Page 11 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

The sky is a bruised stretch of fading daylight, the kind of blue that clings too long after the sun’s dipped out of sight. Stadium lights flood the field in a harsh glare that paints everything in silver and shadow.

This is my arena. My kingdom. And tonight, we’re not fucking losing.

I cut through defenders, feeding clean passes, calling out plays without hesitation.

My voice carries across the pitch like a whip crack.

There’s no room for softness here. No space to unravel.

The second I let myself slip, even an inch, it’s over.

And I won’t lose, not on the first night of the season. Not with every eye on me.

But there’s one set of eyes that burns hotter than the rest.

Nate runs as if he’s got something to prove—fast, vicious, unpredictable. He plays midfield like it’s a war zone, and every possession is a kill. He’s not just good, he’s lethal when he’s not thinking too hard. And tonight, he’s everywhere.

I feel his presence behind me every time I call for a different switch, feel the sting of his glare every time I don’t look his way. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to. His resentment pulses across the grass right toward me.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. I keep my back straight and my mouth shut, commanding the field with brutal calm, because if I turn around, I’ll do something I shouldn’t. And if I say anything at all, I won’t be able to stop.

The game ends with us winning four to one. The boys are hyped. Coach Bryant is thrilled. Adrian slaps me on the back hard enough to bruise, and I grunt, barely acknowledging the congratulations.

I don’t go to the locker room; I never do. I don’t want to hear the noise or the post-game hollering, or the stupid music someone’s already playing too loud. I don’t want to have to deal with the tension that’s been trailing me like a shadow for the last ninety minutes.

I make a sharp left off the field, heading for the parking lot while everyone else heads inside.

My car’s parked near the edge of the lot under one of the dim lights that’s flickering every few seconds.

I dig my keys out of my duffel and pop the trunk.

The silence out here is better. Not clean, not really, but it’s better than being watched.

Or so I think.

“Nobody said you could run away.”

The voice hits me before the footsteps do.

I close the trunk slowly, fingers curling around the edge as I pivot on my heel.

Nate’s standing a few feet from me, still in his kit, hair tied up in a loose bun with strands sticking to his forehead, black compression shorts hugging his thighs under his uniform.

His mouth is twisted in that familiar bratty smirk that’s become a shield.

“I wasn’t aware I needed permission,” I say flatly.

He shrugs. “You’re the captain. Shouldn’t you be in there, soaking up the glory? Or does your ego not need the applause anymore?”

“I’m not in the mood for your mouth tonight, Carter,” I say.

He laughs, and the sound feels akin to the drag of teeth over skin. “You know, it’s funny. You didn’t even glance at me out there. Like I wasn’t on the fucking field.”

“You were exactly where you needed to be.”

He steps closer. I hear the crunch of gravel under his cleats, but I don’t move. I should get in the car. I should close the door, drive off, and forget he exists. But then he has to fucking open his mouth.

“Or maybe you were just too busy trying not to look like you care.”

The words don’t sting. Not how he wants them to.

But the tone is barbed, cocky, and simmering with all the shit he won’t say out loud.

The way he looks at me now isn’t challenging, it’s fucking begging.

I hate that he wants my attention, and how badly I want to give it to him.

But Nate doesn’t beg like anyone else. He taunts and tempts, then he sets the trap and smiles while he steps into it, luring me in.

I step forward before I can stop myself, and he doesn’t back up. Of course he doesn’t. He tips his head, seemingly amused, like he thinks this is just another round of our twisted game.

“Hit a nerve?” he asks, voice mocking. “Or did you finally grow the balls to admit that kiss actually meant something?”

I step into his space, crowding him, chest to chest. My fingers slide up to wrap around his throat firm enough to make his breath catch.

His pulse jumps under my palm, and my thumb brushes his jaw as I lean in close, nose to nose.

Then I pivot and slam him against the car door with enough force that the breath leaves him in a sharp exhale.

And he still doesn’t look away.

“You’re so fucking needy,” I grind out. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Had to follow me out here. Had to pick a fight. What—couldn’t handle me not looking at you for ninety minutes straight?”

His pulse flutters under my palm, and he smirks through it. “Admit it. You missed me.”

I press in closer, my body caging his, my breath warm against his cheek. “What I missed,” I murmur, “was the peace I had before you opened your fucking mouth.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You sure about that? Because your hands are on me again.”

I tighten my grip just enough to make his smile twitch. “Careful.”

“Or what? You’ll kiss me again and then pretend it didn’t happen?” He tilts his head, the defiance in his eyes sharpening. “Go ahead. Shove me. Snap at me. Walk away like you always do. But don’t pretend you’re not coming apart every time I breathe near you.”

I drag my hand from his throat to his jaw, my thumb brushing along the edge of his mouth with mock affection. “You think I’m coming apart?”

“I know you are.”

