I Hate You

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  WTH. My heart skips a beat, and my face feels hot. I dart my eyes around the group I’m with, but no one seems to notice I’ve been sucked into a sexting convo.

  You aren’t responding. Did I go too far? Can’t FRIENDS talk about this stuff?

  My hands clench my phone. I don’t know.

  I’ll go first. Mine is lying side by side, looking in her eyes while I fuck her real slow. Her leg is hitched around my hip and my hands are on her ass, doing all the work. She’s saying my name. And when I kiss her ON HER MOUTH, she comes, her pussy squeezing my dick until I can’t resist and come with her.

  I nearly hurl the phone across the room. Oh, he went there. He went there. He’s talking about me and my rules. I stare down at his words, my skin tingling as I squirm in my seat. Damn him and his dirty mind.

  Now you go.

  I can’t think. My head is filled with images of us and I want him—

  Panic sets in as I stare down at his text. My legs cross and uncross.

  Charisma. Your turn.

  My head looks up, and he’s staring at me. I drop his gaze and focus back on my phone. I’m not a game for you to play, Blaze.

  I know. I’m not playing. I want to know. Tell me, do you like public places for sex? Like a masquerade party? I think you do.

  My chest rises, and I want to pay him back, want to make him burn just as much as I am right now. I think about what to type, my teeth pulling at my lip.

  Masquerades are meh. I’ve had better.

  I look up at him to get his reaction, and he’s staring at me. I smirk and arch a brow. He seems to take a deep breath and then starts typing again.

  Charm. You’re being mean.

  Fine, fine. He wants me to tell him, and I want him to get as hot and bothered as I am right now. I hunker down and type.

  My favorite position is me in his lap on a couch or a chair. He pulls my panties to the side and fucks me under my skirt. We might get caught if someone comes in the room.

  Are you facing him or is he behind you? Is the TV on or is music playing? What time of day is it?

  Seriously? You writing an article for Penthouse or what?

  TELL ME.

  Fine. “With or Without You” by U2 is playing. I’m facing him. He fucks me slow but rough, his hands digging into my hips as we stare at each other.

  Excellent song. Slow but rough? That doesn’t make any sense.

  This is my favorite and you asked so STFU.

  Have you done it lately? he asks.

  I’ve never had sex exactly like that, but I can’t tell him. Maybe he thinks I get around more than I do. Sure, I hook up when I want, but it’s not willy-nilly, one-night stands. It’s a careful plan, and I’m always in control. That way no one gets hurt.

  No, but I will soon.

  With who?

  The pain in my head sharpens, and I rub my forehead.

  You okay? he sends.

  Headache. A cold sweat breaks out over me, and I can barely get the words typed out.

  The phone slips from my hand, and I lean my head back on the seat. Penelope and Margo’s voices penetrate my fog as the pain kicks in more, asking if I’m okay, and I nod and close my eyes. Sometimes if I can get really still, it will pass and—

  “Charm, what’s wrong?”

  It’s him.

  Damn, he got here fast.

  Penelope is standing over me too. Ah, shit. I hate the attention. “I’m cool. Just a headache.”

  “Where are your meds?” Penelope asks, already grabbing my backpack and riffling through it.

  “My rescue medicine is in the bathroom at home. I forgot to put it in my bag this semester. I just need to get to my car and go get it…” I swallow as another twinge hits, and it hurts to even hold my head up.

  “You’re not driving anywhere,” Blaze states, his voice firm.

  “I can run you home.” It’s Penelope, and she’s already sitting next to me. “I don’t have a class for another couple of hours.”

  “I’ll take her home.” Blaze again. I wave him off.

  My eyes peek open and the pain sharpens. I wince. “No, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. Come on.” Without waiting for a reply, he grabs my backpack and puts a hand out.

  I take it and he pulls me up.

  “Are you sure? Don’t you have a class?”

  He doesn’t reply, just wraps his arm around my shoulders, leading me away from the pizza place. We take the stairs down to the exit, my body pressed against his. He handles me as if I’m small and delicate, stopping periodically to stare down at me and ask if I’m still good.

