Page 32 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
How do you like the taste of your own medicine, Gage?
“Fuck,” he croaks weakly, eyes skating over my body with such razor-edge intensity that it makes me shudder.
With a sensual strut, I trail a single finger up his stomach, over his pecs, and across his collarbone. I stalk around him, making sure to keep continuous contact. “Come on, Gage. Dance with me.”
“I…”
I have no idea why he’s so nervous. Gage doesn’t strike me as the type to get nervous. He strikes me as the type of person to fight any nerve-type feelings like one of those hypermasculine guys who claim they can fight a grizzly bear.
“You’re telling me you don’t like the feel of dancing intimately with another person?”
His chest rises in an erratic rhythm, and if I had to make an educated guess, I bet his heartbeat would break a heart monitor.
When he doesn’t answer me, I come up from behind and nudge my lips against his ear, whispering, “The feel of their hands all over you? The feel of sweat rolling down both your bodies?”
Gage groans so loudly that the noise resounds in the studio, all efforts to resist me slowly dwindling when I lick the small patch of neck just below his earlobe. He’s shivering just from a single touch, so wired with anticipation that I could do next to nothing and still have him begging on his knees—which, if we’re talking about Gage, he’d probably do in a heartbeat.
Since my heels give me some much-needed leverage, I’m tall enough to press my front up against his ass, smooth my hands down his washboard abs, and halt just above the crotch of hispants, which is currently straining with his erection. “The feel of their breath on your skin? How about their body pressed up against yours, where the most erogenous zones rub against each other?”
“Cali…” he growls.
“Are you really going to stand here and tell me you don’t want to dance with me?” I purr, my voice warmer than whiskey.
I can feel his stomach twitch underneath my fingers, and sadistic satisfaction funnels through my entire body in miniature, earth-shattering explosions. Wetness gathers in the gusset of my panties, triggering a needy pulse in my pussy which desperately craves some one-on-one attention with Gage’s engorged cock. I grind the slightest bit into his ass to relieve some of the pressure, and the tiniest noise barges out of him while his ass cheeks clench in tandem.
He grabs my hands to keep them from moving, exerting levels of restraint that I didn’t even know he was physically capable of. The guttural rumble in his throat nearly derails my whole seduction scheme. “If I get my hands on you, we won’t bedoingany dancing,” he says lowly.
Promise?
“Show me. Show me where you’d touch me. Show me how I turn you on,” I demand.
Gage turns around abruptly, his dick jutting against my belly, just inches from my slick cunt—just inches from ruining me right here in the middle of the studio. “Fuck, Spitfire. You can’t ask me to do that.”
I’ll give him some credit. He actually looks torn.
“Why? Because you’re a gentleman?” I scoff.
He pins me with an intimidating stare, running his eyes over the sinfully low dip of my cleavage, and his throat clicks with an audible gulp. “Because I’mnot.”
Welcome back, sexual tension. I’ve missed you.
The beginning notes of Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance” comes blaring through the speakers, and I start to swish my hips from side to side in time with the beat, simultaneously running my fingers through my hair and letting the volume of it billow behind me.
Gage pulls me into him so there’s no space between us at all, and I hang one arm over his shoulder as I roll my body against his, snagging his boner with my cunt. He pitches forward slightly as he throws his head back, growls of frustration slipping past clenched teeth and puttering out into hushed grunts. I’d turn around and grind on him if I didn’t think he’d come in less than three seconds.
But where’s the fun in playing it safe, right?
Before I get the chance to palm the bulge in his pants, Gage cups my pussy, grabbing the fabric of my romper and rucking it up in his fingers. I gasp loudly, the arm that was once slung lazily over his shoulder now steeling me in my moment of weakness. He pushes the offending material aside so that his fingers can inch their way over the seam of my panties, and my pussy reciprocates with an embarrassing leakage of arousal.
Gage leans into my neck, whispering, “You thought you could just torture me this entire session and get away with it?”
“Not hard when the man I’m dancing with has no self-restraint,” I retort.
“Any man in his right mind would have zero self-restraint when it comes to you.” He nips at my throat, teasing a bite that I know he’s not going to give me, and any resolve I’d planned to weaponize against him dissipates into nothingness. “Now are you going to be a good girl, or are you going to be a cock tease all night?”
It’s taking every muscle in my body not to moan right now. Gage is getting closer to his desired target, and all I want to do isfeel his fingers inside me again, stuffing me full, making me gush down his knuckles and scream his name.
All my thoughts are frequent flyers on Arousal Airlines, and I fail to realize the weight of my next response before it materializes in the real world. “That depends. Are you going to man up and actually dance with me? Or should I find someone who will?”
