The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)
The Cruelest Kind of Hate: Chapter 8

GAGE

Fucking Dilbert. He better watch his back during practice. And games. And when he’s home alone. Yes, I know Cali isn’t mine, but jealousy kicked me in the stomach the moment I saw them talking. The way she was all googly eyes for him, the way he smiled at her. The two of them would’ve looked good together. Dilbert with his freakishly muscular physique, Cali with her gorgeous…everything. Jesus. I’m weak for her. Hopelessly gone.

I did what I had to, okay? I’m not proud of it. But it’s better than breaking my fist across his face.

Considering I basically forced her into giving me a dance lesson, I don’t know what to expect. She was definitely pissed earlier, and I doubt that she’s calmed down in the span of a few hours. If I’m lucky, I’ll still have my balls by the end of the night.

Since my request was an “emergency,” the dance studio wasn’t available for us to use on such short notice, so we’ve agreed that we’ll be working in the privacy of her home. Which now seems like both a good and bad thing.

I stand outside of her Halloween-decorated door, taking in the sight of the pumpkin string lights and the welcome mat that has an ornate Ouija board design on it. My fist hovers over the slightly worn partition, but my nerves halt me from announcing my presence. Sweat dampens the back of my neck, seeming to instruct the rest of the moisture in my body to coalesce on my tacky skin. I can feel it seeping through the loose-fitting shirt I threw on, and a quick glance at my armpits confirms that I’m already rocking some unsightly rings. My heartbeat’s erratic, and my stomach’s rolling so violently that the burrito bowl I had earlier might make a reappearance all over her doorstep. I’ve never been this nervous about anything in my life. Not playoffs, not live interviews, not my high school SAT, not that ten-minute oral presentation I had to give in Spanish.

I don’t get nervous. I’m a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. In fact, any nerves trespassing on my turf will get choked out on sight. But an hour with Cali—the devil herself—bending my legs like a Barbie doll and probably yelling insults at me the entire way through has me rethinking this whole arrangement. Hockey be damned. Three months off the ice sucks, sure, but getting a “dance lesson” from the one girl who’s preoccupied my mind is a new kind of torture. Not only has she been living in my brain rent-free, but she’s moved in, furnished the place, and doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon.

I’m not sure if she has secret security cameras somewhere, but she opens the door a moment later despite me not knocking, narrowed eyes drifting languidly over my body.

“You look like shit,” she says, tightening the beige belt around her hourglass figure.

She’s wearing an oversized trench coat for some reason, and I may be stupid, but I’m not an idiot. Trench coats aren’t dance appropriate. She’s hiding something.

I cluck my tongue. “At least I’m not smuggling three raccoons.”

I know I literally just saw her a few hours ago, but she’s somehow gotten even more beautiful—if it’s even possible. The darkness of the night brings out the vibrancy of her autumn hair, and the electric blue of her eyes pulls me in like an unforgiving tide, bringing my attention to the subtle brush of mascara on her lashes and the neighboring smatter of freckles.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s fall. It’s cold as balls, and people wear coats when it’s cold out.”

“Not inside their house.”

Cali taps her bare foot impatiently against the hardwood floor, staring down at the imaginary watch on her wrist. “You’ve just wasted a full minute of our hour-long session. Want to make it two?”

“No,” I hiss through my teeth.

She makes a little hmph sound—one that makes my dick twitch in my sweatpants—and then she begrudgingly angles her body to let me in.

When I stagger through the door, I see that she’s transformed her living room into a makeshift dance space, with her coffee table, couch, and various potted plants pushed up against the wall. It looks like a Halloween bomb went off in her house.

Tones of orange and brown encompass the quaint area as patchwork pillows and a checkered quilt decorate her otherwise plain couch. Bat decals scale her wall, including the occasional glittery spiderweb strewn in the corner. Pumpkins varying in size and color border her ivory hearth, and old-fashioned candles stay propped up on the mantle, along with twine-wrapped bundles of artificial wheat stalks. And if I didn’t think her cinnamon smell was addicting enough, it’s everywhere. Walking into her house is the equivalent of voluntarily sticking my foot in a bear trap.

“Very festive,” I observe, keeping my arms glued to my sides to disguise how painfully obvious my nerves are.