  We leave the student center, and the sun makes me flinch. My stomach lurches as the pizza I just ate decides to roll around. If I puke in front of him, I’m going to die.

  I stumble down one of the steps, and his hand is the only thing that keeps me from falling.

  “Baby, you’re a mess,” he mutters as he pulls me to a stop and sweeps me up in his arms. My head rolls to his chest, my nose pressing against his shirt. God, he smells so good…fresh and crisp, like summer and woods and…

  “You’re so gallant…a real Southern gentleman with broad shoulders and a slow drawl. Ma warned me about guys like you,” I mumble, my voice close to a whisper.

  “Smart lady. Somehow I don’t think you listen to her.”

  “Nope.” I peek out, and he’s staring down at me.

  I see where he’s headed, the reserved parking lot close to the student center. “Good thing your truck is close.”

  “Special athlete parking,” he says back.

  “Lucky duck.”

  He opens the passenger side of his truck for me. “Hang on,” he says softly as he runs his hands over my body, getting me settled and buckling me up.

  “Don’t cop a feel there, football player.” I close my eyes and lean back against the leather.

  I’m aware of him chuckling as he gets in and cranks the truck. “Sick and still feisty.”

  16

  My eyes crack open. I come to slowly, blinking as I realize I’m in my bed under the covers and a fan I keep on my nightstand blows softly in my face. It’s winter, but I love the noise, plus Penelope keeps the thermostat a bit high for this New York girl.

  Based on the sunset in the window, it must be late afternoon. I’ve missed my classes.

  I rub my temples. Thank God the pain is gone. I recall Blaze carrying me inside our house and taking charge. He set me on the couch and, with my instructions, found my meds in the bathroom, got me a glass of water, and watched me take them. He grabbed my eye mask from the freezer, cranked up my diffuser, and sat in the chair across from me while I drifted off on the couch. He must have carried me to my bedroom after I fell asleep.

  I hear a soft snore behind me on the bed and turn my head to see him there, lying on his side facing me. His arm is thrown over my waist, and I blink, wondering how I missed it. I study him, taking in his handsome face, soft with sleep, his full lips slightly parted as he breathes deeply. A little scar, a half-moon shape, sits over his right eyebrow, cutting through the hair there. I turn more until I’m facing him then trace it lightly with the tip of my finger, not wanting to wake him.

  The hair doesn’t grow where the scar is and it fascinates me. I picture him as a kid, getting dirty and playing hard.

  “Fishing accident,” he says, startling me as his eyes open.

  “Oh?” My voice is soft.

  “We had a pond behind our house, and I used to take a pole and try my luck there. I went to throw the line out, it got tangled in some brush, and when I jerked on it, the hook popped me in the eyebrow.” He smiles. “Blood everywhere. You would have passed out. I ran back to the house, rod and all. Nobody was home and I ended up in the bathroom, where I pulled it out by myself. Scared the shit out of me.”

  “No stitches?”

  “No. I’m tough.”

  “You should have gotten stitches. If I was your mom—”
>
  “Nah, don’t start with that now. Besides, chicks dig scars.” He makes a mean scowl and the eyebrow drops low. I laugh…until his finger lifts and touches my eyebrow, tracing it. “Now, you, on the other hand…I’ve never seen such elegant brows.”

  “It takes a lot of plucking and waxing to get this sexy look.”

  “It’s working.”

  We stare at each other, and I’m acutely aware that there’s barely any space between us. At least we’re dressed.

  “Thank you for bringing me home.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Did you miss class?”

  “I’ll take care of it. How often do you get migraines?”

  “It used to be a lot, but I have daily meds that keep it to a few times a year. Back to you—you sure you missing class is okay?”

  “Stop worrying about me. I’m studying every night.” He gives me a brief smile and stares up at the ceiling.

  “Are you gonna fuck or what, bitches?” squawks Vampire Bill from his cage.

  Blaze leans up on his elbow and eyes the parrot. “You’re one rude motherfucker.” There’s no heat in his words, and the bird eyes him warily.

  “Rude motherfucker!” he repeats back.

  Blaze bursts out laughing.

