11. Mutual Tolerance
MUTUAL TOLERANCE
LIAM
My phone rang at eleven, right as I was walking through the door of my condo, exhausted from a day of dodging reporters and pretending my life wasn’t in complete chaos.
Ethan’s name flashed on the screen.
I answered, already bracing myself, and shook my head when he cursed at me. “Hello to you too, darling,” I purred.
“What the fuck,” he said, his voice flat.
He was in a mood.
“Is that a question or a statement?” I asked, peeling off my jacket, tossing it over the back of my leather couch and apparently, the one that cost more than Deepika’s entire apartment.
“You’re engaged.”
“So it seems,” I said casually, moving toward the bedroom and pulling my shirt over my head one-handed.
“To Deepika Sharma.”
“So it seems.”
“Are you fucking nuts?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” I said, dropping the shirt on the floor. “Where are your manners, darling?”
“I’m so fucking sick of you.”
I sighed, collapsing onto my bed, a California king that took up barely a quarter of my bedroom. “Same here.”
Silence stretched between us, and it wasn’t awkward or weird since we had known each other for almost two decades.
I knew he was waiting for me to tell him something.
Finally, I spoke up. “It was an accident.”
Ethan huffed a laugh, and it was sharp and disbelieving. “Of fucking course, it was an accident. What? Did you accidentally throw the ring on her finger?”
“It’s—no! It’s just, her ring fell, and I grabbed it for her—”
“On one knee.”
“And gave it to her—”
“While she was crying.”
“And there happened to be paparazzi—”
“Who also caught the huge fucking hickey on her neck,” he said, his voice climbing an octave. “What were you trying to do? Eat her?!”
“I did,” I mumbled.
“What was that?”
“We fucked up, okay?” I rubbed my face, staring at the ceiling.
“We fucked up spectacularly, and now we’re engaged and Xavier’s thrilled, because apparently this fixes my playboy image.
And Deepika’s publicist is thrilled, because it makes her look stable, and neither of us can figure out how to get out of it without making things worse.
” I rambled out the everything as briefly as possible.
Ethan didn’t reply, but I could hear him sigh. His particular sigh, which meant he was processing, trying to figure out how to be supportive while also wanting to strangle me.
I felt a stab of guilt. Deepika was Kiara’s cousin, so this affected them too.
“How’s Kiara handling it?” I asked quietly.
“You know how she is,” he said with another sigh.
“She talked to Deepika, told me it’s fine, that she’s happy for her, that this is romantic or whatever.
But…” He paused. “She won’t tell me if it’s bothering her.
I can see it in her face… she wants to believe it’s real, but she knows you two. She knows your history.”
Fuck.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my words sincere. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“I know.” His voice softened slightly. “Just... don’t hurt her, okay? Deepika’s been through enough with the Yash situation. Kiara’s worried about her.”
“I won’t. I mean—it’s fake. We’re just playing along until after your wedding, then we’ll break up quietly.”
“Yeah, because fake relationships always end quietly and reasonably,” he said, and the sarcasm was back, which meant we were okay. “Especially between two people who’ve hated each other’s guts since childhood.”
“We don’t hate each other anymore,” I said, then immediately regretted it.
“Oh?” he asked. “What do you call it then?”
“Mutual... tolerance?”
“Is that what we’re calling it? Because the hickey suggests—”
“We got drunk and shared a room!” I said. “She’s still judgmental, self-righteous, and holds grudges like it’s an Olympic sport. Plus, she still hates me. So… the feeling’s mutual.”
Sort of.
Ethan hummed and replied, “Is it? Because I can hear the—”
“Moving on!” I interrupted him. “New topic. How’s retirement treating you?”
“Nice deflection,” he said with a laugh, and it came from the heart. “But fine, I’ll let it go. For now.”
We talked for another twenty minutes. He told me about his new coaching position, about the kids he was training, how strange it felt to be on the other side of the pool.
I told him about my times being off, about the upcoming qualifiers, about how my shoulder had been bothering me, but I wasn’t telling Coach.
“You need to take care of yourself,” he said, concern bleeding through. “You’re not twenty anymore.”
“Thanks for the reminder, old man.”
“I’m three months older than you.”
“Ancient.”
“Keep me updated on the training, okay? And Liam?” He paused. “Try not to accidentally marry her or get her pregnant before the wedding.”
“No promises.”
After we hung up, I sat there for a moment, phone in hand, staring at nothing.
The condo felt too big, too quiet, and, for the first time, too empty.
I thought about Deepika’s tiny apartment with its garage-sale furniture and vintage water damage. How small, vulnerable, and soft she looked sitting on that bed, drowning in space that wasn’t hers and wearing a ring that finally was.
I stood up, heading for the shower, trying not to think about how she looked in my arms this morning, or how perfectly her grandmother’s ring fit, or how three months suddenly felt both too long and not long enough.
The rainfall showerhead was a masterpiece, but it couldn’t wash away the scent of her. Every time the steam billowed around me, I didn’t smell my expensive soap. No, I smelled jasmine, sweat, and the sharp, addictive musk of Deepika Sharma.
I leaned my forehead against the cool marble tile, my breath hitching as I wrapped a hand around my cock. It was thick, pulsing, and painfully hard and throbbing in time with the memory of her legs locked around my waist.
I started to stroke myself, my palm slick with a mix of water and pre-cum, my thumb grazing the sensitive head of my dick with a frantic rhythm.
I closed my eyes, and she was right there. I saw the way her sharp, witty words had turned into sweet moans. I pictured her pouty lips swollen from my kisses and the way her heavy breasts had spilled into my hands, their dusky peaks hard against my palms.
“Fucking Deepika,” I growled, the name disappearing into the roar of the water.
I moved my hand faster, my grip tightening.
I thought about the hickey I branded into the golden column of her neck, a mark of my possession that she would try to hide under a collar all week.
I thought about the way her dark eyes had glazed over, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered when my tongue tasted her sweet cunt.
The heat in the shower was nothing compared to the fire in my blood.
I was close, my balls tightening with a heavy ache settling deep in my gut.
I could almost feel the silk of her inner thighs against my hips, the warmth and wetness of her pussy as I buried myself inside her.
I could still taste her. The honeyed, electric flavor that made me feel like a god and a degenerate all at once.
The friction became unbearable. My breath came in jagged, broken grunts as I pumped myself harder, my thumb digging into the base of my cock. I saw her face at the moment of her peak, the way she arched and called my name, and that was it.
I buckled as I came in violent, pulsing bursts. The white-hot release splattered against the tiles, washed away almost instantly by the relentless spray of the shower.
“Fuck,” I panted, staring down at the tiles with my chest heaving and head spinning, wondering how the hell I was supposed to go back to hating a woman who tasted that fucking good.