She hums to herself, picking a piece of candy corn from the metallic bowl on her coffee table and throwing it into her mouth. “Halloween’s the best time of year. Scary movies, pumpkin patches, haunted houses, family-sized bags of candy.”

I want to taste the residual sugar coating her lips when I kiss her, want to drag my tongue over hers as I fist her hair and pull it hard enough to subdue her, to finally force her to look me in the eyes and tell me that she doesn’t feel the chemistry between us. I want her so fucking badly. Every part of her—the good, the bad, the messy. I don’t care what hoops I have to jump through for her.

She slinks closer to me, runs her chrome fingernail over the ledge of my shoulder, then stuns me with a stare made from sin.

“Will I get a trick tonight, Gage? Just like that stunt you pulled at the rink earlier?” she purrs, dousing me in her spice-spiked aroma and batting her lashes. “Or will you be a good boy and let me give you a treat?”

I—dear God. I’m not going to last the full hour. I’m not going to last just being her friend. Fuck, I don’t even think she considers us friends. We’re more like business associates. My self-control is at an all-time low, and I’m positive that if she continues touching me, I’m going to blow a load in my pants. And that’s definitely not dance appropriate.

My brain’s currently undergoing a system failure. “You—I⁠—”

Her index finger immediately smushes against my lips, shushing me. “Admit it, Gage. The only reason you called this ‘emergency’ dance lesson was because you didn’t want me going on a date tonight.”

Duh.

My cheeks thaw with a warm blush, and my eyes zero in on the most unsexy—yet somehow sexy—part of her body pressing into me. I mean, it’s pretty obvious that I didn’t want her going on that date. Am I man enough to admit it?

I wait a few beats, seeing what she might do, then I make the dumbest, most unsound decision and decide not to own up to the truth. I panicked, okay? And maybe I was too proud to admit that I was wrong—or more likely, that Cali was right. It would’ve given her more reason to resist the attraction between us.

I nip at her finger, and she pulls her arm back with a growl.

“My hip’s been flaring up today. I cashed in on our arrangement. That’s all,” I insist, praying that she doesn’t touch me again…or that she does. Or, fuck, I don’t know! I have no idea what’s going on with me. My belly’s full of goddamn butterflies whenever she’s around.

“Liar,” she spits. “You pretended we were a couple.”

“Because Dilbert’s a creep!”

Not true. He’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met, and therefore I hate him.

“Why do you care who I potentially date or not? It’s none of your business.”

My heart, now bruised from each punch of her words, plummets to the soles of my shoes. “Maybe because I’m trying to be a good friend and look out for you. Why do you feel the need to fight me every step of the way?”

An angry notch appears between her brows, and she ignores my question. “Fine. If you’re not going to play fair, then neither will I.”

I heave a sigh, irritation beginning to override the lust operating my senses. “What are you talking about?”

And in that moment, as ridiculous as it sounds, I see my life flash before my eyes. Real, cold, gripping fear engulfs me, pumping a tranquilizer through my bloodstream and holding my once-applauded arrogance hostage. I don’t know how or why, but I think I just made the biggest mistake of my life.

“If we’re such good friends, then you won’t mind me getting into something more comfortable for our dance lesson today,” she retaliates, her long, slender fingers settling over the strip of fabric around her waist.

Oh, please. Does she really think that showing me her bra and booty shorts is going to make me suddenly buckle under the pressure and admit my true feelings for her? It might’ve worked the first few times I saw her, but now I’m used to seeing that much of her skin. Consider my dick unbothered.

I fight off a smug smile. “Go ahead. Be as comfortable as you’d like.”

Cali hits me back with a smile of her own, and then she unhurriedly unravels her coat, letting it hang open and slide off her shoulders like a river current rolling over mossy stone.

“Jesus Christ!” I half-scream, unsure as to why I feel the need to cover her with my body. There’s nobody around…at least I hope not.

Because Cali isn’t in her usual bra and shorts. No, she’s in a bright red lingerie set that barely covers her breasts and pussy. A lace bra—bra being a generous term—hugs her large tits, and a flimsy triangle of fabric sheathes her cunt, a thin string riding high up on her hips. She also has matching thigh garters on, which squeeze the plushness of her legs and attach to a pair of see-through stockings. So, to sum it up, she’s showing so much skin that she’d probably get arrested if she were to walk downtown right now.

