Charitable Contributions

7: Telenovela Negotiations

Fuck, her signals were so conflicting. Polite manners with a 'back the fuck off' vibe tore me between annoyed and intrigued. I shifted my hips in my seat and threaded my fingers over my lap.

My range of emotions after I left the studio was laughable. Initial anger festered inside my stomach, fed by my swollen shoulder. I drove one-handed the rest of my way home and iced it for two days. Subjected to much friction rubbing and yoga-pose squeezing, my balls were as sensitive as my ego.

While recovering, my mood soured. I 'how dare she?' cursed her with every word. I thought about her so much, burned by how she set me up for failure until my head pounded like a hangover. Her haughty smile and heated glares crept into a dream. I woke up with my cock jutting across my pelvis, and my balls caught in an underwear net.

She tucked a large, gray leather bag into her side. "Nice bag...Is that where you keep all the souls you snack on?"

"Aww..." She hummed, opened the bag, and handed me a granola bar. Another contradiction. "Your face is still unpleasant to look at. How's your shoulder?"

"Fine," I lied through gritted teeth and pushed the bar in her lap. Big mistake. The tips of my fingers brushed over warm, smooth skin. Fuck, her thighs were buttery silk. Movement twitched between my legs. Back the fuck down, buddy. "Despite your best efforts."

Framed by berry red lipstick that my deprived dick volunteered to be an easel for, her toothy, viciously sweet smile appeared. Sparkles glimmered in her warm brown eyes before she blinked them slowly, deliberately. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Bullshit. My nostrils flared. "You dropped me on my head!"

"You dropped yourself on your head." Her foot twitched, drawing my eyes to the swell of her toned calf. Fuck, her legs were killing me. How were they slender, curvy, and carved with deep muscle definition? I needed to stop not-looking at them.

"Doubt you felt it."

I didn't need to see her smirk. Hearing it was enough. Clenching my teeth, I glared at Mike. "Do you see this!? She's–"

"Spirited," he said, chuckling as he held his chin.

"–impossible." Sparks of inner fire simmered behind Mia's closed-off vibe, but I hadn't expected them to be explosive.

"You should know better than to mess with a Texas girl, Sam Pearson."

Candace hooked my ego with those words. Her ass plopped on my lap, sealing my dick's agreement. I was a puppy with a new owner, my heart trailing her sweet, sassy spirit. Mia, however, wasn't flirty or suggestive. Sourced in raw, pure hatred, her insults made her feelings blatantly clear.

"You fill me with absolute, pure disgust. You're reckless, pig-headed, and put yourself in a position to get irreparably injured because you're either too proud, stupid, or both to listen to me."

"...You're beyond help."

Six days since this vindictive yoga vixen tried to turn me into a human pretzel, my shoulder still throbbed with aftershocks if wrenched in the wrong direction. I halted my shoulder sessions with Jer, focusing on my lower body, but Mia's class unlocked a new level of torturous rehab.

I should sue her for malpractice.

I also should've written her off as a vindictive bitch and moved forward rehabbing with Jer. Attraction was superficial; she was a beautiful woman with a shit attitude. Why? Why did she feel so strongly against me? What the fuck had I done to her? These burning questions burrowed into my brain, outweighing my usual indifferent response.