I Swear I Still Hate Him (Atlas Lawson) novel Chapter 138

Chapter 138

Atlas POV

They say addiction can ruin a man, make him reckless, make him desperate, make him do things he swore he never would I fear I also face the same…I’ve become an addict. But I wasn’t addicted to drugs. Or alcohol. Or women.

…maybe one woman.

And right now, she stood in front of me, naked except for a thin strip of lace, drunk and completely unaware of the war she was waging inside my head.

I was losing my damn mind.

Like an addict on the edge of relapse, I fought every shred of scl control I had left. Every promise. Every boundary. Every ounce of restraint I’d spent ten years building.

One turn. One glance. One second of weakness… …and I’d be done.

Thankfully, she nodded. I waited until I was sure she wasn’t going to turn again. Until I was sure she was safe, and then I turned back like some pathetic, self-righteous gentleman who still had a scrap of honor left.

If she knew what was playing behind my eyes right now she’d scream.

She’d see me pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other spread her thighs wide enough to accommodate every filthy inch I craved to be inside of her. She’d see me fucking her raw, slow at first, torturing us both, then hard enough that the headboard would crack and voice low for the whole city to hear. She’d see me coming so deep she’d leak me for days, marked, claimed, ruined for anyone else

My cock throbbed painfully against my zipper, so hard it hurt to breathe. I pressed my forehead to the cool wall, eyes squeezed shut, trying to choke down the growl clawing up my throat.

Then she said, “Okay… you can turn now.”

I turned. And there she stood, wearing nothing but my shirt. And yeah, somehow that was worse. It swallowed her, but still revealed her beautiful legs, hung loose like she belonged in it. Like she belonged here….God, why can’t she be mine again? Her hair framed her face, cheeks still flushed, lips a little swollen from earlier tension or maybe just my imagination.

Her eyes flicked to my face, and she cleared her throat like she could feel the heat in my stare.

“Could you…” she hesitated, then tried again, softer, “…could you help with my prosthetic?”

Oh.

“Yeah,” I said immediately, like it wasn’t even a question. “Of course.”

She sat on the edge of my bed. I crouched in front of her, careful like she was breakable. My hands steadied the moment I focused on helping her instead of wanting her.

“You good?” I asked, glancing up.

She nodded, but her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. “Yeah. Just… tipsy and inconvenient.”

I smiled as I helped unfasten it gently, keeping my movements slow and respectful. I set it carefully on the sofa like it were made of glass.

“Thanks,” she said again.

I shook my head. “You don’t have to keep thanking me.”

Her smile softened, eyes bright even through the makeup. And for a second, she looked… younger. Like the girl I used to lose my breath over.

I stood and ducked back into the closet. Dug around on the high shelf until my fingers closed around the old makeup box, some fancy thing a fan had sent me years ago after a game. Never touched it till now.

I came back, knelt down on one knee right in front of her again, ike I was proposing, except instead of a ring I had cotton pads and micellar water.

“Wait… is that makeup?” Emery asked, eyebrows shooting up.

I grinned, popping the lid open. “Yeah. Surprise.”

She blinked. “So… is it your girlfriend’s?”

My hands paused for half a beat. I looked up at her. Held her gaze.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said, simple. Honest.

Her throat bobbed when she swallowed.

“Oh,” she breathed, then went quiet like she didn’t trust herself to say anything else.

I pulled out a wipe and soaked it lightly. “C’mere. Let me get this off you.”

She leaned in a fraction. I cupped her jaw gently, thumb along her cheek, and stared at her eyes. Slow strokes, careful not to tug. Mascara came away in soft black streaks on the white pad.

“You’re really good at this,” she said quietly, almost teasing.

“Guess it’s one of many hidden talents,” I smirked. “Plus, I’ve got steady hands. Usually.”

“Usually?” Her lips twitched.

“When I’m not kneeling in front of a gorgeous woman wearing nothing but my shirt? Yeah. Usually.”

Her cheeks went pink under the remaining foundation. “Flirt.”

“Truth.” I moved to her other eye, then down to her cheeks. The wipe glided over blush, bronzer, until her skin started showing through, beautiful freckles becoming more visible.

She closed her eyes as I worked. Lashes fanned dark against her cheeks. “Feels nice,” she whispered.

“Yeah?” I kept my voice low. Switched to a fresh wipe for her lips. “You’re letting me take care of you. That feels pretty damn nice too.”

Her breath hitched when I brushed over her mouth, gentle circles until the red faded to natural pink, swollen a little from nerves or want or both.

When I finished, her face was bare, clean, flushed, impossibly pretty. Green eyes opened slow, searching mine.

“There,” I said, thumb brushing a stray streak from under her eye. “All gone.”

She stared at me for a long beat. “You didn’t have to do that.”

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