Hate Me

Now, if I can just manage to ice skate gracefully.

When I come out of my room, ready to show off my new outfit, I am literally stopped in my tracks at the sight of Aiden.

He’s playing pool, wearing a plain white t-shirt, dark jeans, a scrumptious black leather Burberry Prorsum motorcycle jacket that I recognize from an ad, and the gunmetal Burberry aviators I got for his birthday.

He looks bad.

Do-me-on-a-motorcycle bad.

He looks so good it’s practically criminal, especially since he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. That scruff is perfection.

It revs my motor just looking at him.

He pushes the glasses down his nose and checks me out.

“You look different,” I stutter out.

I get a smile and the result is devastating to my insides. A bad boy with a brilliant smile and gorgeous, blinding white teeth.

He sets his pool cue across the table, holds his hands out, and looks down at himself. “You don't like it?”

“Oh, I like. Why don't you dress like that for school?”

“Because we can’t?” he says with a smirk. Then he struts over and touches the tops of my thigh highs, his hand brushing under my skirt and giving me a thrill. If I didn’t know him, I’d so be ru

After I did him. Probably.

Doesn’t every girl need a bad boy at least once in her life?

“These are such a turn-on. It kills me when you wear them with your uniform skirt. All I can think about is . . .”

“Is what?”

“Getting under it.” He tilts his head at me. “It’s cold out.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s been cold all day.”

“It’s warmer here,” he says, both his hands sliding up my skirt.

And it does suddenly feel very warm, like I stepped into a sauna of the hotness that is Aiden. I swear, he looks amazing in everything he puts on. Suit, school blazer, football pads, white shorts, sliders, and nothing at all. But this—this almost beats nothing at all.

So hot.

No, so fucking hot.

“So, you don’t want to ice skate?”

“How about a game of pool first?”

“Sure, but I’m warning you. I suck at pool.”

He lets out a throaty laugh that starts out as a cough. “Even better,” he says, his eyes holding mine as his hands continue to wander. He slides his knee between my legs and his firm chest pushes into mine. “I was going to suggest a friendly game of strip pool.”

I quickly calculate the number of articles of clothing it will take to get him naked. Two shoes, jeans, sliders, t-shirt, jacket, watch, maybe sunglasses. Seven. For me, two boots, two thigh highs, skirt, top, underwear, bra, necklace, bracelet, and, if I wear my mittens, that’d be twelve. Pretty good odds.

“Sure, why not? But I’m leaving my mittens on if you get to keep your glasses on.”

“You can even put your coat on, if you want.” He waggles his eyebrows.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re as good at pool as you are at every other sport?”

He shrugs. I start to move away from him, eager to get started, but he grabs me tightly and kisses me hotly, his stubble rough against my chin.

“No sampling the goods just yet,” I say. “You have to win first.”

He gives me a smoldering look, then says, “You’re so going down.”

I think about how I went down last night. “Is that what we’re playing for?”

“What?”

“Going, um, down?” I say, glancing at his pants and thinking that if he says yes, I’m going to cheat.

He pushes he glasses back into place, covering his eyes. “Sounds fair to me.”

“This isn’t poker. Your eyes aren’t going to give your hand away.”

“I think you like the glasses.”

“I like the whole package,” I say, then gulp, realizing what I just said.

“You like my whole package, huh?” he teases.

“You talk too much. I’ll rack,” I say as I line the pool balls up. “You break.”

He bends down, slides the cue across his fingers, and blasts the balls apart, sending two in, both stripes.

“Oh, you can’t do that,” I say.

“Can’t do what? Be awesome?”

 “No. If you sink two balls of the same kind on the break it’s illegal. You have two options. Replace a solid with the stripe or just add one back to table. Which do you want to do?” I say, messing with him. I hold both striped balls in my hand, rubbing my thumbs across them for effect.

He licks his lips, looking at me like I’m a snack. “Leave it off the table, and I’ll only make you take off your shirt.”

I shrug. “That’s cool.” I slide my silky sweatshirt over my head, tossing it to the ground.

“Red, corner pocket,” he says, effortlessly sinking another and stifling a grin. “Take off your skirt.”

Shit. I’m in trouble.

“No one said that you get to choose. I’m taking off a mitten.” I pull if off and toss it on the table.

He takes two big strides, his face now close to mine, and says very seriously, “My score. My choice. Take off your skirt.” Then he takes my mitten and throws it into the other room. He pushes me back against the pool table. “You lose that one for disobeying. Time for me to shoot again. You’re going to be naked in no time.”

He quickly sinks another ball.

“That didn’t count. It’s supposed to be my turn,” I quickly say, grabbing his cue stick from him.

“No, it’s mine.”

“Nope. You just made a bunch in a row. It’s my turn.”

“Since when? Have you never played pool before? You have a pool table.”

“Yeah, because I thought it would be fun for parties and stuff. Guys like to play pool. And I’ve played. Sort of. A few times.”

“And how did you do?”

“Honestly, usually when I got to play, I’d shoot a few times, and my boyfriend would make me quit.”

“Because you were so bad?”

“No! Because he said all his friends were looking up my skirt. He was a gentleman.”

“He the gay one?”

“Shut up!”

He squints at me. “On second thought . . .” He slowly pulls my other mitten off. “Leave the skirt on.”

“You know, it’s also probably illegal to play strip pool without doing a few shots.” I’m feeling strung out. Like a crack addict badly in need of her next fix. Plus, I’m nervous.

And freaking excited.

And nervous.

I already said that.

“So, what did you do at parties when you weren’t playing pool?”

“Well, once my ex got drunk enough that he didn’t care what I did, then I’d dance on the bar.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Naw. I’d have a few shots, have some fun, but that was it.”

He pushes his chest tightly against mine, half kisses and half licks my cheek, and says, “Don’t go anywhere.”

I watch his godly hotness stride over to the bar.

I mean, imagine it. A demigod. Hot, buff, golden boy, wrapped in a designer motorcycle jacket. It’s like one of the gods plucked us from the sky and placed us together.

The. Most. Perfect. Boy. For. Me.

But, curse Aphrodite and her vindictiveness, they thought it would be fun to put us together under the worst possible circumstances. I knew she shouldn’t be the goddess of love. More like the goddess of spite.

Bitch.

Aiden hands me a double shot of tequila.

“Nice pour,” I say as we clink glasses and drink.

“Well, I'm hoping you'll dance on the pool table for me later.”

“I’ll dance on the pool table for you now.”

“No way. You're just trying to avoid the inevitable. Me whipping your ass."

I really need to start plugging my ears when Katie reads me the naughty parts from her erotic romance novels, because I don't want to lose the game, but the first thought that popped in my head was Forget date me, love me, and adore me. I want spank me, attack me, fu—

“Are you go

“Hmmm? Oh, yeah.”

I remember that he made me keep my skirt on for a reason. Maybe I can use that to distract him.

I lean way over the table, knowing my skirt is totally riding up.