Chapter 8 #2
I think that’s what makes this worse. She’s a damn knockout—and she still pisses me off.
I shove my jeans down, half-wild, ready to get inside her—then she reaches back beside the couch, yanking open the drawer I know I keep stocked.
A foil packet smacks into my palm—sharp, decisive. She never breaks the kiss.
I huff a laugh against her mouth. We might be furious, but we’re not stupid.
I know exactly what I’m risking here.
The plan. The advantage. My ability to pretend I don’t care what she thinks of me after tonight.
I tear it open and roll it on in one rough stroke.
She stares at me, drinking me in, and it’s the exact reaction I want—the kind that tells me she’s as locked into this as I am.
I grab her thighs and drag her toward me, ripping her underwear down her legs in one impatient pull. If I were a better man, I’d slow down—but that sure as hell isn’t tonight.
I lie over her, the heat between our bodies immediate and grounding after the cold rain. She kisses me with a needy urgency, and I pull back just long enough to give her breasts my full attention.
She moans softly as I knead and caress her, giving both the same deliberate focus.
Her fingers bury in my hair, and I wish it didn’t feel as good as it does. I groan against her mouth as her other hand slides between us, stroking me with confident intent.
The sound I make disappears into her throat as my hips surge forward, chasing the pressure of her touch. It’s like striking a match and tossing it straight onto gasoline—rage and desire feeding each other until everything burns hotter, wilder.
With a deeper groan, I gather her into my arms and sit back on the couch, guiding her until she straddles my lap. Her legs fall on either side of me as she lowers down, biting her bottom lip as she takes me in. The sight nearly breaks me.
I groan as she moves against me, our breaths and sounds tangling. “Gage,” she whispers against my mouth, the sound of my name threaded with pleasure.
I tighten my grip around her waist, driving my thrusts up to meet her rhythm, pushing deeper, harder, until neither of us is pretending this is anything but inevitable.
I groan as her nails rake down my chest, leaving sharp red lines in their wake. “You hate me, don’t you?” I ask, breathless, gripping her hair and tipping her head back to bare her neck.
I nip at the exposed skin, keeping the same relentless pace, and she moans again—louder this time.
“I hate you. I hate you,” she says, but I don’t believe it. Not really. And hell, I’m not convinced I hate her either. The way we’re chasing the edge together, pushing and pulling like we’re daring the other to fall first—that isn’t hate.
It isn’t love either.
If anything, it’s pure, combustible frustration.
Her good hand grips me hard while her bandaged one stays curled against my chest, guarded, careful—protecting the wound even as she gives me everything else. It doesn’t stop me from rolling her onto her back and driving into her, hard and unrestrained.
Her back arches as I keep going, finding the place she needs me most. I lean down, my mouth brushing her pulse. “You don’t hate me,” I taunt softly. “You couldn’t. Not even if you tried.”
She looks at me, eyes hooded, just as my release starts clawing its way closer.
“And you couldn’t hate me,” she moans, her body tightening around me.
The sensation drags a groan from deep in my chest, my eyes squeezing shut as I lose ground.
“If you did,” she adds breathlessly, “this would be easier for you.”
I open my eyes and meet hers.
My jaw locks as I thrust harder, deeper, refusing to look away as she comes apart beneath me. Her body shudders, muscles tightening as she tips over the edge, and I follow seconds later, stumbling right after her with a groan I don’t bother holding back.
I don’t stop moving when it’s over. I guide her back against the couch cushions, following her down as the last tremors fade, my weight settling over hers. Her legs loosen around me, arms slipping slack at my sides as her breathing evens out.
I collapse against her, breath ragged, pressing us together as I try to slow my racing pulse. As the heat fades and reality creeps back in, the truth settles heavy in my chest.
This isn’t how this was supposed to go. Not when I knew better. Not when I chose it anyway.
We weren’t supposed to cross this line.
The only thing saving my sanity is the lie I cling to—that this was just sex. Anger and frustration burned off in the worst possible way. Nothing more. Something we can both pretend never happened.
It should be easy enough.
And if there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s this: I won’t be the one to bring it up.
I can’t say the same about Sloane.
When I lift my head, I realize she’s already asleep beneath me. My eyes widen, surprised. I can’t decide whether to be impressed or unsettled that she fell asleep so easily.
Either way, it’s a blessing. It means neither of us has to talk about this as we retreat to our separate rooms.
I get to my feet and gather my clothes, but before heading upstairs, I pause. I grab the dry flannel from the mudroom hook—the spare, not the soaked one I tore off—and drape it over her, making sure she’s covered between the flannel and a couch throw.
I may be an ass, but I’m not leaving her exposed like that.
As I climb the stairs, my mind circles back to the storm we just unleashed.
And the question hits me hard, right in the ribs:
What the hell happens when this isn’t enough to get her out of my system?