Page 104 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
Cali grimaces. “Sorry. Should’ve told you there was a step there. Though I didn’t think I’d need to since you’ve lived here for years.”
I successfully climb the last step standing between me and my glorious, non-chemical-smelling bed. “You’re really mean, you know that?” I grumble.
She makes a face. “I’m not mean; you’re just dumb.”
The silence ironically speaks for itself.
“Ohhh. I hear it now,” she says.
“As my primary caretaker now, you have to be nice to me. That includes no name calling or insults to my intelligence.”
“How can I insult something you don’t have?”
A roguish grin quirks up the corners of my lips. “Every time you make a hurtful comment about me, I’ll be keeping track of how many orgasms you owe me.”
Cali snorts, rolling her eyes in the way that makes my dick pitch a family-sized tent in my pants. “Please. You’re seriously going to keep track of how much head I’mindebtedto give you?”
I trace my finger along the coast of her jawline, ending my expedition at her bottom lip, where I gently part it from the topwith aflap. She stares at me the entire time, lust torching her eyes like a gasoline-fed fire.
“No, Spitfire. I’m keeping track of how many orgasmsI’mgoing to giveyou,” I clarify. “As of right now, we’re at two.”
Her mouth stays open in shock, goading a shiver to bullet down her spine, and a blush now backdrops those cinnamon freckles of hers. “Care to make it three?” she purrs, threading her arms behind my neck.
I pull her flush against my chest with more strength than I’ve probably used in the last few days. My hands skate down the curve of her spine, saying a quick hello to her adorable dimples before making their way over her perfect, perky ass and squeezing. “I can make it however many my girl wants.”
She arches the slightest bit into my palms. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Cali takes one of my hands and redirects it to the small of her back, slipping it under her shirt and over what feels like a scar on raised skin. It takes me a second to realize what it is, and I run the pad of my finger over an infinity-like symbol.
“Did you…?”
She nods before turning her back toward me and showing me the verypermanenttattoo she’s gotten in place of Fulton’s number. A small eight is inked into her skin, and I’m both relieved and overjoyed that I won’t have to kill my best friend or live the rest of my life as my future wife’s torture victim.
And yes, I said future wife. Because that’s what Cali is. Maybe five years out or so—for her sake rather than mine since I could make this decision right now—I’m going to rent out the rink and propose to her. She’s the only person in this world who I want to give my forever to…well, aside from the adorable child she’s eventually going to pop out. I’m hoping they’ll have her fiery head of hair. And maybe her ocean-blue eyes. And maybe her constellation of freckles. And I mean I wouldn’t be opposed if we had a few more kids, because that just means there’ll be more tiny versions of her for me to love.
Oh, God. Am I crying again? I feel like I’m crying. Come on, man! Get it together.
She turns back around to face me, reclaiming her previous position with her fingers on my nape and my fingers flirting with the possibility of a cheeky display.
“I think yourallergiesare acting up again,” she comments, a humorous half-smirk rounding her lips.
“It’s actually just eyeball sweat this time,” I joke, feeling tar coagulate in my throat the longer she graces me with those big, blue beauties of hers.
Cali laughs, and the dulcet sound is a solar flare in my veins, shaking the foundation of my bones and hurtling warmth toward the center of my heart. And then, this foreign shyness alters the firm set of her shoulders.
“So you like it then?” she asks in a small voice.
Do I like it? DO I LIKE IT?
“Cali, I fucking love it,” I respond, picking her up in my arms and swinging her around, pulling more of those heavenly giggles from her. She clings to me like she’ll go flying if she doesn’t, nose pressed against the slope of my neck, hands grabbing fistfuls of my shirt. The motion should hurt the bruised state of my body, but it doesn’t. Nothing hurts when Cali’s with me.
When I set her back down, curls of her hair straggle around her slightly pink face, and there’s a permanent smile bringing out the divots of her dimples. She looks breathtaking in the low light of the afternoon, visible puffs of breath twisting from her mouth in smoke-like tendrils. The tip of her nose is reddening by the second, and I have to get her in the house before she freezes.
“You know you didn’tactuallyhave to get my number tattooed on you, right?”
“I know. I wanted to.”
I test the weight of her words against my tongue and love the taste they leave behind.She wanted to.If my heart wasn’t already bloated to twice its size from her love, it would probably blow out of my chest.
