Dear Enemy, You're My Mate

Chapter 30 **

Patricia

I have an uninvited guest inside my new kitchen. Alice isn't at home. She left early to find herself a part-time job, leaving me home alone to enjoy some quality time with myself.

I was happy with the idea that I would finally get some time to breathe and sort out my thoughts. I'm one of those people who needs her alone time.

Yet, I'm here, baking bread while glancing at Dior, who is smiling at me from the kitchen table.

"It smells delicious," Dior comments as he leans his cheek against his knuckles. "You've always been such a skilled baker."

I glare at Dior, suddenly remembering him calling me large, fat, and plus-sized at school. He never hesitated to give me a snide remark in the past, especially if I filled my plate with another portion. Yet now he is sitting in my kitchen, giving me sweet compliments while the mate-bond is zapping electricity between us—fate has a wicked sense of humor.

"I won't let you savor anything."

Dior tilts his head. "Not even if I clean the dishes after you've messed up the kitchen?"

"No," I mutter. "Not even then. I'm baking for Alice, not you."

Without a word, Dior gets up from his seat. I keep mixing the dough with my hand. There is flour on my cheeks, and I'm too busy punching my soon-to-be cinnamon-buns to hear the hulking man move. I only catch his shadow and find my heart nearly stopping in my chest when he stands behind me.

My gaze lands on the man's reflection in the window. Dior reaches out his arm to take a glass from the cabinet above my head. My insides freeze at the sight of the running veins in his arms and neck, and I hold my breath when his gorgeous blue eyes notice mine in the window.

He smirks. "Sorry, I'm thirsty."

I blank out on what to say and nod at him. "No problem."

There is a chuckle, low and raspy, and so teasing and knowing I want to rip out my hair.

"I didn't expect you to get all nervous from me simply moving around you, Patricia—don't you trust me to behave?"

With mechanical movements, I put down the dough. I then confidently turn around to glare up at the tall man. I intend to scare him, yet I can only exhale like a gulping goldfish when I meet his eyes, so filled with amusement. Dior is gorgeous, and my head is pounding, spinning as I stare at his curling lips.

A dark chuckle enters through my ears. "Is this one of those rare moments when Patricia Goldheart doesn't know how to respond?"

Dior doesn't wait for my answer: his hand reaches out, and his thumb wipes flour from my bottom lip. Those eyes of his are narrow and slim, like the ones belonging to a lion on the prowl.

I open my mouth to speak, but not a sentence comes out—what is the matter with me? A thin layer of sweat coats my forehead, and Dior's presence is enough to remove all the oxygen from my lungs. Breathing is a challenge, and goddamn, Dior is so tall and wide, so damn sexy that I'm overwhelmed by our proximity.

"You know, Patricia," Dior's voice is serene and gentle, yet it holds a sense of alpha within it, telling me I'm not the one in control in this situation. "Waiting isn't my strong suit, and even though I'm nice right now, there is a darker side of me wanting you to surrender to the mate-bond."

Dior bends down to my level, locking me between the counter and his insanely large body. "I want to kiss you, hell, I want to do more than that, Patricia, and if you say nothing to stop me, I might lose control and take what I consider being rightfully mine."

His scent is curling around my senses—addictive and delicious enough to force me into taking another step. I lock my eyes on his blue, breathing my question. "And what is that?"

A wolfish smile seizes his lips. "Your virginity."

Feeling ready to collapse, I squeeze my hands around the kitchen counter's border in an attempt to calm down—dealing with both my fright of how I behave around Dior and his seductive words at the same time is rather challenging.

There is a ringing in my ears, and my breaths are uneven, gossiping about the lust running loose in my veins. Talking my way out of this situation seems unlikely. The atmosphere is electric and dangerous. Dior is giving me all of his attention, and I can almost taste his desire in the air.

How do you resist a man that looks like sex materialized? I'm already wet down there, too weak to fight my body's reaction to the god of a man before me. Dior is gorgeous, toned like a weapon with eyes so confident that staring at him for too long leaves me lightheaded.

Fuck, I want to conquer him, wrap my legs around him and rip off his clothes to admire his muscles beneath my fingertips. My only desire is for his lips to crash over mine before he lifts me into his arms. The man is powerful enough to carry me in his arms, big enough to pin me beneath him and fill me up with his cock.

But there is only one problem: my pride.

I remember everything Dior has put me through, and I'm not ready to forgive him—I'm not a doormat. My mate might be hot and lovely, funny at times, but he will need to try harder if he wants me.

"My virginity isn't up for the taking." I place my palm against Dior's broad chest, meeting his eyes. "And if you want to win my heart, then you will have to rely on something else other than your appearance."

Dior smirks. "Like how good I am at kissing?"

"Huh?"

I don't have time to ask Dior what he means before his soft, warm lips steal mine away in a kiss. My first response is anger, but my resolve to flee is effortlessly blown away by passion when the large man wraps his arms around me, picking me up like it's nothing.

My entire body tenses up in response until I give in and let the feeling of weightlessness wash over me. I melt into Dior's lips and allow him to quench some fires of hatred still burning within me.

There is so much in our kiss—a thousand unspoken words and a sense of freedom. Finally, we are taking what we have yearned for since the beginning of this school year—sex with the enemy.

Because that is all that this is. I wouldn't say I like Dior, but I'm losing myself in our game of cat and mouse. An angel sculpted this man, and I've always been a sucker for eight-packs.

My hands boldly slip over his muscular shoulders to steal more of him than what I deserve. Oh, and he is big and so hard. Fuck. I touch him all over, relish his warm skin and hard-packed muscles, and kiss him harder with added lust.

How could I ever say no to sex?

Dior tastes like spearmint and delicious, searing flames—I can't get enough of him! Most of my hatred has faded away and been replaced with an unquenchable appetite. I want this man and drink in his scent and forget about the world. I thought kissing Dior would be strange, but I was wrong—it's pure perfection.

When Dior eventually leans back, I'm not ready to let go, even if both of us are entirely out of breath.

His lips curl into a smile. "I didn't think you would let me get this far without putting up a fight."

"Oh, shut up!" I throw straight back at him, leaning in closer to hover over his lips. He is still out of breath and watching me intently with hooded eyes and desire written on his features. "A woman has natural needs, and this thing going on between us is only sex, nothing else! You have done nothing to earn my love. The only good quality you got is your body and sculpted face, so please, don't get your hopes up, Lavigne."

Dior looks ready to laugh out loud, but I stop him by placing my hands on either side of his face. I then lean in to kiss him, more demanding and a hell of a lot more aggressive than ever before, causing his eyebrows to shoot up for the roof in surprise.

Suddenly, we aren't arguing or discussing what we are doing but moving into the bedroom. And trust me, I intend to take everything from Dior and then more.