When I’m done, I try to make my getaway, but his powerful hands grip my hips, holding me in place. I finally allow myself to look at him, finding blown pupils. Palms move a slow, deliberate path up my back, one trailing higher to grip my neck. His tongue drags across his bottom lip, slow and filthy, and I feel it between my thighs.
Moving…no, running is what I should do, but I can’t force myself away, trapped in a very sexy web of sweat, muscles,green eyes, and a very hard, enticing truth pressing against me.
I’m totally getting fired on my first night.
His eyes darken, full of something I feel down to my bones. My pulse flutters in my throat.
I don’t know what I want more. His mouth or a way out.
I should care more about the consequences. But I don’t.
I can regret whatever happens later.
Right now? I just need him to end this torture.
Breathing is no longer possible. I’m panting, shameless, waiting for him to put me out of my misery.
Then his lips crash into mine. I can taste the adrenaline he’s still feeling in the way his mouth claims mine.
This isn’t supposed to happen. Not with him. Not with the violence still bleeding from him. Not ever.
But I sink into it. Let him consume me until he becomes my air.
His fingers wrap around my ponytail, forcing my head back so he can dive deeper into my mouth. His hips thrust upward as he presses me against his erection, and I moan into his mouth, brazen and wanting—no,needingthe release he’s willingly offering as I grip his shoulders and roll my hips to feel more.
The hand at my back moves, traveling to the front, sliding beneath the tight tank top and my bra. Delicious pain zips down my spine as he finds my aching nipple, twisting it between calloused fingers.
I’m on the brink of orgasm, ready to ignite. With my friend’s brother. My sister’s…Oh God, I’m not just a wanton slut, I’m a traitorous whore.
And fuck my body for not giving two shits at the moment.
My entire being winds tight, white-hot promise surging through me.
I’m right th—
Then the doorknob clicks. I launch off his lap like I’ve been electrocuted, heat and guilt crashing through me as I scramble to right my clothes.
The doctor walks in. I don’t give him time to speak. Shame licks at my heels, and more sexually frustrated than I already was, I bolt out of there with his scent surrounding me and his sweat clinging to my skin.
And I promise myself it will never happen again.
Jagger
The tip of my cigarette glows as I stand by the fountain, watching people enter the building, trying to escape the cold. An audible crack can be heard as I roll my head around my shoulders and try to push last night’s fight out of my mind. It’s been almost impossible all day because every time I close my eyes, I feel the flesh and bone breaking against my fist. Nothing went as I expected. It never does.
I fight to deal with my anger, my guilt, the pain…Everything that’s too much. Everything I can’t shut out. It replaces the shit in my head for physical sensations. My chest hurts a little less. The war in my mind—with myself—calms as I put my focus into not getting my ass kicked. Or maybe just not dying.
Blood and broken flesh are expected, but last night was not. I still don’t know what happened. I felt his fist against my face and relished the pain. When blood trickled down, it was like oxygen surging into my lungs. I could feel something besides the fucking guilt and anger that had been building all day.
Then I hit the mat, and as much as I thrived in pain, I wanted the punishment, too. Not to mention, I might be a little unstable, but I’m not suicidal. Mason wasn’t just out for a win. He wanted a massacre.
Little did I realize, I wanted one as well. The moment my fist connected with his jaw, everything turned red. I heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing. Including the man under the blow of my fists. The face I hammered into didn’t belong to my opponent, and the hatred I had for the one I saw—the one I would never have done that—wouldn’t let me stop, even as his eyes rolled back and he went limp.
Mason had a concussion, a broken nose, and a fractured jaw, but he’ll recover.
I’m not sure what I would’ve done if he didn’t.
Scrubbing a hand through my hair, I take another drag of my cigarette. My chest rises with a deep inhale as I prepare myself, taking as much of the toxins into my lungs as possible before I have to snuff out the butt and go inside. I’m not in the mood for this. God only knows how long I will be forced to endure the dull music and monotonous performance.
