Page 96 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
Oh, God.Who moans when they eat?
“No, it’s…fuck. Don’t apologize.”
He doesn’t say much apart from some weakly strung together sentences, squeezing his eyes shut like he’ll magically dissipate the sexual tension between us—impossible, by the way. I’m halfway to sliding off his lap when he grabs my arm and keeps me from getting any further.
His eyes open, freezing me over. “Did I say you could move?”
His tone skirts along growly, forcibly taking the last of my words and muddling them beyond a coherent response. Everything in my body is craving him, that low simmer of arousal flaring into a high flame of uninhibited desire. It doesn’t take a detective to deduce that the hardness pressing into my left leg isn’t a set of inconveniently placed car keys.
I shake my head.
“Then sit back down,” he orders.
I do as he says, trying my best to keep my hands to myself by plopping them pathetically in my lap, and I glance at his untouched meal growing colder by the minute. It’s a delectable chicken dish, crisped to perfection and slathered in a golden glaze.
“What about your meal?” I ask, unsure if he’s expecting me to feed it to him too, surprisingly not fully against the idea, either.
He doesn’t hesitate. “You’re more important. You’re always more important.”
My initial gratitude transmutes into concern. Concern strong enough to start an argument if I’m not careful. “I can say the same thing about you. So if you’re feeding me, then I’m feeding you too,” I insist, picking up his fork and slicing right into that juicy chicken breast.
He goes to (unwisely) protest, but I fill his piehole with a healthy serving of Italian food, smiling triumphantly when he gives in and starts to chew. I don’t know why I don’t look away. I stare straight at him, intimately tracking the movement of his throat as he swallows. Eating food shouldn’t be sexy, okay? But anything Gage does is sexy, and right now, I’m failing to fight off these godforsaken hormones.
He nods to the dessert. “The chocolate budino.”
I mirror his line of sight to find a mound of chocolate drizzled in caramel sauce, garnished with two mint leaves and a lilac-colored flower. I wipe residual chicken off the fork with a napkin, then carve out a scoop of this magical-looking dessert that’s the consistency of custard.
I gather a silky and luscious heaping, stick it into his mouth, and then yelp when he pulls me into a kiss, his tongue swiping a heaping of chocolate over my own. I can still taste him even through the thick veil of cocoa, but fuck, do I feel like I’m levitating as he feeds me every last morsel. Saliva mixes with sweetness, thickens between us, clings against the inside of my cheeks. Once I’ve swallowed everything, he continues to kiss me, unsatiated, using his free hand to caress the back of my head. I change my position and swing my right leg over his hip so I’m straddling him, grinding my center over the unmistakable bulge that’s grown in his pants.
“This was supposed to be romantic,” he breathes against my lips, doing his fucking all to try and maintain some strand of control. I applaud him for that, I truly do.
“It is,” I whisper. “Because I’m with you. I don’t need some fancy candlelit dinner, Gage. I love it, but I don’t need it.”
He pulls back, and I cradle his cheeks in my hands.
“I just want to do this boyfriend thing right.”
“You are. It’s annoying, but you’re actually doingeverythingright.”
There’s a glimpse of that cocky attitude I fell for in the first place, and the one that I think I secretly love. “You make it easy, Cali. I might not be good at a lot of shit in life, but I’ll be damned if I’m not the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”
You already are, I think to myself.And you’ll be the last boyfriend I ever have.
33
HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF
CALISTA
Ihaven’t seen Gage at all today since he’s been practicing at the rink for the big game. I’ve been trying to keep up with the Reapers this season, but I underestimated how much information I’d actually retain with an eight-year-old teaching me the ropes of a very complicated, very elaborate sport.
I’m nervous for Gage. I know how hard he’s worked to get his strength back, but I can’t stop second-guessing if it’s too soon or if I should’ve pushed him harder. What if something goes wrong? What if he’s not a hundred percent better and hurts himself again? I don’t think I could recover from something like that. I don’t think I couldforgivemyself for something like that.
The rink is awash with blue-and-black jerseys, and large signs and Styrofoam fingers wave about, converting eager fans into one united mass of rowdy scream-shouts. The cold chill torpedoes through the thickness of Gage’s jersey and settles bone deep, prompting me to burrow even further into my personal polyester safe haven. Unlike Gage’srealjersey, this one smells of fresh pine and lacks that lingering body odor that could make a flower wither upon exposure.
We haven’t really told anyone we’re official. The fansdefinitely don’t know. I’m not sure if any of his teammates know. But walking around with his name splayed on my back in giant letters, walking around with hismarkon me—it armors me with impenetrable pride, the kind unaffected by public insight.
I can’t believe I’m in public right now as Gage’s official number one fan. The last time I wore his jersey was when I was still convincing myself that I hated his guts. This time, the only thing I hate is that he’s not rearranging my guts. That’s some damn good character development if I do say so myself.
