Dare You to Hate Me by B. Celeste (classic fiction .txt) 📕

“You’re going commando,” I remark, smirking as I guide him free of the denim. I stroke upwards to his tip, then back down to the base of him until he’s bucking against me. There has to be close to nine inches in my hand, and I try not to look impressed, but I probably fail. He’s big. Bigger than most of the guys I’ve been with, which says a lot. “I never understood why men do that. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Are you really asking me that while my dick is in your hand?”

I stop my languid strokes, making him groan again. It only empowers me. “I don’t know. Would you rather we talk about something else?”

Waiting for his reply, I already know I’m not getting one. Slowly, he rolls his head back and forth, which is still resting on the top of the couch cushions behind him. I squeeze his throat and cock at the same time, getting a choked noise in return as he grows in my fingers.

Without another word, I begin working him with my hand, feeling his smooth, hard skin twitch under my grip with every pump. My thumb grazes the underside of his tip, teasing the sensitive nerve endings there, before tracing the thick vein downward and listening to his hiss of breath. I relish in the noises he makes, the way he lets me do whatever I want to him—in a way, it’s like we’re younger again and he’d follow my lead because he never wanted to push. Except then, I never anticipated seeing what Penelope Case claimed she did behind the bleachers at Haven Falls High School. This version of Aiden isn’t anything even my sexiest fantasies could have conjured, because there’s nothing hotter than watching the man under me come undone by my touch.

He curses under his breath, his eyes trained on the ceiling as he thrusts into my palm the faster I jerk him. The bead of precum that leaks from his tip dribbles down the side, and I use it as lubricant as I twist my palm under the tip of his shaft and build him closer to the brink.

“Condom,” he rasps, hips meeting my hand to get more friction.

“No.”

His head snaps forward but his neck is still restrained by my hand. Hair falls into his eyes as he narrows them at me. “What do you mean no?”

I meet his challenging stare, my hand movements never faltering as I bring him closer and closer to climax. He’s steel under me, and only getting harder with every tug. “You know damn well what no means, Aiden.”

He moves his hand to my wrist, wrapping those long fingers around me and halting me from getting him off. “What game are you playing?”

“The game of life.” I go to kiss him, to shut him up, but he turns his head to the side in rejection. “Why don’t you want this? You’re almost there, I know you are.”

He gently peels my hand away from his cock, then does the same to the palm that clenches his throat. “Because you don’t want it.”

I snort, eyeing him in disbelief. “I’m the one in control here.”

He reaches between us and tucks himself back in his jeans. I notice the slight wince when he zips up his fly, leaving the button undone to give himself some room since he’s tenting his pants. “If you really wanted this, you wouldn’t have told me no. What the hell are you doing?”

I try sliding off him, but his hands catch my hips. His fingertips dig into my flesh again, keeping me on top of him. “Jesus, Aiden. What are you doing?”

The look he plasters me with is one of fury and disbelief and something else. Longing? He leans forward to get in my face. “You want to know the reason I brought you here? It’s because you said you didn’t want to go home.”

I’m about to retort with something snarky when he pins me with a look that basically says shut the fuck up.

My hips sting with his demanding grip, but I don’t dare move when he asks, “How many fucking times did you tell me that when we were younger, huh? That you didn’t want to go home. I always found us something to do, a reason to stay at my place longer, because you didn’t want to face your parents.”

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard over his question that I taste blood. “I brought you here because I may not have a goddamn closet big enough anymore—” Once again, his eyes pierce mine until there’s a hole in my chest that I thought I’d patched up a long time ago. “—but I have a couch and bed you could sleep on if you ever needed it.”

Before I can stop it, a tiny breath escapes my lips at his heavy yet heartfelt admission. The delivery of each word stabs me with a brutal truth until my heart threatens to bleed out.

It’s hard to swallow.

To breathe.

To look at him.

His nostrils flare as he studies my face, except this time, in disgust. When his hand wraps around my wrist again, his thumb traces upward over the scar without even looking at it.

He must have seen it before, but the question that escapes him in a rough tone takes me by surprise. “Who the hell are you?”

Finally letting me slide off him, I find my footing and hold my head up high. “I don’t know,” I tell him in as much honesty as I can summon in the moment. I slide my sandals back on, not meeting his hard gaze that burns me. “But I’m working on figuring it out.”

I walk toward the stairwell that leads to the door we entered when he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, fighting back a sudden onslaught of tears as I ascend a few steps. I take a deep breath, grind