Page 87 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“Boring, bland, white?”
“Reliable, well-liked, comforting, sweet, revolutionary, timeless. Need I go on?”
A smile turns up my lips, my blush probably still in full force. I abandon my spoon and begin to lick a groove through the slowly liquifying mound, immediately relaxing when the sugar clings to my tongue.
Gage and I eat for maybe a minute of uninterrupted silence, but then he clears his throat and takes a break from his demolished ice cream. “I wanted to ask you?—”
I turn to give him my full attention, but instead of focusing on whatever it is that he’s saying—which I’m sure is important—I’m distracted by the drips of chocolate sliding down his knuckles.
Either my brain cells have deteriorated after my sugar consumption or my judgment has been heavily impaired by the freakishly good-looking man sitting next to me, but I don’t grab him a napkin. I don’t even remember that there’s an unused stack in arm’s reach.
“Gage, you’re dripping.” I grab his hand—which is still wrapped around his now-drenched cup—and lick the melted ice cream off his knuckles, cleaning his skin like some unspayed house cat.
It’s not until I’ve gotten every last drop that I fully realize what I’ve just done, and we both stare at each other, waiting silently for the other to say something.
Hey, Cali. Why did you do that? Why couldn’t you, I don’t know, just give him a napkin? Or better yet, don’t mention it at all! It clearly wasn’t bothering him. He would’ve cleaned it eventually.
I pick up the corner of a napkin and drape it over his knee, which is barely blocking the…um…situationtaking place in his pants, and I avert my eyes out of…respect? My sincerest condolences?
“Sorry. That was…weird,” I apologize, my nerves sticking like a burr to the inside of my throat.
Gage blinks, the gravel in his voice splintering into glass. “I, uh, it’s fine. You’re fine.”
He sets down his cup, but he doesn’t cross his legs or bring his knees into his chest. Nope, his giant erection just kinda sits there, and I’ve never been more grateful for Teague’s situational unawareness.
My mouth waters, and it’s not some aftereffect of the ice cream. Fuck, I would give anything—and I meananything—for him to take me right here, in public, while he splits me on his fat cock doggy-style, sliding so deep I can feel him in my guts. The first time we fucked, it was everything I’d ever fantasized about. It was sweet and gentle with just the right number of rough touches in between. But I need him. Again. Uncensored and unrestrained. Mounting me on that pierced monster between his legs until I’m crying and screaming and clawing at him for release.
I open my mouth—maybe to defuse the awkward tension with some out-of-pocket comment—but Gage beats me to it.
He fully struggles to get it out, neck thickly corded, eyes darkening in a lust-filled haze. “Calista, if Teague wasn’t with us, I’d bend your pretty little ass over my lap and slide my fingers down your pants until I get to that delicious fucking cunt.” He leans into me, whispering under his breath, “And ask you again like I did that night at your apartment, how wet would you be?”
He runs his nose along my jawline, and my breath snags in my throat. I don’t have some witty remark poised on the tip of my tongue. All that exists inside me is pure hunger, and it responds to every touch and every tease that Gage dangles in front of my helpless body.
“Dripping,” I admit quietly, feeling arousal leak into the gusset of my panties.
Jesus Christ. I need him. Right now. Need every inch of him filling me up, pounding into me until I’m so sore I can’t walk for days. I don’t want to make passionate love. I want to fuck like primal animals, taste his flesh between my teeth, selfishly chase after that all-consuming satisfaction. I crave him like flowers long for sunlight, like deserts yearn for rainfall.
“Good girl,” he rumbles, sliding his hand over my thigh, just skirting along the denim seam that borders my wet center, and my pussy clenches at the phantom fullness of his fingers lodged inside me.
It’s been too long. God, I’m going to come in my underwear if he keeps touching me, be forced to sit in my sticky filth the whole ride home until I can make a beeline for the bathroom and wash the embarrassing residue from my legs. This son of a bitch knows how sensitive I am.
In my head, I’m a badass who makes men beg on their knees for the tiniest scrap of attention. In reality—at least right now—I’m the one begging for his attention, whimpering for Gage to punish me for my smart mouth, to stuff it shut with his leaking cock.
“Not so hard to admit, was it?”
I shake my head, desire clawing at the depths of my stomach, urging me to align my hips with his fingers, to feel him cup my cunt through my jeans.
“Gage…” I whine, using superwoman levels of power to refrain from bucking against the air.
I’m ashamed. Trust me.
“When we get home, I’m going to fuck your throat, Spitfire. Gonna make you choke on my dick until there are tears in your eyes, and then I’m going to watch as you swallow down every last drop of my cum. We’re not stopping until you’ve milked me dry and I’ve bruised that jaw of yours.”
I’m shivering and shaking and seconds away from unraveling like a spool of thread when Teague bounds into my peripheral, sweaty faced with the faintest hint of brown still smudged over his lips.
“Cali, I’m tired,” he says, yawning and stretching his arms.
Gage scoots away from me immediately, ineffectively blocking his boner with his inadequately sized ice cream cup.
