Page 37 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

“Nice deflection,” he said with a laugh, and it came from the heart. “But fine, I’ll let it go. For now.”

We talked for another twenty minutes. He told me about his new coaching position, about the kids he was training, how strange it felt to be on the other side of the pool. I told him about my times being off, about the upcoming qualifiers, about how my shoulder had been bothering me, but I wasn’t telling Coach.

“You need to take care of yourself,” he said, concern bleeding through. “You’re not twenty anymore.”

“Thanks for the reminder, old man.”

“I’m three months older than you.”

“Ancient.”

“Keep me updated on the training, okay? And Liam?” He paused. “Try not to accidentally marry her or get her pregnant before the wedding.”

“No promises.”

After we hung up, I sat there for a moment, phone in hand, staring at nothing.

The condo felt too big, too quiet, and, for the first time, too empty.

I thought about Deepika’s tiny apartment with its garage-sale furniture and vintage water damage. How small, vulnerable, and soft she looked sitting on that bed, drowning in space that wasn’t hers and wearing a ring that finally was.

I stood up, heading for the shower, trying not to think about how she looked in my arms this morning, or how perfectly her grandmother’s ring fit, or how three months suddenly felt both too long and not long enough.

The rainfall showerhead was a masterpiece, but it couldn’t wash away the scent of her. Every time the steam billowed around me, I didn’t smell my expensive soap. No, I smelled jasmine, sweat, and the sharp, addictive musk of Deepika Sharma.

I leaned my forehead against the cool marble tile, my breath hitching as I wrapped a hand around my cock. It was thick, pulsing, and painfully hard and throbbing in time with the memory of her legs locked around my waist.

I started to stroke myself, my palm slick with a mix of water and pre-cum, my thumb grazing the sensitive head of my dick with a frantic rhythm.

I closed my eyes, and she was right there. I saw the way her sharp, witty words had turned into sweet moans. I pictured her pouty lips swollen from my kisses and the way her heavy breasts had spilled into my hands, their dusky peaks hard against my palms.

“Fucking Deepika,” I growled, the name disappearing into the roar of the water.

I moved my hand faster, my grip tightening. I thought about the hickey I branded into the golden column of her neck, a mark of my possession that she would try to hide under a collar all week. I thought about the way her dark eyes had glazed over, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered when my tongue tasted her sweet cunt.

The heat in the shower was nothing compared to the fire in my blood. I was close, my balls tightening with a heavy ache settling deep in my gut. I could almost feel the silk of her inner thighs against my hips, the warmth and wetness of her pussy as I buried myself inside her. I could still taste her. The honeyed, electric flavor that made me feel like a god and a degenerate all at once.

The friction became unbearable. My breath came in jagged, broken grunts as I pumped myself harder, my thumb digging into the base of my cock. I saw her face at the moment of her peak, the way she arched and called my name, and that was it.

I buckled as I came in violent, pulsing bursts. The white-hot release splattered against the tiles, washed away almost instantly by the relentless spray of the shower.

“Fuck,” I panted, staring down at the tiles with my chest heaving and head spinning, wondering how the hell I was supposed to go back to hating a woman who tasted that fucking good.

12

NEON ORANGE LOOKS GOOD ON YOU

DEEPIKA

I arrived fifteen minutes early, which I immediately regretted because it gave me too much time to sit in the private back room of the expensive cafe and strategize.

The cafe was exactly the place where popular people came, with all its dark wood paneling, soft lighting, and staff who looked like they had signed NDAs before their first shift.

Blake had booked the back room specifically with no windows and only one entrance. The room had the kind of privacy that cost a premium and was worth every penny.

I sat with my arms crossed, sunglasses on despite being indoors, a scarf wound strategically around my neck, hair carefully arranged over my left shoulder.

The hickey is not visible. The hickey does not exist.