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“You’ve never let yourself feel angry or sad or guilty about getting hurt, which I’m guessing is why you can’t sit still and have been prickly all day. This shit sucks. Get angry.”
“I already told you this isn’t your fault.”
“And I didn’t say to get angry at me, just to get angry.”
My nostrils flare as I take a deep breath, preparing to defend myself. Only I can’t, because every bit of what he said is true. I am trying to stay in control, and I don’t know how to handle the fact that I’m not. My skin is crawling due to the overabundance of restless energy, anger and guilt, none of which Tripp deserves to bear the brunt of. That’s hard to remember when he’s smirking at me though, daring me to take his bait.
“Fuck!” I shout.
“There you go.” Tripp winks.
“There I go?” My volume is still abnormally high, but I’m no longer shouting. “There you go, being a brat again.”
“You seem to like it.”
“What?” I seethe.
“You’re reacting. Showing some emotion. That’s good.”
“How would you know? Your only emotion is not giving a shit.”
The wince is so slight I’m not even sure it’s real, though before I can regret my words, he pastes a blank look on his face. “We aren’t talking about me.”
“We could be, Mr. I don’t do relationships.”
“Yeah, but we’re not. Right now, this is about you, and how it’s okay for you to not be perfect and in control all the time.
“You want me to lose control?” My hands are gripping the crutches so hard my knuckles are white.
“If that’s what’ll get your head right.”
“Don’t bait me.”
“Or what? You’ll throw something. Punch a wall. Fuck me.” He licks his lip suggestively.
“Typical. Always thinking about dicks,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“Have you ever hate-fucked anyone?”
That’s not the response I’m expecting. “What? Why the hell would I do that? Those two things don’t really go together.”
“They do when you need an outlet, and you have a fuck buddy who likes it rough.”
“I don’t need a fuck buddy right now! I need to be on the ice, with my team.”
“But you can’t.” Tripp steps so close our chests are practically touching. “And that’s driving you mad so stop trying to pretend it doesn't piss you off.”
“Of course, it pisses me off.” The damn breaks as I let go of my crutch to grab him by the back of the neck. “I’m here while my team is gone, they’re losing because of me, and you…” The words die on my tongue as I realize our faces are so close, we’re breathing each other’s air.
Time seems to stand still as our gazes lock, Tripp’s green eyes glinting in triumph. Then our chests brush together on a precarious inhale, and the room around us fades away as every lingering noise is drowned out by our heavy exhales. Trapped in this little bubble, fear and desire ripple through me, fighting for dominance. There’s a split second where fear almost wins, where I nearly reign in my aggression and pretend I’m not coiled so tight I’m about to erupt.
I should step away… We have an unspoken rule to never kiss. Yet, as I stand here, like I've been placed under some sort of spell, I can’t bring myself to move. Hell, I forget how to blink, and the only understandable thought in my mind is how badly I want to kiss him–to devour him.
Closing the distance between us, I smash my mouth against his, moaning when our tongues meet, and I realize he’s not fighting me. He’s matching me in desperation and intensity, stealing my breath as he gives me his own.
Whether this is part of his challenge to get me to let loose or because he wants it as badly as I do, I don’t know. Don’t care. I just know that the rough brush of our lips, the scrape of stubble along my jaw, is the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever felt.
I want to claim him, to slam him against the wall and wrap his legs around my waist. The urge to make him mine is consuming, but I'm fully willing to give myself over to him in return. I let my other crutch fall to the floor and give him my weight, so we topple onto the couch.
