Page 40 of What If I Hate You
“Next time,” he says, voice low, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll forget you ever hated me.” His lips drag down my throat, slow and hot, and his hand tilts my face up until there isn’t a goddamn inch of me not tethered to him. “And you’ll beg for more, Rivers. You’ll come crawling for it, because you won’t be able to stand not having me inside you.”
I want to spit, to laugh off the promise, but my whole body is running on empty, every nerve ending fried and sparking. I hold his gaze and he grins, mouth bloody from where I bit him, and I know he’s right. I’m already aching for the next time, already plotting the thousand ways I could pay him back and none of them involve letting go.
His hands linger on my waist, then skim lower, smoothing my leggings back into place with a proprietary kind of care. It's fucked up, the way it makes my heart skitter in my chest. A man who just fingered me so hard I lost consciousness now tucking me back together like he's fixing a toy he broke on purpose. I can barely keep my legs under me, so I lean into him, hiding myface in his shirt until the world stops doing slow, lazy circles. His heart is pounding hard and wild under my cheek and I realize, with a jolt, that for all his control, he’s just as wrecked as I am.
When I finally look up, his eyes are dead serious, the kind of heat usually reserved for game seven overtimes. “This doesn't end here, Rivers. You and me, we're just getting started." His voice is a rasp, a grindstone against the softest parts of me. "Tomorrow, next week, hell, next time you walk past me in the hall, you're gonna remember exactly how it felt to have me inside you. You're gonna feel it every time you sit down. Every time you cross your goddamn beautiful legs." He grins, slow and evil, but there’s a softness to the way he thumbs my chin, a secret only for us. "Every time I see you I’ll be thinking about what you taste like. And I’ll be waiting, every single moment of every single day, for you to shatter all over me again."
He tips my chin, nose to nose, and for the first time in my life, I want to say something small and stupid, like thank you, or please, or just Barrett, softer than I’ve ever said it.
But I’m not allowed that luxury. The thump of footsteps echoes from the arena proper, and I jerk upright, pulse instantly in my throat. He plants me back against the wall, but this time it’s protective, shielding, like he’s willing to take the bullet of public humiliation if anyone walks in. I listen, breathless, as the sounds fade away, and then slump in relief, pressing my forehead to his chest. We’re both shaking, but for totally different reasons.
Finally, I compose myself and stand up straight, his eyes watching me predatorily but with a sense of gentleness that makes me wary. Barrett Cunningham doesn’t do gentle. At least not since I’ve known him.
I run my fingers through my hair and fix my shirt before picking up my bag and slinging it over my shoulder, then squaremy jaw in front of the man who just shattered me in an empty cinderblock hallway.
“This won’t happen again,” I say firmly but with absolutely no resolve because of course it’s going to happen again.
He turned me into an addict in mere minutes.
But I tell him otherwise if for no other reason than to pretend I have an ounce of dignity left in me.
“It can’t happen again. And just so you know, I won’t go easy on you in the press room just because you made good use of your hands.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BARRETT
Idon’t know what’s worse: that Blakely Rivers is sitting three rows ahead of me on our flight home, or that I can still smell her all over my hands. Every time I flex my fingers, I feel her pulse under my skin, and there’s no goddamn hand sanitizer strong enough to scrub away the memory.
Not that I would use it if there was.
I haven’t washed my hand yet since it was inside her and I don’t intend to until I absolutely have to.
The plane lurches upward, wheels tucking in below us and all I can do is stare at the swirl pattern on the tray table and try not to replay the hallway incident on a loop. I’ve never been this aware of another human being in my life. It’s like she’s a bomb in my line of sight, and every breath she takes is one second closer to detonation.
Somewhere behind me, Bodhi snorts and starts arguing with Griffin over whose pretend dog could survive longer in the wild. The debate gets heated fast, but I tune it out, zeroing in on Rivers pretending to be engrossed in her laptop. Every so often she glances my way in the reflection of her screen. It’s not subtle. Nothing about Rivers is. Even with her hair in a highponytail and her face mostly hidden by those ridiculous blue-light glasses, she radiates a challenge.
She’s a goddamn riddle, and I’ve never been good at puzzles.
I crack my knuckles, trying to burn off some of the excess energy, and catch her head tilt, just barely. She’s listening, probably to me, or to the whole goddamn plane, cataloguing every microaggression and snappy comeback for her next segment on why athletes are the most emotionally stunted mammals on the planet.
I want to call her out. I want to walk the three rows up and stage a repeat, drag her into the cramped galley and see if she can keep her poker face when it’s just the two of us, but I know if I make a scene, Marlee or Ella or, God forbid, Coach will have my ass on toast before we even hit cruising altitude.
So instead, I launch a counterattack the only way I know how: I grab my phone, snap open my Notes app, and start writing out scouting reports for the coming series. I hammer the keys like I’m mad at them, which, let’s be honest, I am. I’m mad at a lot of things right now, not least the fact that I’ve spent the last six hours hard and restless for a woman who hates me almost as much as I hate myself.
“Why are you being weird?” Harrison asks from the window seat beside me.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Harrison lowers his magazine, cocks an eyebrow, and flicks his eyes toward where Blakely is sitting, lips pinched, the line of her jaw sharp enough to slice a puck in half. “You look like you’re about to chew through your seatbelt. Either you shit your pants or that girl’s gotten under your skin so bad you’re sprouting feelings.”
“Fuck off.” I don’t even bother to whisper. “I’m not sprouting anything.”
He grins. “Man, you are so full of denial it’s a miracle you haven’t floated off this plane. You want to talk about it or are you just going to sit there and brood so hard you give yourself a hernia?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I mutter, but it’s a lie. If I wasn’t so hung up on the afterimage of Rivers’ eyes going glassy at my hand, I’d probably be able to bullshit him better.
“Uh huh. Okay.” Like it’s a challenge, Harrison whips out his cellphone and sends a message to our team-chat that Griffin has recently named Stars After Dark.
