and taking a slow step toward him. “I mean… this island looks sturdy. And I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to get fucked on it while breakfast burns.”

His laugh was dark, appreciative. He set the spatula down, wiped his hands on the apron, and closed the distance between us in two strides.

“You’re dangerous this morning, Collins,” he murmured, hands sliding to my hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin where the shirt met my shorts. He tugged me flush against him so I could feel exactly how hard he already was again. “Keep talking like that, and I’m gonna have you bent over this counter in about ten seconds.”

“Wouldn’t that be fucking hot,” I said voice coming out way too breathy for a lady who got fucked this morning… twice.

His smirk widened, and I watched as he glanced at the counter like he was considering the odd, but then he said. “Senior year. Under the bleachers.

“What?”

“Craziest place I’ve had sex… It was raining. And, uh… cheer uniform stayed on.”

“Oh my God, I remember that day!” I pointed at him, eyes wide. “You were soaked through, hair dripping, looking all tortured and hot. I even offered you my umbrella like some sweet little goody-two-shoes, and the whole time you’d just…” I made a dramatic gesture, “…fucked someone under the bleachers?!”

Atlas’s grin turned sheepish, but there was heat behind it. He stepped closer, crowding me against the counter until I could feel the warmth radiating off his body. “Wanna know why I was so turned on, to risk something like that?” he asked, voice dropping low enough to vibrate through me.

I swallowed, pulse already kicking up. “Let me guess, Stacy Brown showed you her boobs?”

He shook his head slowly, eyes locked on mine. “Nah. It was the day of the school play. You were the lead. That green dress you wore? Hair pulled back, that soft makeup, the lights hitting you just right…”

“You looked so damn beautiful, Emery. I was sitting in the front row, supposed to be clapping like everyone else, but all I could think about was how freaking hard I was getting…and how wrong it was. I felt disgusting.”

My eyes widened, blinking fast. “That’s why you left mid-play?”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I bolted. Thought maybe the rain would cool me down.” He gave a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Didn’t work.”

I stared at him, speechless. For years, I thought he just hated my guts so much he couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with me for five minutes.

“Wow,” I breathed. “And to think I spent that whole year convinced you couldn’t stand me.”

His eyes locked with mine. “I didn’t hate you. I was obsessed with you. It just… came out all wrong.”

I swallowed, heartbeat going rogue. “So… after the game, Stacy…?”

“She found me sulking, basically. We talked, she leaned in, and one thing led to another. I used her to get you out of my head. It was shitty. But I didn’t know what else to do with how I felt.”

He stepped closer, voice lower. “That’s what you do to me, Em. You make me lose my cool.”

My breath hitched as he leaned in, hand brushing my hip. I was one second away from kissing him, mouth

“Emery,” he moaned, low and rough.

That sound? Instant panties-ruiner. My whole body lit up. I dragged my nails lightly down his abs, feeling them jump under my fingers. He moaned again, deeper this time. I was soaked. Like, embarrassingly soaked.

I kept kissing, sucking, moving lower, but my drunk-ass coordination was trash. I pulled back, frowning, genuinely confused. “Dammit… where’s your dick?”

Atlas laughed, full, surprised, head tipping back against the pillow. “You’re fucking adorable. You can’t even find it. That right there tells me you’re drunk and need to sleep.”

While he was giving his little responsible-boy speech, my hand finally located the prize. I wrapped my fingers around him through the sweatpants and squeezed.

He jerked hard, breath punching out of him. All that “you need to sleep” talk evaporated.

“Emery…”

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