Page 35 of Hate Mates

There wasn’t a hospital in Rockchapel, and I’d deliberately left my EpiPen back in Bangor. By the time an ambulance arrived from the next town… it was selfish to ruin Aunt Poppy’s day.

She’d been so excited at dinner, and I’d made a show of nodding and smiling when she talked about the small ceremony she and Grant wanted.“We’re building a wedding arch, and we’ll exchange vows out back.”She’d gathered my hands in hers again. “You’ll be my witness, won’t you, Sut?”

Damien: 1

Sutton: 0

They were aiming for next summer when the land was alive—the irony was not lost on me. I’d go through the motions. That’s what I did best now. The reformed social butterfly who’d had invites to all the best parties in this shithole was an ugly recluse now.

I lived a solitary life in Bangor, Maine, in a small, single-story bungalow built in the sixties that was a little over fifteen hundred square feet and backed onto the woods. I had a customer service job that allowed me to work from home—I had a face for telephone, what could I say—and I spent my Sundays reading romance novels, self-inserting myself and him in all of them.

But I missed my old life. Those fleeting few weeks where I’d been his in secret. When I took full advantage of my knowledge of which floorboards in his house creaked, desperate to crawl into bed with him, to feel him come alive inside of me. I’d been addicted to him, craved him even when I had him, and missed him when he was right beside me.

I’d loved him. I’d loved him before I even understood that word, and now I bore the reminder of what that love had cost me, too.

The house below was noiseless, Aunt Poppy and Grant having gone to bed sometime after ten o’clock.

I didn’t have the slightest idea where Damien was.

Burying himself in someone, maybe. The thought made my chest hurt.

The attic guestroom I was staying in was quaintly decorated with furniture built by a woodworker whose initials I found on the corner of the headboard—AR—and had a pretty floral bedspread that smelled a lot like Damien.

I slid deeper in the tub, letting the sudsy warm water lave over my achy body, the car ride leaving me a little stiff. I ran the soapy washcloth in my hand up the inside of my thighs, a rogue urge running loose, shooting electricity to my core.

No. I clenched my thighs together, but it did nothing to slow the pulse forming between my legs. I glanced at the bathtub spout, my inner muscles contracting around nothing.

What if…?

That’s how I did it back in Bangor. Masturbating was almost ritualistic when your insecurities were always out to get you, you hated yourself, and you were too afraid to let anyone in because people could and would hurt you. You became well acquainted with your body from a place of desperation to satiate the carnal need because the need to fuck didn’t spontaneously go away when your new boyfriend branded you with your ex-boyfriend’s family crest.

Fuck it.

Releasing the washcloth, I slid forward, careful to not make too much noise against the porcelain. Turning the knob, I spread my legs, situating myself beneath the slow, steady stream of water, increasing it until I found the right pressure.

The tight sigh slid through my teeth. With my elbows perched on either side of me, I slid both hands between my legs, parting the folds of my lower lips, the water stimulating my clit, my hips rocking forward, pursuing the pressure and bliss.

My hips mined at the base of the tub, growing urgent, my left middle finger sliding over my slippery pussy, dipping inside of me. Pleasure nipped at my heels, my breaths turning chargedand frenzied, the orgasm cresting over me as that betraying name freed itself from my lips in a breathy gasp.

“Damien.”

I hated that it was his face I always chased, his body I craved.

My mouth popped open, a series of muted, electric whimpers freeing as I climbed down from my high. I cleared the fog from my head with sweeping blinks, reaching a hand for the faucet. In my peripheral, a long shadow loomed, the hair on the nape of my neck standing upright. The water turned turbulent with my frantic motion; molten dark eyes stared back at me.

“Don’t stop on my account.”

Just my fucking luck.I threw a hand over my soapy breasts, my eyes wide and cheeks ablaze. “Get. Out.”

“After calling my name like that?” Damien leaned against the door jamb—I’d left the door open to keep the bathroom from getting too hot and stuffy—looking all too pleased. “I don’t think so.”

“Damien,” I gritted.

“Mm,” he hummed. “I liked it better when you moaned it.” I searched the floor for something to throw at him, grabbing a hold of the floor towel. Hiking it over my head, I flung it his way, watching it land abysmally at his feet.

“Don’t tell me that’s all the fight you’ve got inside of you, Sut.” He tsked, shaking his head. “Not when you just got yourself all nice and relaxed for me.”

My nostrils flared, and I forced myself to look beyond him into the dimly lit, attic guest room. “Iwillscream.”

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