Page 139 of Shade
In an act of frustration, I assume, or just pure built-up rage, he kicks the bike over. “Why the fuck not? Give me something better than you work for me because that’s a bullshit excuse.” His scowl deepens the frown lines on his face. “Don’t fuckin’ lie to me. You want me too.”
Angry Shade + sex-deprived Shade = holy fucking hot spoiled-brat Shade.
Despite the fact that I’m insanely turned on by this little temper tantrum, I’m also angry with him. He’s acting ridiculously. I bet you this bike of his cost him over a hundred thousand dollars, yet he just kicked it over more than likely scratching it or worse, breaking something on it.
I glare at him, my eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Pick up your bike you spoiled brat!”
Okay, I could have done without the spoiled brat part, but who kicks over their bike?
Shade. That’s who.
Regardless of being pissed off at me, he does pick it up and tosses the helmet at my feet and throws his leg over it. “Get on.”
Did you miss that part? He tossed the helmet at my feet in the dirt. Nice. What a jackass. “No.”
Look at his face. He doesn’t like being told no. “Get on thefuckingbike!”
I rip the helmet off the ground and slam in on my head practically ripping off my ears in the process. “I’m only getting on because I can’t walk back in these shoes.”
He grunts something, but I can’t hear him once I have the helmet on.
Revving the bike, he tips it to one side and heels the kickstand up. Looking both ways, he pulls out onto the road, and I fear for my life.
The two-mile ride back to the house is nothing like I’ve experienced before, oreverwanted to experience. I nearly died, at least three times when he lost control in a corner, fishtailed the bike and then wheeled out of it with me on it.
Look at me, now. Shaking, near tears and pissed off beyond belief. Almost dying has a brash reaction to your emotions.
Do you think I’m amused by any of that?
No. Not only is my fucking ass still on fire, but I can’t control my racing heart. It’s like the time I decided to run a 5K race in the streets of Seattle with Tom. I don’t run. Ever.
This time I throw the helmet at his feet in the driveway. “You willneverput my life in danger on a bike again! How would you have felt if I would have died?”
My words hit him like a ton of bricks. Maybe they’re reality or that his friend died and he wasn’t there that night. I hate that I said it, and despise the look on his face even more.
He draws in a breath, then another. He meets my eyes and I can see his frustration. He looks lost and caught in between something I might not fully understand.
“Why?” he shouts back at me with a sharpened edge, getting off the bike and standing in front of me, the veins in his neck protruding, the muscles in his chest bulging. He still doesn’t have a shirt on. In his little tantrum back there, he left it on the side of the road.
I cross my arms defiantly over my chest, attempting to hold my ground, trying not to look at his bare chest and how fucking sexy he looks. “Why what?”
“Why won’t you have sex with me?”
I roll my eyes. “Good God, is that all you think about?”
He drops his helmet to the ground. “When I want something, yes. What’s your problem? I can walk out my front door and get ass anytime I want, but you’re acting like you’re too good for it.”
“Oh, you poor baby. Someone denied the guy who has it all!” I shout and begin to stomp away from him. I knew going into this it wouldn’t be easy. Willa warned me out of the three of the boys, he’d be the hardest to deal with, and I can totally see how his determination has gotten him to the levels it has.
But it’s not with me.
I’m ten feet away when his arms encircle around my waist, his face buried into the crook of my neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, holding me to his chest. Moving my hair, he kisses my neck, and his warmth surrounds me. Soft lips move against my skin, the words, “I’m acting like an idiot,” breathed into the curve of my neck.
I turn, wriggling out of his embrace and draw in a shaky breath. “You are acting like an idiot.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, dipping his head forward to catch my eyes. “I really am. That was stupid, the bike, what I said, I just.” Vulnerability takes over, his hands finding his hair as he tugs at the ends. “I’ve never been denied something before, not like this, and for you to kiss me, and let things escalate like that only to stop it, it confuses me. I like you, Scarlet. A lot.”
“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have let it get that far. You cloud my judgment and I let it get out of hand,” I admit, nearing tears once again. “But you’re being a butthead.”
In that moment, that’s what I say to him. Butthead. He’s the best freestyle rider in the world. Won gold medals and is hotter than sin, and I just called him a butthead. Like a little kindergartner would call her crush.
He laughs, his shoulders shaking. “A butthead?”
Okay, at least it lightened the mood. “Yep. Totally.”
He starts walking toward the house, and I follow him. He looks over at me. “Did you seriously call me a butthead? What are you, six years old?”
“You were being one. I speak the truth.”
