Hate Me Like You Love Me

“Your little virgin body is begging for it.” He was supposed to be off-limits. My stepbrother. My bully. The boy who made my life hell 😡. But when he corners me with his hand on my throat and his mouth in my ear, every rule I ever believed in starts to burn 🔥. I swore I'd never beg for him. Never moan his name. Never touch myself thinking about how it would feel if he finally broke me open 😩💦. But Caleb doesn't play fair—and when he wants control, he takes it. Chapter 1 * One year ago * POV Serena The summer before senior year is supposed to belong to me—SAT prep books stacked on my desk, college essays waiting to be drafted, a future I can still shape with my own hands. Instead, I find myself wandering through Westmont Prep's abandoned hallways, hunting down the one person on this planet who makes me want to commit a felony. Your mother's best friend asks you for one favor, Serena. One. Catherine can't reach her precious son. Lacrosse practice ended an hour ago, but Caleb isn't answering his phone. And somehow, somehow, that's my problem. Our parents have been inseparable since childhood. Catherine is my godmother. My grandfather walked her down the aisle when her own father refused to come. They raised us side by side, convinced we'd grow up as close as they were. They never noticed when it all went wrong. I pass the trophy case where Caleb's lacrosse photo sits front and center, that infuriating smirk preserved behind glass. Six years of cruelty hidden behind family dinner smiles. "What's wrong, princess? Going to cry to Mommy? Oh wait, she’s…" The boys' locker room door is propped open. Steam drifts out, carrying the scent of soap and something unmistakably intimate. I hear a feminine moan before I see anything. The wet sound of mouths and skin meeting, echoing off tile walls. A low, masculine laugh that I recognize instantly, the sound burrowing under my skin and settling somewhere it has no right to be. Turn around, Serena. Text Catherine that you couldn't find him. Walk away. My feet carry me forward instead and through the gap in the door, I see them. Jade Richards perches on the edge of the sink, her volleyball jersey pushed up to expose the flat plane of her stomach and her huge tits. Her legs wrap around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back, pulling him closer. And Caleb… right there. Stands between her thighs in nothing but a towel that hangs dangerously low on his hips. Water still clings to his shoulders, catching the fluorescent lights, turning his skin into something that belongs in a museum, not a high school locker room. The muscles in his back flex as he moves, and I hate—hate—that my mouth goes dry at the sight. His hand cradles the back of her neck with this possessive gentleness that shouldn't exist in someone who spent six years making my life hell. His mouth drags down her throat, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring every inch. "Caleb, someone could walk in." "I don’t give a fuck." He doesn't stop. His teeth graze her collarbone and she gasps, fingers digging into his bare shoulders. "Let them see." His other hand slides up her thigh, disappearing beneath her shorts. Whatever he does makes her back arch off the mirror, a sound escaping that's pure, unfiltered want. I should leave. I should definitely, absolutely leave. Instead, I stand there like an idiot, heat flooding through my body in waves. Face first, then chest, then lower, settling between my thighs with a pulse that makes me want to die of shame. This is disgusting. He is disgusting. You hate him. This is Caleb Thornton. The same jackass who put gum in your hair freshman year. Who told everyone you stuffed your bra. Who made that horrible joke about your mom at Derek's party. But my body doesn't seem to give a shit about our history, too focused on the way his hips roll forward, pressing her harder against the sink. The sound she makes—raw and desperate—twists something in my chest. Is this what it feels like? To be wanted like that? To have someone look at you like you're the only thing that matters? The thought is a betrayal, so I shove it down. Right before my shoulder bumps the doorframe. The sound is small, but in the thick silence between their gasps, it carries. Caleb's head snaps toward the door. Move. Now! I shove through before my brain catches up, letting the door swing wide, forcing my expression into irritation rather than the hot shame crawling up my throat. "Your mother's been calling you for an hour, asshole." My voice comes out flat, steady. A miracle. "Our parents need us both at my house for dinner tonight. Apparently it's something important." Jade scrambles off the sink, yanking her jersey down, her face flushed crimson. But Caleb doesn't move. He leans against the tile wall, arms crossed over his bare chest, watching me. His eyes travel over my face—the flush I can't hide, the rapid pulse jumping in my throat. A slow smile spreads across his mouth. "Enjoying the view, princess?" His voice is rough, lower than usual. "I wasn't—" The denial dies in my throat because we both know it's a lie. Jade grabs her bag. "I should go. Coach will kill me if I'm late." She brushes past me with a knowing look—caught you—and then the door swings shut, leaving me alone with Caleb and all this steam making everything feel too close, too warm, too much. "You could have