“Cute.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Let me explain something, Nate. You’re not the first person I’ve used, and you won’t be the last. Me touching your dick was just to show I could and that kiss was a moment of weakness. One I won’t be repeating.”

His smile falters for half a second. Then it comes back stronger. “Right. Just a mistake. One you still think about every fucking night.”

I lean in until our foreheads almost touch, my mouth hovering just over his. “If I wanted you, you’d already be mine.”

“And if I let you have me, you’d never get your sanity back.”

He has no fucking idea how right he is.

There’s heat between us—static and violent and impossible to ignore. I can feel it building, pressure pushing against my ribs. My fingers curl into the fabric of his jersey at his hip, my control fraying with every beat of silence.

He shifts beneath me, barely a movement, just a brush of his thigh against mine—but it’s enough to make me breathe out hard, and he feels it.

That brush of his thigh wasn’t an accident, it was calculated and timed.

The kind of move that says, I know what you want.

And I know you hate that you want it from me.

“You’re fucking desperate for it,” I snarl, letting the words peel off my tongue. “Clingy little brat, starved for attention.”

His lashes flutter just once—almost a flinch—but then he’s smiling again.

“There it is,” he moans, his voice dripping with glee.

“Come on, Lover. Say it again. Tell me how pathetic I am. Tell me how disgusting it is that I want your attention so badly, I followed you out here like a little bitch in heat.”

My hand tightens around his throat, unintentionally pulling him flush against me. His smirk turns feral.

“You think this is cute?” I snarl, crowding him harder against the car, my knee sliding between his legs without meaning to. “You’re fucking obsessed with being beneath me, aren’t you?”

His breath catches, and I see that tiny twitch in his mouth. That flicker in his eyes. That sick, hungry little glint that tells me he loved it.

Oh, how he loved it.

“I think you like me desperate,” he breathes. “Think you like me filthy. Barely keeping it together. You want me wrecked for you.”

“I want you gone,” I snap, but my other hand is already curling at the waistband of his shorts.

“You say that,” he says, “but you’re the one breathing like I’m already on my knees.”

“Because you want to be.”

He whines softly, arching his back just enough to grind against my thigh. “Yeah. Maybe I do.”

I yank him forward by his waistband, teeth bared. “Then stop pretending you’ve got the upper hand.”

“I don’t need the upper hand,” he whispers. “I just need you fucked up enough to ruin me.”

That pisses me off more than anything else he’s said. This twisted little brat wants to be degraded. Wants to be shoved against a car and told he’s nothing but a pretty hole with a need to be filled. The wild gleam in his eyes that says this is exactly what he wants.

“You’re sick,” I whisper.

His smile widens. “You make me worse, Lover.”

I grab his jaw again, rougher this time, forcing him to hold still. My thumb drags across his bottom lip, and his breath hitches like I’ve punched the air out of him. “You’re so fucking easy for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathes, eyes wide and glazed.

I clench my jaw because I shouldn’t want that answer.

I shouldn’t crave it like this. But my hand stays locked around his throat, and my knee stays lodged between his thighs, and the worst part is, I can feel just how much he’s enjoying it.

Every twitch. Every grind. Every fucking heartbeat thudding through his pulse, begging to be claimed.

“You like being my mess,” I murmur, dragging the words right across his lips. “That what this is?”

He nods and I trace my thumb over the seam of his mouth, feeling how soft he is right there, right before he opens it to bite. And I don’t stop him. His teeth sink into my thumb—not enough to break skin, but enough to say fuck you in a way that makes my cock twitch.

I let him. Then I yank his head back, his throat bared, and breath catching like he knows I could break him with one push—and he wants me to. “God, you’re my favorite mistake.”

His hips rock against my thigh again, rutting desperately, and he laughs; breathless and broken. “Then make it again.”

The words hit me in a place I didn’t know was still vulnerable. “You don’t know the kind of fire you’re playing with, Pup,” I say quietly.

He bites his lip. “Then burn me.”

I stare at him, and it’s long enough to find something in his expression I don’t want to see—hope. Just a flicker of it, buried under all the bravado. But it’s there, and that makes me furious.

The last thread of my self control snaps and I kiss him as if I’m trying to bruise it in. Like I’m branding him with my fucking mouth. He moans into it—high, needy, obscene—and I swallow the sound with my tongue, with my teeth, with the groan I don’t mean to let out.

His hands clutch my shirt, white-knuckled. His thigh is wedged between mine now, grinding up just enough to make me snap again. I step back abruptly, releasing him, my hands dropping to my sides, and the cold rush of distance slices through me.

“Go home, Carter,” I say flatly and pull him away from my car, open the door again, and this time I get in.

He watches me drive away, and I don’t look in the mirror. If I do, I’ll stop. And if I stop, I’ll kiss him again.

And that can’t happen. Not if I want to keep what’s left of myself intact.