Page 32 of Hate Mates

For doing anything for that fucking family at all.

The round tip of Sutton’s nose wrinkled, processing the performance. “Thanks, Grant.”

Settling in the seat, she waved off his attempt at tucking her in, giving me the perfect sight lines of the tunnel between her tits when she leaned forward, hiking her chair in. The glow of the candles cast a warm highlight on the side of her face she favored, shadowing the side she didn’t.

I’d always thought she looked like a fair-haired version of a ‘90s Liv Tyler. She had deceiving features that made her look older than she was and got her the wrong kind of attention when we were younger.

Poppy placed an open palm on the table in offering. “You look pretty, Sutton.”

Finally, something I could agree with.

She stared at her aunt’s hand for what felt like an eternity, forcing her stiff limb to cooperate. “Thanks, Aunt Poppy.”

To her aunt’s disappointment, Sutton withdrew her hand the first opportunity she could, taking advantage of the appearance of Emma, the chef—if that’s what we were now calling the line cook at the diner in town that was one health infraction away from shuttering—balancing the first course on a serving tray.

This was the weirdest shit I’d ever seen in my life.

No, not just the leafy, mixed greens piled high on my ma’s good China—it would be a cold day in hell before we finished a bin of spinach before it wilted—but the length’s my dad was willing to go to in order to make a good impression on Sutton as though we hadn’t literally watched her grow up, like she hadn’t spent every summer swimming in our pool, or helping herself to all of my gummy bears when she was ten.

Picking the fork to my right up, I poked at the salad, the pungent scent of vinegar and Dijon hitting me.

Dijon…

Across from me, Sutton stabbed at the salad—she hadn’t noticed—did I want her to? Or did I want her throat to close on her, to force her to stay with me longer than she wanted? Her lush, naturally coral lips parted to accept the bite.

Thwack!

Poppy shrieked as my hand collided against Sutton’s, knocking the fork across the room, her sharp gasp drowning out her aunts, mainlining straight down my abdomen, settling in my heavy balls.

Fuck. Me.

“Damien!” Dad bellowed.

Sutton’s impassive expression betrayed the violence in her eyes and the heaving swells of her tits pumping up and down with each ragged breath she took.

“What in the ever-loving fuck,” she began calmly, “besides the obvious, is the matter with you?” She stared at where I remained balanced, stretched across the table. “Have you lost your goddamn mind? No, wait”—she held up a hand—“don’t answer that. Rhetorical question.”

The dry laugh slid through my nose, my upper lip curving back. “Is that any way to thank the person who just saved your life?” I seethed.Again. “There’s Dijon in that dressing.”

“Iknow,” she deadpanned, earning my blanch.

What the fuck? She knew…? And she—I swallowed—was going to eat it anyway?

“Oh my God!” Poppy paled, but I suspected we were reacting to two different things. “Sutton, I am so sorry. I told Emma no shellfish or nuts, but I forgot…”

“It’s fine.” I wondered if she ever got tired of her own placation? She dusted her hands against her dress. “Doesn’t help I’m allergic to everything.”

Latex included.

I hadn’t spent enough time raw dogging between those thighs as I would have liked.

Teary-eyed, Poppy pushed back from the table, swiping quickly under her eyes. “Let me just…” She stood up. “Go check with Emma.”

This was what they got for trying to turn this into something it didn’t need to be.

They were getting hitched.

The end.

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