texted," he says, pushing off the wall. "Catherine asked me to find you. I found you. Message delivered." "Is that what we're calling it?" He takes a step closer. "Because it looked a lot like you were watching." "Long enough to be disgusted." "Disgusted.” His laugh is low and dark. “Right." Another step in my direction. Close enough now that I can see water droplets sliding down his chest. "Then why are you still here, Lakin?" Because my feet won't move. Because some broken, traitorous part of me wants to know what it would feel like if he looked at me the way he looked at her. Wants to know what it would feel like if he’s pressed… "I'm leaving. Don't be late for dinner." "I'll drive you home." "I have my bike. Still not in the mood to sit on some used condoms in your car." "Suit yourself, princess." Fresh air and movement, Serena. Good for the body, good for the soul. My mother's voice rises unbidden—the way she'd say it while climbing onto her bicycle, even during chemo when she could barely stand. I'm out the door before he can see whatever expression has taken over my face. The ride home takes twenty-three minutes. When I pull into the driveway, Caleb's car is already there. Dinner passes in a blur of small talk and forced smiles, but something feels different tonight. Catherine keeps touching my father's arm—not the comforting pats of a grieving friend. These touches linger. And he leans into her palm in a way that makes my stomach tighten. They've been spending so much time together since Mom died. Since Caleb's father vanished with every dollar the Thorntons had. I thought they were holding each other up through the wreckage. But watching them now, I notice what I've been too grief-blind to see. The way their eyes meet across the table and hold for a beat too long, carrying a conversation I'm not invited to. When the dishes are cleared, no one moves to leave. My father adjusts his watch. Once. Twice. Three times. He only does that when he's nervous. "Kids, Catherine and I actually have something to tell you." He clears his throat. "We've been spending a lot of time together these past few months, and we've realized that our feelings have... evolved." Catherine reaches for his hand. Her eyes are bright with something that looks terrifyingly like joy. No… No way. "So we're decided to get married," my father says. My stomach lurches so violently I grip the edge of the table. Catherine—Aunt Cat—who brought casseroles during chemo weeks and held me while I sobbed at the funeral. Who was my mother's best friend for thirty years. Who is now sitting here, in my mother's chair, with an engagement ring I have just noticed. It's been only six months. Six months since we buried my mother, and my father is already… Don't. He deserves happiness. Catherine is wonderful. Mom would want— But Mom isn't here to want anything, is she? "We've found a new house," my father continues. "Neutral territory for everyone. Fresh start and big enough for everyone." Across the table, Caleb's expression is unreadable. His jaw is tight, but he says nothing. "The kids' rooms are on the same floor," Catherine adds. "And Serena, your room connects to Caleb's through a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. Isn’t it cool?" My eyes snap to Caleb's. For one suspended moment, we share something that might be mutual horror. "C’mon you guys, it will be nice." My father smiles. "You two will finally have a chance to become a real family." The word family lands between us like a bomb, and Caleb's mouth curves into a smile that promises nothing but detonation. My life-long secret crush soon to become my stepbrother. Yeah, Dad. Really fucking nice. Her crush just became her stepbrother. And he’s about to make her life a living hell 😈 Read Hate Me Like You Love Me now! 🔥 my-passion.com

“Were you imagining how I'd fuck you?” He watches me fall apart from the other side of the wall—listening to my gasps, hearing me say his name while I chase the release only he can give me 🫦. He wants me ashamed. He makes me ache. And when he touches me, it's not gentle. It's filthy. Possessive. Unforgivable 🖤. He says I’m disgusting. Says I’m nothing. But when I come undone with his hands on my body, we both know the truth: I was never going to survive Caleb Thornton ❤️‍🔥. Chapter 1 * One year ago * POV Serena The summer before senior year is supposed to belong to me—SAT prep books stacked on my desk, college essays waiting to be drafted, a future I can still shape with my own hands. Instead, I find myself wandering through Westmont Prep's abandoned hallways, hunting down the one person on this planet who makes me want to commit a felony. Your mother's best friend asks you for one favor, Serena. One. Catherine can't reach her precious son. Lacrosse practice ended an hour ago, but Caleb isn't answering his phone. And somehow, somehow, that's my problem. Our parents have been inseparable since childhood. Catherine is my godmother. My grandfather walked her down the aisle when her own father refused to come. They raised us side by side, convinced we'd grow up as close as they were. They never noticed when it all went wrong. I pass the trophy case where Caleb's lacrosse photo sits front and center, that infuriating smirk preserved behind glass. Six years of cruelty hidden behind family dinner smiles. "What's wrong, princess? Going to cry to Mommy? Oh wait, she’s…" The boys' locker