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There’s a scream echoing inside my head. A desperate cry filled with protest — I won’t do it, I won’t, I can’t — yet it knows that no matter how desperate, its protests mean nothing compared to the desire that sets my heart on fire.
Because I’m only five steps down the hallway before I turn around and face the man who’s holding my bra, the man whose taste is still on my lips, and see he’s reaching for me, too.
I hate that I want it, but I can’t fight it.
I grab him by the wrist. Push him against the wall.
“You’re a fucking awful bastard and I fucking hate you so much.”
“Feeling’s mutual, princess..”
“That lipstick on you… it isn’t enough.”
“It was your work. Can’t help it you did a shoddy job.”
“Well, I’m going to fix it, asshole,” I say. I pull him toward one of the guest bedrooms, though every ounce of common sense inside me is screaming ‘Stop.’ I pull him inside. The door shuts with a slam and I shove him back against the wood. “The lipstick work, it sucked…”
“And you want to fix your sucky work by…?”
“By sucking the arrogance right out of you.”
His lips twist into a smirk that makes my blood boil. "You think you're up for the challenge?"
I slam my body against his. "Oh, I don't think, Dixon. I know."
My hands roam over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, nails scraping enough to leave a trail of fiery need.
He grasps my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
"Prove it," he growls before crashing his lips onto mine.
The kiss is brutal, punishing almost, as we're each trying to prove something to the other, but it feels so alarmingly right. It's a battle of wills in every brush of lips, every clash of tongues. It’s a battle that I need to win.
Because I cannot let this unrepentant asshole beat me.
I’ll suck him into submission if I have to.
I reach down to his belt and tug hard. "Time to find out if I really was right about your nickname, Lars."
“You mean ‘Bison’? It’s like that old adage: under promise, over deliver.”
His voice is a mocking growl that makes me want to let go of his jeans and punch him right in the face.
“If this gives you a heart attack, I’ll be so damn happy.”
I pull apart the buttoned flap of his jeans and yank the zipper down.
Beneath the fabric of his boxers, enough of him is visible that even I am forced to admit that he may not be entirely full of shit.
I reach for his cock, feel the heat, the thickness, through the fabric.
He seizes my hand and pulls it away, while his other hand cups my chin and lifts it.
“You can’t just jump to the main event like that. You want it, you have to work for it.”
His lips meet mine with all the force of hate that two people who want to ruin each other’s lives can bring. He tastes like whiskey, like smoke, like sin, like shame — and I can’t get enough.
His hands are suddenly everywhere, leaving trails of heat in their wake — mapping out the territory he seems determined to claim. One hand slips under my shirt, fingers branding my skin. It’s a provocation, a dare for me to push him away or pull him closer.