  I slap him on the arm. “Thanks. Now he’ll be saying that all day. I meant to put him out in the den this morning. He likes to sit by the front door and watch cars. He’s freakishly smart. Sometimes I think he’s plotting, waiting for an opportunity to fly away. Poor thing has a misshapen wing. He can fly about five feet and then he’s out.”

  “I’ll move him. I should get up anyway, now that you’re awake.” He sits up and inches down to the end of my bed.

  My eyes follow him, part of me wishing he hadn’t gotten up.

  Dangerous, Charisma.

  He walks over to the bird, reaches into the cage, and rubs him on the head.

  I ease up until I’m propped against the pillows. “He likes you. He’s not that crazy about guys.”

  “Score for me.” He flashes his smile at the bird, and I swear the damn thing weaves on his little feet.

  “Are you some kind of hypnotist?”

  He pauses and looks back at me. “If I were, I’d hypnotize you.”

  “Yeah? What would you make me do?”

  Blue eyes lower, drifting over my face.

  “Kiss me. Friends can do that, right?”

  Oh. I feel lightheaded as I adjust my pillows. “Not normally, no.”

  He clears his throat and tears his gaze off me. He picks up my acoustic guitar in the corner of the room and holds it up. “You play?”

  I blush. “Not well. I got it in my head last year to take lessons, but as it turns out, I suck. Probably not the right instrument for me. I like upbeat, harder sounds.”

  “Like?”

  “Joan Jett, Poison, Bon Jovi, Metallica. I’m old school.”

  “I’ve got a song for you. Not hard rock, but the words won’t get out of my head lately.” He cradles the guitar, sitting on the end of my bed and strumming out a soft tune with long fingers. He plays the bridge with ease, his head nodding as the soft timbre of his voice shifts into song. The pitch is perfect, the husky quality skilled as the sound reverberates in my small room.

  His voice picks up and sings the chorus, about a guy who keeps seeing the girl he broke up with. He sees her everywhere—in her Maxima—and he thought he’d get over her, but he…doesn’t. His small town is closing in on him. He needs to get away.

  He sings the last note, and I suck in a breath and try, try to push down my feelings for him.

  “Have you had lessons?”

  He pats the guitar. “I just pick it up fast. It’s the same with a piano. I may not get the tune right away, but I usually do pretty quick.”

  “Blaze…that’s amazing.”

  He blushes. “Yeah? When I went to church with my aunt and uncle, I would play when no one was around.”

  “What song was that?”

  “Sam Hunt, ‘Break Up in a Small Town’.”

  “Don’t know who that is, but you’re better than he’ll ever be.”

  He laughs and looks down.

  “Play something else.” Please. I want to wipe that song out of my head, because it felt like…us.

  “You like Peter Gabriel?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Here’s ‘In Your Eyes’.” He hangs his head, his fingers on the strings again, the soft way he strokes them making me sigh. He raises his head and sings the words, the sculpted lines of his face drawn with intensity as he works the guitar with perfect precision. The beat picks up, and he stands and plays, his hips swaying just a little with the beat of the tune.

  He ends the song, and there’s a heavy silence. All I can do is stare at him. My chest feels incredibly tight.

  “That’s the song John Cusack plays on his boombox to get the girl in Say Anything,” I say.

  His eyes flicker. “Is it?”

  I close my eyes. It is, and he knows it. “It’s your favorite movie.”

  “Ah, guess you got me there.” He looks down and stares at the guitar.

  I want to hold him. And I shouldn’t.

  “I never knew you played and sang. I guess you do that for girls all the time.” Emotion rises in my throat and I battle it down, but it seems as if I can’t. “Your voice, it…it makes me want to cry.”

  “Don’t do that. I can’t take it when you cry.” He sets the guitar down and comes back to me. His fingers brush at my cheeks, and I realize there are tears on my face. “I’ve never sang a song for a girl. Not like this. Never.”

  Oh. I push his hands away and wipe my face, feeling color rising on my cheeks. I mutter, “It’s those meds. They make me loopy.”

  “Just the meds? Maybe it’s something else.” His eyes are on my face, reading me, and whatever he sees there is enough for him to get on his knees in front of me. His hand goes around my nape and palms my scalp underneath my hair.