room door is propped open. Steam drifts out, carrying the scent of soap and something unmistakably intimate. I hear a feminine moan before I see anything. The wet sound of mouths and skin meeting, echoing off tile walls. A low, masculine laugh that I recognize instantly, the sound burrowing under my skin and settling somewhere it has no right to be. Turn around, Serena. Text Catherine that you couldn't find him. Walk away. My feet carry me forward instead and through the gap in the door, I see them. Jade Richards perches on the edge of the sink, her volleyball jersey pushed up to expose the flat plane of her stomach and her huge tits. Her legs wrap around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back, pulling him closer. And Caleb… right there. Stands between her thighs in nothing but a towel that hangs dangerously low on his hips. Water still clings to his shoulders, catching the fluorescent lights, turning his skin into something that belongs in a museum, not a high school locker room. The muscles in his back flex as he moves, and I hate—hate—that my mouth goes dry at the sight. His hand cradles the back of her neck with this possessive gentleness that shouldn't exist in someone who spent six years making my life hell. His mouth drags down her throat, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring every inch. "Caleb, someone could walk in." "I don’t give a fuck." He doesn't stop. His teeth graze her collarbone and she gasps, fingers digging into his bare shoulders. "Let them see." His other hand slides up her thigh, disappearing beneath her shorts. Whatever he does makes her back arch off the mirror, a sound escaping that's pure, unfiltered want. I should leave. I should definitely, absolutely leave. Instead, I stand there like an idiot, heat flooding through my body in waves. Face first, then chest, then lower, settling between my thighs with a pulse that makes me want to die of shame. This is disgusting. He is disgusting. You hate him. This is Caleb Thornton. The same jackass who put gum in your hair freshman year. Who told everyone you stuffed your bra. Who made that horrible joke about your mom at Derek's party. But my body doesn't seem to give a shit about our history, too focused on the way his hips roll forward, pressing her harder against the sink. The sound she makes—raw and desperate—twists something in my chest. Is this what it feels like? To be wanted like that? To have someone look at you like you're the only thing that matters? The thought is a betrayal, so I shove it down. Right before my shoulder bumps the doorframe. The sound is small, but in the thick silence between their gasps, it carries. Caleb's head snaps toward the door. Move. Now! I shove through before my brain catches up, letting the door swing wide, forcing my expression into irritation rather than the hot shame crawling up my throat. "Your mother's been calling you for an hour, asshole." My voice comes out flat, steady. A miracle. "Our parents need us both at my house for dinner tonight. Apparently it's something important." Jade scrambles off the sink, yanking her jersey down, her face flushed crimson. But Caleb doesn't move. He leans against the tile wall, arms crossed over his bare chest, watching me. His eyes travel over my face—the flush I can't hide, the rapid pulse jumping in my throat. A slow smile spreads across his mouth. "Enjoying the view, princess?" His voice is rough, lower than usual. "I wasn't—" The denial dies in my throat because we both know it's a lie. Jade grabs her bag. "I should go. Coach will kill me if I'm late." She brushes past me with a knowing look—caught you—and then the door swings shut, leaving me alone with Caleb and all this steam making everything feel too close, too warm, too much. "You could have texted," he says, pushing off the wall. "Catherine asked me to find you. I found you. Message delivered." "Is that what we're calling it?" He takes a step closer. "Because it looked a lot like you were watching." "Long enough to be disgusted." "Disgusted.” His laugh is low and dark. “Right." Another step in my direction. Close enough now that I can see water droplets sliding down his chest. "Then why are you still here, Lakin?" Because my feet won't move. Because some broken, traitorous part of me wants to know what it would feel like if he looked at me the way he looked at her. Wants to know what it would feel like if he’s pressed… "I'm leaving. Don't be late for dinner." "I'll drive you home." "I have my bike. Still not in the mood to sit on some used condoms in your car." "Suit yourself, princess." Fresh air and movement, Serena. Good for the body, good for the soul. My mother's voice rises unbidden—the way she'd say it while climbing onto her bicycle, even during chemo when she could barely stand. I'm out the door before he can see whatever expression has taken over my face. The ride home takes twenty-three minutes. When I pull into the driveway, Caleb's car is already there. Dinner passes in a blur of small talk and forced smiles, but something feels different tonight. Catherine keeps touching my father's arm—not the comforting pats of a grieving friend. These touches linger. And he leans into her palm in a way that makes my stomach tighten. They've been spending so much time together since Mom died. Since Caleb's father vanished with every dollar the Thorntons had. I thought they were