Page 30 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
Gage is currently on the floor of my dance studio, on his back like a turtle, grunting in pain as I stretch out his hip. His leg is folded at a ninety-degree angle, with me pushing it back as gently as I can to apply pressure to his hip flexor. He’s cussed at me about twenty different times—yes, I’m keeping track—and he’s screamed about five. Whatever he did to sustain such an injury is seriously taking a toll on him. I don’t know if I’ll get him limbered up in three months.
After everything went down, or should I say, afterhewent down, the dynamic of our relationship has changed more than I expected. Like, yeah, I’m still mean to him, but I also don’t mean everything I say anymore. For example, when he kept whining, I told him to swing a bat into his nut sack, but I didn’t mean it.
I think he’s making me soft, and I don’t like it. I just don’t like being vulnerable with anyone. Throughout my life, I only gavemyself a small amount of time to be vulnerable. The rest of that time was dedicated to the responsibility I had to my family. It always felt like everyone else had it worse than I did—my mother, my brother. It made it that much easier to sweep my emotions underneath the rug.
And now Gage is the first person in forever to have truly seen me so…unguarded…and I’m scared. I don’t like trusting people with my soul because it’s already so fragile.
Though I will admit, the oral sex was great. It was the first time I didn’t want to rip Gage’s tongue out through his teeth.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he mutters breathlessly.
“I really am,” I say, situating my hands on his thigh to get a better grip.
Screw Gage for wearing a plain T-shirt during our session. It’s distracting.So distracting.Especially being so close to him. I can see every ab muscle of his stomach contract through the material, and his corded biceps flex while he holds his leg in place, outlining every protruding vein and bundle of brawn. Sweaty strands of hair fall into his eyes, giving him this permanent bedhead look that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. It also doesn’t help that he smells amazing.
With a labored breath, Gage extends his leg, making me withdraw my hands from the very intimate position they were in.
“I need a break,” he wheezes.
I plop into a kneeling pose. “We’ve only been at this for twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, and it hurts like a bitch.”
“You’re a hockey player. Isn’t your pain tolerance supposed to be high?”
“I’m a goalie with about fifty pounds of padding on. Do you think I get hit that much?”
I shrug. “I’ve never seen you play. Maybe you’re a terrible goalie.”
He splays out all his limbs like a starfish, panting heavily and staring up at the sheetrock ceiling. “I’ll have you know that I’m afantasticgoalie,” he boasts.
“Oh, really? Then care to explain the injury I’m trying to help you stretch out right now?”
He lifts his head up only so he can narrow his eyes at me. “Touché.”
I almost laugh at that. See! See what he’s doing to me! I can’t control my body’s reaction to everything he does or says, and I’ve definitely tried to kill every mushy-gushy feeling fluttering around in my heart.
I clamber to a stance and help Gage up with an extended arm, our palms sweaty for two completely different reasons. He throws me one of his effortless, panty-dropping grins, and even with the shot lighting overhead, it’s probably obvious I’m blushing. I don’t blush. Ever. Especially not because of a man. I thought all these nerves would fizzle out by now, but I’m the same mess of hormones I was when we first made our deal.
Then, to rub salt in the wound, Gage lifts up the hem of his shirt and dabs the sweat caking his forehead, giving me an unobstructed view of his glistening, tanned abs. All six of them, each as defined as slates of stone, rippling with so much muscle that it physically shouldn’t be possible to carry that much ammo around. Not to mention that he has the most delicious trail of semi-dark hair traveling from his navel to the unexplored depths below his waistband.
He catches me ogling him, and I only know that because our eyes make fucking contact while he’s having his Zac Efron moment. All that’s missing is a sprinkler soaking him in water.
He doles out one of hislook-at-me-I’m-so-hotsmirks. “Like what you see?”
I almost don’t dignify his comment with a response.Almost.“I’ve seen better.”
Ugh, I can’t believe he has the gall to be this cocky. There’s nothing worse in this world than an attractive man who knows just how attractive he is.
“Really? Because you’ve been staring at me for an awfully long time.”
“Not my fault you don’t know how to wear a shirt properly.”
Stupid photoshopped-looking abs. Stupid smug smirk. This arrangement would’ve been so much easier if Gage was hideously unattractive. Yes, I’m staring at you, idiot. How can I not stare at you when you look like you’re the lovechild ofRolling StoneandGQ?
“Cali, are you flirting with me?” he teases, and the lower half of me gives a shameful throb. “If you wanted me to take my shirt off, you could’ve just asked.”
I sputter like an idiot because I can’t put into words how much I hated every second of that, and then I resort to the one trusty response that always gets my message across—two middle fingers. But Gage must’ve grown some kind of impenetrable armor over the past few days because he isn’t fazed by it. In fact, he blows me an air kiss.
