"I'm not going to just—you can't just—"
"Can't just what." He steps closer. That tilt again, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin burn. "Tell me. I want to hear you say it."
"You can't just stand there with a—with that—and expect me to—"
"To what?"
"To keep arguing with you!"
"Why not? You were doing so well." His smile sharpens. "I like it when you push. I like it when you don't back down. I like—" He stops. His eyes drop to my mouth. "I like your voice when you're angry. The way it gets rough."
My face is on fire. My whole body is on fire.
"So keep going. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm fucked up. Tell me—"
"You need to stop talking."
"Make me."
My breath catches.
His smile doesn't waver. His head tilts further—too far, watching me with those bright eyes and a harder cock and absolutely no shame.
"You won't," he says. "You'll keep arguing. You'll keep pushing. And I'll keep getting harder and we'll keep doing this until—"
"Until what."
"Until one of us does something about it."
"Like what."
He moves.
His hand is on my jaw, tilting my face up, his body close enough that I can feel the heat of him. His cock presses against my stomach through our clothes.
"Like this." His voice is low. "Or—" His thumb drags across my lower lip. "Or I find something better for your mouth to do than argue with me."
I should slap him. Should shove him away. Should feel threatened or angry or—
I ache. Right here.
He feels it. Has to. His eyes go darker and that smile turns into something else, something hungrier, and his thumb presses into my mouth. Just past my lips. Just enough to feel.
"That's what I thought."
He pulls back.
Steps away. Crosses to the cot. Lies down on his back, one arm over his face.
I'm still standing in the middle of the room. My pulse is hammering. My jaw is tingling where he touched it. Between my legs I'm—
Don't.
I walk back to the bed. Stiff. Wooden. I lie down.
The silence is wrong now. Heavy. Charged.
Something better for your mouth to do.