holding each other up through the wreckage. But watching them now, I notice what I've been too grief-blind to see. The way their eyes meet across the table and hold for a beat too long, carrying a conversation I'm not invited to. When the dishes are cleared, no one moves to leave. My father adjusts his watch. Once. Twice. Three times. He only does that when he's nervous. "Kids, Catherine and I actually have something to tell you." He clears his throat. "We've been spending a lot of time together these past few months, and we've realized that our feelings have... evolved." Catherine reaches for his hand. Her eyes are bright with something that looks terrifyingly like joy. No… No way. "So we're decided to get married," my father says. My stomach lurches so violently I grip the edge of the table. Catherine—Aunt Cat—who brought casseroles during chemo weeks and held me while I sobbed at the funeral. Who was my mother's best friend for thirty years. Who is now sitting here, in my mother's chair, with an engagement ring I have just noticed. It's been only six months. Six months since we buried my mother, and my father is already… Don't. He deserves happiness. Catherine is wonderful. Mom would want— But Mom isn't here to want anything, is she? "We've found a new house," my father continues. "Neutral territory for everyone. Fresh start and big enough for everyone." Across the table, Caleb's expression is unreadable. His jaw is tight, but he says nothing. "The kids' rooms are on the same floor," Catherine adds. "And Serena, your room connects to Caleb's through a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. Isn’t it cool?" My eyes snap to Caleb's. For one suspended moment, we share something that might be mutual horror. "C’mon you guys, it will be nice." My father smiles. "You two will finally have a chance to become a real family." The word family lands between us like a bomb, and Caleb's mouth curves into a smile that promises nothing but detonation. My life-long secret crush soon to become my stepbrother. Yeah, Dad. Really fucking nice. Chapter 2 The cardboard box weighs nothing compared to what I'm carrying inside my chest. I set it down on the unfamiliar floor, surveying this room that's supposed to be mine. Neutral territory, my father called it. A fresh start. The walls are painted a careful beige that commits to nothing. Two weeks ago, I stood in a bridesmaid dress watching my father cry happy tears for another woman. Catherine glowed in ivory. I found it beautiful, and I hated myself for that betrayal. Now I'm here. In this house that holds no memories of my mother. Our old house still had her everywhere—the kitchen where she taught me French toast, the garden where we planted tulips, the reading nook where her perfume lingered. Leaving felt like closing a door she could never walk through again. But I'm eighteen now. Adults let go. Adults move forward. Adults don't cling to ghosts. I almost believe it. Footsteps thunder up the stairs and Caleb drops another box just hard enough to make me wince. "Careful," I snapped. His eyes travel over me slowly—messy ponytail, old t-shirt, the flush climbing my neck. His jaw tightens like my existence personally offends him. "It's just your crap," he mutters, but his gaze lingers a beat too long before he looks away. He's been hauling boxes all afternoon with theatrical resentment because Catherine made him. His shirt reveals the sportsman's forearms, clings to his broad shoulders and muscled back, darkened with sweat. And I catch myself tracking a bead of moisture down his neck before I wrench my attention to the bookshelf. "I'm taking a shower." He pushes off the frame but doesn't leave immediately, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second. "Try not to miss me too much." He disappears, and I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. This is what I am now, sharing walls with my worst school enemy. But there was a time before all that. I was twelve, standing at the edge of Lake Tahoe, watching him skip stones across the water. "You're doing it wrong," he'd said, and his voice hadn't been cruel yet. "Here. Like this." His hand had guided mine, warm and patient. I'd thought he was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen. That was the summer before middle school. Before his father started using him as a punching bag. Before something fundamental broke in Caleb and reformed sharp enough to cut anyone who got too close. Stop. Stop romanticizing his trauma, you idiot. I push the memory down where it belongs and a sudden thought strikes me. Shit, my tampons. I left them on the bathroom counter this morning. The pink box sits there in plain view, announcing my biology to the one person I'd rather die than share anything with. I wait. Listen. Can’t hear any water running yet. If I'm fast enough… But when I push through my bathroom door, he's right there and my palm lands flat against bare skin, hot and solid. His strong hand catches my waist to steady me, fingers pressing into the curve above my hip with a grip that feels almost possessive. Steam rises from the shower behind him, filling the small space with humid heat. Neither of us moves. His fingers flex against my waist, pulling me closer before he catches himself. The heat in his eyes hardens into familiar cruelty so fast it gives me whiplash. "Wanted a preview of your new stepbrother, pervert?" His