Page 39 of What If I Hate You
He slips his hand between my legs, cupping me over the thin, useless fabric of my leggings. “Maybe,” he growls, scraping his teeth along the shell of my ear, “but you’re the one soaking through your panties for the guy you claim to hate.”
I gasp, and he grins, all teeth, his fingers pressing in a punishing circle that makes my eyelids flutter. He’s got me pinned and writhing by the way he grinds the heel of his palmagainst me, slow, ruthless, like he wants to ruin every pair of pants I’ll ever wear.
“So goddamned soaked for me.” His voice is a hot, low razor on my skin. “Didn’t figure you for the type to get off in a hallway, but here you are, Rivers, dripping all over my hand with the rest of the team only ten feet away.”
He flexes said hand, knuckles digging in just right, and my hips buck helplessly against the hard brick at my back. I can’t…god, I can’t even think. Every nerve ending sparks at the friction of his palm, the way he knows exactly where to push, exactly how to make me forget my fucking name. I claw at the back of his neck, yanking him in for another bruised, angry kiss, tasting the blood I drew from him, wondering if I’ll ever have enough.
He’s not letting up. I’m spread wide, his hand grinding so hard against me I swear I’m going to leave a dent in the wall behind me. He drags his fingers up and finds the edge of my waistband shoving it down just enough to slip his hand under, skin to skin, and I gasp so loud it echoes in the corridor.
“Christ, that’s what I wanted,” he mutters, voice scraping the inside of my skull. “You, wet and desperate and losing your shit for me.” He slides a finger inside, and I choke on the sound that rips out of my chest. He follows with another, thick and relentless, curling up and stroking like he owns the place.
Like he owns me.
He presses his face to my cheek, his laugh low and dark against my temple. “You’re going to have to keep your mouth shut if you want me to continue or else we’re going to get caught,” he murmurs. “Now, do you want to come on my hand, Rivers? Or do you want to stand here and pretend you’re in charge?”
I want to tell him to fuck off, want to claw back a sliver of dignity, but I can’t. I can’t even breathe. I slam my eyes shut, fighting the gasp that tears out of me and then—oh, fuck.He crooks his fingers just right, and I swear to God my knees actually give out. If he wasn’t holding me up, I’d probably hit the floor, a shaking, half-broken shell of a woman.
“Look at you,” he breathes, his lips skating over my cheekbone, the corner of my mouth. “You want to say something smart now, or just moan for me like a good fucking girl?”
The humiliation is a drug, hot and sticky in my veins. I hate him, but I want to come so hard I forget to hate him for a minute. Instead of an answer, I clutch his wrist, riding the movement of his hand, chasing every wet, desperate grind of his fingers. The pressure builds so fast it terrifies me. I should stop. I should make it hurt. Instead, I think I might cry if he takes his hand away.
“You act like you’re so tough,” he says, voice gone soft but no less cruel, “but you’re squeezing my fingers like you’ve never wanted anything more.”
He’s right. I have never wanted anything more. His thumb finds my clit and I lose the last threads of dignity and composure I was clinging to. I’m clutching his biceps so hard my nails bite deep, and he likes it, the sick fuck, because he leans in and bites my shoulder through the cotton, muffling a filthy groan that vibrates down my spine. I can feel everything; every scrape of his knuckles, every flex of his wrist, every filthy, shuddering breath he takes against my ear.
"So, fucking greedy for me, aren’t you Rivers," he whispers, his breath a haze of heat fanned across my cheek. "Bet you’d take my whole hand if I let you. Bet you’d let me fuck you raw, right here, where anyone could walk by and see what a cock-hungry mess you are for me."
Oh, sweet Jesus, yes.
He crooks his fingers and something inside me snaps, a white-hot detonation that blasts every rational thought I haveout of my skull. I clamp down on his fingers and sob, loud and reckless, the sound ricocheting off the walls.
He doesn't let up. He just fucks me through it, his mouth pressed to my ear, his breath ragged now, too. "That's it, baby, come for me," he rasps, both encouragement and command. "You gonna squirt for me? You gonna make a mess all over my fucking hand and let the whole team know who you really belong to?"
I don’t want to belong to anyone.
But I want to belong to him.
The words splinter something inside me, so dirty and so fucking true that I shatter all over again, my pussy pulsing around his fingers as I ride out every aftershock. In that moment, I feel him jerk against me, his hips stuttering forward as he groans. It’s an unmistakable strangled growl that sounds like he's being murdered. His whole body tenses, muscles locked tight against mine as he buries his face in my neck.
"Fuck. Blakely—" he gasps, and I realize what's happening.
Barrett Cunningham, the great wall of the Anaheim Stars, just lost all control. His fingers are still buried inside me when I feel the tremor run through him, his cock pulsing against my thigh through his shorts. He's coming, right here in this hallway, untouched except for the friction of my body against his.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters against my skin, his voice ragged and wrecked. "That wasn't—I didn't?—"
I should be horrified. Or maybe I should be laughing, but instead I'm limp, boneless, completely undone, and he keeps me upright with his hand wedged between my thighs, stroking me through the last, sweet torture of ripples.
When he finally lets up, he drags his fingers out slow, and I watch him, eyes half-lidded, bring them to his mouth and lick me off slow, like he’s sampling the flavor of his own victory. Thesmugness on his face should make me want to kill him. Instead, it just makes the aftershocks sharper.
That and the fact he came in his pants just by touching my body.
Who’s in charge now, asshole?
He leans in, his forehead resting on my shoulder, his breath hot and heavy. “Not so tough now, are you?” he murmurs, and I let out a breathy laugh.
“I could say the same to you…” My eyes meet his. “Or is that someone else’s cum soaking through your pants?
He cups my jaw, thumb tracing my bottom lip, and for half a second the violence is gone, replaced by something dangerous I don’t know how to name. Something that feels almost gentle, except I know better than to call it that. It’s the calm after the hurricane, the eye of a storm that’s just learned how to want.
