Hate You Still by Lyssa Lemire

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

KNOX

I collapse next to Emma in bed, my chest still heaving, sucking in air. Damn, was Emma energetic this evening. Shit, she gave me a harder workout than most football practices.

But I’m sure as fuck not complaining.

It’s been a little more than a week since we started …

Since we started, what? I still don’t know what to call it, how to describe what’s going on between us.

I could say it’s been a week since we started sleeping together – but to describe our relationship in those words would make me cringe.

I mean, yeah, we’re doing that. Often. Very often. More frequently than I ever have in my life, actually – the girl is insatiable, and I fucking love it. But to summarize everything that’s gone on with Emma and me as sleeping together would be a cheap rendering of our relationship, and would drastically understate what it means to me.

She inclines her head against me. “That was one of the best yet,” she says dreamily, lacing her fingers with mine.

I chuckle. “One of the best yet? Are you raking our fucks?”

She giggles and blushes, turning her face from mine and burying it in my chest. Despite all the wild shit we’ve done together over the last several days, she still has a streak of natural shyness that I find adorable.

And I love pushing her buttons over it. One of my newest passions is dipping near her ear and whispering reminders of something we did in bed recently while we’re in public, and seeing how many different colors her face can turn.

“Not yet,” she says when she recovers her composure. “But it does sound like a good idea.”

“You do seem like a list-making kind of girl,” I say, stroking her long, soft hair.

She nods. “I am.” She giggles. “Me and Katie like to make silly rankings for fun sometimes. The other night we were talking about ranking our least-favorite pictures of ourselves.”

I laugh. “Least favorite pictures? I can’t imagine you’ve ever taken a picture anything less than breathtaking.”

She rolls her eyes, taking it as sarcasm despite the fact my statement was utterly sincere. How could any picture of Emma be anything less the gorgeous?

“You only say that because you haven’t seen my driver’s license ID,” she says, cringing at the very memory.

“Alright, I have to see it now.”

She shakes her head quickly back and forth. “No way.”

“Come on! You can’t tease a guy like that and then not show the goods!”

“Nope, nope, nope!”

I know what will bring her around.

Slowly I untwine our hands and start lightly scratching my fingertips against her naked skin.

“What are you doing?” she asks, squirming.

I bring my other hand into the mix and start full on tickling her. “What does it feel like I’m doing?” I increase the pressure and speed of my tickling.

“Ahh,” she yelps, exploding into laughter and twitching all over. “Cut it out!”

Her sweet, wild laughter fills my room, and the way she squirms in my grasp only increases the intensity of my tickles.

“Let me see the picture, then,” I say through laughs much quieter and less frenzied than hers.

“Noooo,” she groans, but when my fingers reach down and start gliding on her belly, she gives in. “Okay, okay!”

I stop my tickling, laughing the triumphant laugh of the victor.

“No fair,” she pouts. “I’m ticklish.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say with a grin.

She gets up from the bed and walks over to her pants sitting on the other side of the room. While she does, I enjoy the delectable view of her shapely ass as her hips sashay back and forth. My mouth waters and my cock starts to swell again. I start to think about a round two follow up to the steamy sex we just had.

She comes back to bed with her ID clasped between her hands. “Promise you won’t laugh,” she says, bashfully.

I ironically place my hand over my heart. “I swear.”

She rolls her eyes in a sign of surrender. “Alright. Here.”

She hands me her ID and then turns her head to the side, as if she can’t bear to see the picture she’s now got me so curious about.

I hold the card and examine her photo. It’s, uh … well …

It’s making it hard for me to keep my promise.

“Hey!” she shouts a sharp reprimand at me. “You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

My lips are curled in a smile and pressed tight, but I’m not laughing yet. When I open my mouth to protest to that effect, though, I can’t suppress a couple chuckles. “It’s really not that bad,” I say.

“Yeah, right,” she replies, sarcastically, snatching the card out of my hands. “It was a hot, humid day. My hair was a mess to begin with and the weather didn’t help. I had to walk across town to get to the photo center, so I was sweating. I didn’t have time to do my makeup in the morning …”

I reach around her torso and rest one hand on her hip while the other grabs her chin between my thumb and index finger to angle her lips toward mine. I gently glide my lips over hers. “No bullshit, you still look beautiful in that picture.”

“Now you have to let me see yours,” she says.

“What? My driver’s license photo?” She nods in response. “Sure, it’s nothing special though.”

I reach to the side of the bed and fish the card out of my pants pocket. I hand it over to her and she studies it.

“Oh my God!” she yells.

“What?” I ask. I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary about my photo, but maybe there is, and I’ve forgotten it?

“Your birthday!”

Oh, shit.

My birthday is something I prefer not to think about. It means so little to me that I barely even notice when it’s coming up. Shit, sometimes I don’t even notice until the day of, when I happen to glance at a calendar.

I didn’t even give a shit when I turned twenty-one, since, thanks to my stature on campus, I never had a problem coming by alcohol one way or another.

But now I remember that it’s three short days away.

“Oh, that,” I say, dismissively, grabbing the ID back from her and putting it back in my wallet. I’d rather just drop the subject. The only thing my birthday brings to mind for me, other than nothing, is the fact that I never had anyone growing up who gave enough of a shit to make it a day worth looking forward to.

“We have to do something for your birthday,” she urges.

“Nah,” I say, trying to sound casual.

“Come on, who doesn’t love birthday parties? Even you must love birthday parties.”

I shrug. “Wouldn’t know.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, taken aback.

“Never had one.”

Silence descends on the room.

You know, it’s not really the fact that I’ve never had a birthday party, or anything like one, that bothers me. What bothers me is the fact that when I tell people that, they feel sorry for me. I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me. I don’t need anyone’s sympathy.

I’m dreading Emma pouting and trying to commiserate with me. But, as if she intuits my feeling, she doesn’t. “Let’s get something to eat,” she says, mercifully changing the subject.

“Sounds good,” I say, thankful that the birthday nonsense is put to rest. I’m more than happy to just let it pass once again, forgotten and uncelebrated.