“Are you fucking crazy?” I growl, averting my gaze to the best of my ability, yet the heat infusing every inch of my body is making it increasingly difficult to uphold my gentleman act. My dick’s so not unbothered. In fact, it’s seconds away from drooling pre-cum into my pants and affirming what Cali already knows to be true.

She blinks at me innocently. “What? This is what I always wear when I practice at home.”

“You’re telling me you practice in your lingerie when Teague’s home?”

“Teague’s at a friend’s house right now. Plus, this gives my dancing a more…authentic…feel. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“It’s not,” I croak, willing the tightness in my groin to subside, desperately trying to focus on anything other than the angry throbbing of my cock. I can’t run behind something to cover it. There’s basically nothing I can do to make this situation less embarrassing than it already is.

Why can’t I just tell her the truth? Because I’m afraid to lose her?

Okay, that’s actually a very good reason.

But maybe I won’t lose her. I mean, I’ve made it pretty obvious I like her, right? And she hasn’t run for the hills yet.

Her lips twitch into a devilish grin. “Good. Then let’s get started with your first warmup. On your back, Gage.”

I laugh. “I’m flattered, Cali. But I’m a man who needs a little bit of foreplay before we get to the good stuff.”

“If you don’t get on your back, I’ll just have to make you.”

“Kinky. Is that a promise?” I step closer to her—bad idea, I know—and trace my finger along the hinge of her jaw, stopping at her chin and tipping it up. I don’t have to lean down much to fan my breath over her champagne-pink lips, and thanks to the excessive Halloween LED lights everywhere, it’s very obvious to discern when she blushes.

And what a fucking sight it is.

Her chest inflates with an unsure breath, and I watch as the column of her throat wavers with a swallow. Her gaze is weighted as it roves over my finger, lingering before she briefly glances at my mouth. This is the closest I’ve ever been to her, and she hasn’t bitten my head off yet. This is unprecedented. An accomplishment like this should be memorialized in a museum.

Cali inches the tiniest bit closer to me, enveloping me in that cinnamon perfume or body wash that makes me absolutely feral, and I mistakenly think she’s about to kiss me before she stops short and looks down.

It’s then that I realize my, um, uninvited guest, hasn’t gotten the memo to shrink into its sadder, less impressive state. My immodest dick budges against her stomach, straining the material of my sweats, and I’m crossing my fingers that I didn’t saturate the front during her strip tease.

“I can explain,” I rush out.

She lifts a perfectly plucked brow.

“I can’t explain.”

“Admit it, Gage,” she orders. “You were jealous.”

The gloating, all-knowing tone in her voice makes my gut sour. “Was not,” I parry, adjusting the front of my pants and scraping together the leftover fragments of my dignity.

“You want to know what I think?” she whispers, dragging her manicured finger down the clothed center of my pecs, through the muscled divide of my abs, and stopping inches above my erection. “I think that you couldn’t stand the idea of Dilbert treating me to a candlelit dinner…complimenting my dress…running his hand along the outside of my thigh in a disguised attempt to feel my skin. And I definitely think that you couldn’t stand the idea of me bouncing on his giant cock in the back seat of his car while I moan his name when I come.”

I lose it. Simple as that. There’s no attempt to salvage any steadfastness. I lose my fucking mind.

Something possessive coils in the pit of my stomach, rearing its head back to strike, and I nearly take my hip out when I push Cali up against the wall, one hand encircling her wrist and the other holding the sides of her neck. Her breath hitches from the impact, tits rising and falling in a film of sweat, and her whole body shudders underneath my touch.

A low growl claws up my throat. “The only name you’re ever going to moan is mine.”

I can feel her pulse palpitating under my fingertips. The smallest, expertly placed pinch making her heart thump like a kick drum. Her life in my hands for a change.

“And if he touched you, I would fucking kill him.”

“Because you want me,” she finishes, staring directly into my eyes, pools of sapphire melting the very legs I’m standing on.

“More than anything in this world, Spitfire,” I finally confess.