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“Ask me nicely,” he added. “Say, please, Dante.”
“Please go die in a fire, Dante,” I spat out right as my elbow connected sharply with his ribs. He grunted in pain, and I made a break for it.
He caught me just as my second foot hit the floor and had me flipped around and straddling his lap at the edge of the bed.
He looked up at me with a conciliatory smile and said, “I take it back. Old habits, ya know? But I take it back and I’m sorry. I meant it about the truce tonight.”
A please and a sorry from him all in one night?
It was a miracle.
Or the apocalypse.
One thing was for sure, it wasn’t fucking normal. Or right. Or even okay. I could count on one hand the number of times he’d said both words combined in the last five years.
And for this he was sorry?
He had plenty to be sorry for, grievances much worse than anything he’d done in the last five minutes.
I was once again torn between wanting to slap him, choke him, or fuck him blind.
I settled for a compromise, my fingers sliding around his throat and squeezing lightly as he pulled my head down to his and started kissing me again, almost clumsy now in his drunken passion.
His pants were opened, his thick cock jutting out, and I shifted my hips, poising myself over him. I gripped his neck and shifted until his tip pushed into me. With a groan, I tried to impale myself on him.
His stubborn hands on my hips halted my progress.
This was how it was with us. A never ending struggle for dominance.
Usually he won the bedroom portion of that struggle, but I always told myself I let him do it for the simple fact that it got me off harder.
He could dominate me physically, so long as I always had the last word.
I thought mine was the better deal, in general, but at that moment it was pissing me off to no end.
I pulled back to ask him what his problem was, but lost the breath to do so as just then he flipped me smack onto my back.
He stood, impatiently shedding the rest of his clothing while I watched. My wide eyes sucked up each luscious inch of tanned, muscled skin he unveiled.
I parted my legs wide and raised my knees up until my heels were digging hard into the mattress. Fuel to his fire.
It worked well enough. He was naked and on top of me between one gasping breath and the next.
“Scarlett,” he breathed his sweet liquor breath against my mouth right as he started to push into me.
Even his drunk breath I hated. Even that held bittersweet memories that reminded me inevitably of our love and our losses.
My eyes were shut tight as I breathed back, “Don’t talk. Your voice ruins it for me.”
“Scarlett,” he repeated, this time with a smile in his voice.
“Shh. I’m trying to pretend you’re someone else. Every time you speak it ruins the illusion.”
“It’s been too long, angel,” he murmured, then took my mouth and shoved in hard.
I was ready. Beyond ready.
I was wet, throbbing, aching, hungry, desperate for him.