voice drips with mockery, but there's a roughness underneath that wasn't there before. "That's fucked up even for you." "I just left something on the counter. Not everything is about you and your abs, asshole." His eyes sweep over me and I forget how to take a breath. "Keep telling yourself that." "Move." I try to step around him, but he shifts to block my path. His arm braces against the doorframe, caging me between the sink and his body. "I'm not done talking." "Well, I'm done listening." When I duck under his arm, his hand shoots out and catches my elbow, pulling me back to face him. The grip isn't painful, but it's firm enough that I can't pull free without a struggle. "Let go of me, Caleb." "Or what?" He steps closer, using every inch of his height to loom over me. "Going to scream? Run to Daddy?" I ignore him, trying to reach past him for the pink box, but my hand is shaking. The exhaustion of the move. The grief of leaving our old house. The weight of standing in a bathroom that doesn't smell like my mother's lavender soap—it all crashes into me at once. My vision blurs. Don't cry. Not here. Not in front of him. "Are you…" Caleb stops himself just as his voice goes softer. His hand lifts toward my face, and for one wild moment, I think he might brush the tear from my cheek. Then his expression shutters and all softness vanishes so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it. "God, you're pathetic." He drops his hand. "Still crying over Mommy? It's been six months, Serena. The rest of us have moved on." The cruelty is familiar, but something in his delivery feels forced. Rehearsed. The way he crowds into my space sends a memory flashing through my mind. Catherine's voice, hushed and tearful, talking to my mother in our kitchen years ago. He gets so angry, and when he's angry he gets so close. Like… "You are exactly like your shitty father." The words escape before I can stop them, sharp and aimed to wound. "Cornering women, using your size to intimidate. The apple didn't fall far, did it?" Caleb’s face goes white. Every muscle in his body locks and his voice is barely a whisper when he finally speaks. "Say that again. I dare you." "You heard me." My heart slams against my ribs, but I don't back down. "You're just like him, like Simon. A bully who only feels big when he's making someone else feel small." His hand shoots out and grabs my jaw, fingers digging into my cheeks, forcing my face up toward his. "Keep his fucking name out of your mouth before I—" "Before you what?" I try to wrench away, but his grip only tightens. "Hit me? Prove my point?" His nostrils flare. His chest heaves. We're so close I can see the pulse hammering in his throat. "Such a shame your mother won't see you graduate." Caleb’s voice drops. "But hey, your dad moved on quickly. Guess she wasn't that hard to forget." "Don't talk about my mother." "Why not?" His lips curl cruel. "Scared you're just as forgettable as she is?" My free hand flies toward his face but Caleb catches my wrist mid-air, fingers clamping down. His eyes burn into mine. "Careful, princess." He twists my arm slowly, pulling me closer. "Do you really want to start something you can't finish?" "Let go of me." "You know what I think?" He leans in until his mouth hovers an inch from my ear. "I think you're terrified that one day you'll be gone and no one will even notice. That you'll just be another ghost no one bothers to remember." Tears burn behind my eyes and I blink them back furiously. "You are…" The words die in my throat. Because beneath the rage, there's something young and wounded in his expression he's scrambling to hide. I chose that knife about his father specifically. I knew exactly where to slide it. And I hate—God, I hate—that some traitorous part of me feels sorry. That even with his venom burning in my ears, I can recognize his devastation and feel it echo in my own chest. No. Don't you dare feel sorry for him. I don't want this empathy. I want to hate him cleanly, without this awful complexity of my old feelings for him. "No one will ever truly love someone as pathetic as you," I breathe, watching it land finally, like the strike I intended. “And deep down, you know it's true.” His eyes change. The wounded thing disappears beneath a cold mask promising violence. He steps forward and I manage to rip my hand from his grip, bolting away. My shoulder slams the doorframe as I fly through to my room, fingers scrambling for the lock. It clicks half a second before his palm hits the wood hard enough to rattle the hinges. "Serena." His voice is terrifyingly calm. "Open. The fucking. Door." I back away, heart slamming against my ribs. "You just signed your death sentence, princess." Another slam. "You hear me? From this moment on, your life is going to be a living hell. Every single day under this roof, I will make you regret ever opening your mouth." There’s a long silence before his footsteps retreat and I hear his bedroom door slams. I stand frozen in the middle of my room, shaking so hard my teeth chatter. Minutes pass. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Then I sink to the floor, back against my bed, and wrap my arms around my knees. I hate him. I hate that I wounded him. I hate that I noticed. Her crush just became her stepbrother. And he’s about to make her life a living hell 😈 Read Hate Me Like You Love Me now! 🔥 my-passion.com