  “Is it okay to do this? As a friend?” he asks softly.

  Breathing faster, I lean into his hand. “Yes. Thank you for the song, for taking care of me.”

  Before I can focus too hard on the repercussions, I trace his lips, outlining the fullness. There’s a slight indentation in the center of his bottom lip, and I press my finger there.

  He closes his eyes. “Charm?”

  I freeze, feeling self-conscious. What am I doing?

  He’s here being kind, and I’m…out of control.

  “Do you want me to stop?” I say.

  “No.” His tongue darts out, licks my finger, and then he bites it, sucking it into his mouth. I can’t breathe, watching his mouth pull on me, until it feels like my body is hardwired to his tongue, everything sparking alive, nipples, my core, all of it connected to his sinewy wetness. He sucks me, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

  He lets my finger go slowly, with a soft pop.

  He moves back to staring at me, his pupils large, dark, and focused on me.

  My body tightens. I know that look. I recognize that heat and desire. I feel it too, every time he’s close to me. Goose bumps sprinkle over my skin, a buzz in my bloodstream…

  He stands and paces around the room, his hand in a fist as he puts it to his mouth.

  “Come back,” I whisper.

  He stops and looks at me.

  “If I come back…I don’t think I can resist touching you.”

  “Okay.”

  He inhales sharply, walks over to me, and gets back on his knees. “I want your mouth, but you don’t like kissing.”

  I love kissing, but if I do that with him right now, I’m lost, and he’s already ripped me apart once, so goddamn hard. I can’t go there again—

  As if he senses my reticence, he lets out a deep breath, looks away, and stares at the fan, watching it twirl.

  “Blaze…” I don’t know what I’m going to say.

  He nods, almost as if to hi
mself, and turns back to me. I press a kiss to his palm and press it to my face. I can’t not—even though it’s going to haunt me later.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  He watches me, and when he speaks, his voice is low. “I’m thinking if I can’t have a kiss, I want my dick between those full lips, your mouth and tongue on me. We never did that. We never did…” His voice stops as he takes a deep breath. He cups his hand over his jeans, and his pants tighten, jutting out against the fabric. “Would you like it? Would you get on your knees for me?”

  “I’ve never done that with anyone.” I’ve had opportunities to, and guys have begged, but that level of trust and intimacy always intimidated me. It was a way to keep myself separate and apart.

  “I’m not just anyone, am I?” His words are quiet, yet the very edges of them tremble.

  “No.” I pull on his hair, threading my fingers through the soft strands as he bends his head closer. His hand pops the button on his jeans and unzips them just a little. His pants are barely past his hips, but his large mushroom-shaped cockhead is visible as his hand wraps around it and strokes.

  “Blaze…” I sigh as he runs his fingers over the thick head in circles, white liquid slipping out of the slit at the top.

  He watches himself then looks at me. “I can’t stop. Lying there with you for all those hours, knowing you were next to me…”

  I watch his hands pump, sliding over the brown skin of his cock, more thick white liquid beading. He rubs the wetness down the part of his length I can’t see, the slick sound of his strokes loud in the quiet room. “I’m thinking about you, your hot mouth sucking me like a lollipop. I want that. I want you taking every inch of me down your throat.” His head goes back with another loud groan, and the top of him is red now, bigger and thicker as his hand works it. With a mumbled curse, he shoves his jeans down the rest of the way and I see all of him, from root to tip. He’s huge, thick, and veiny. Hard as a steel pipe.

  “Are you with me, Charm? Are you turned on?”

  I tear my gaze off his length. My hands clench. I nod.

  “Take your shirt off,” he tells me, and I comply, pulling it over my head and letting it fall on the bed. I skate my fingers over the edge of my black lace demi bra, glad I have it on. I think about how I must look, chest heaving, hair everywhere, my skin flushed. My breasts feel heavy and tingly, begging for sensation. The air from the fan breezes across my nipples, erect and aching, and I arch my back. I push the wire of my bra down until it’s underneath me, lifting me up. The fabric brushes over the piercing in my right breast, and I hiss.