He finally meets my eyes, and there's a flare of something in them, something dark, cold, and hungry. "No, I like owning you," he says, his voice almost a whisper. "I like watching you burn. But you're the one who always comes back for more."
That stops me cold. I realize I'm trembling, really trembling, and I hate that he can see it.
I open my mouth, not entirely sure what I'm going to say, but he's already standing.
He walks to the office door, and for a brief, blissful second, I think he's leaving. Instead, he turns the lock.
I look at him, my heart hammering when I realize that he suddenly looks alive in a way he hasn't in a long time.
He leans back against the door, arms crossed. "Kneel."
I laugh, a short, wild bark of sound. "Are you serious? You think I'm going to drop to the floor for you, like a fucking dog?"
He doesn't blink. "I said kneel, princess."
He's serious. That's the worst part. His face doesn't move, not a twitch, not a hint of irony.
I cross my arms and glare, chin out. "Not in a million years."
He crosses the space between us in three strides. One hand closes around my throat, just hard enough to remind me that he can break me in half if he wants. His other hand fists my hair, dragging my head back. The sharp pain has my pulse hammering wildly against his fingers, my core clenching.
That's my sickness. No matter how big of an asshole he is, no matter how controlling or domineering, my body responds like it's desperate to push him further, to feel the monster unleashed on it. I don't know if I've always wanted pain with pleasure…or if he's just conditioned me into believing the two should go hand in hand. If hating and wanting him simultaneously has made me crazy enough to like the fight. But…I like the way it hurts. Iwantit to hurt.
"Do you want me to fire you?" he murmurs. "Is that what you're gunning for? Or do you want something else?"
"Let go of me," I snarl.
He doesn't. He just tightens his grip, forcing my eyes to his.
"You're going to apologize for your attitude on your knees with my dick down your throat," he says, his voice so low it barely registers as sound. "If you behave, I might even let you breathe while I ruin your makeup."
I twist, kicking at his shin, but he holds me in place. He leans in, his mouth inches from mine. "You want to fight? Fine. Fight."
He kisses me, savage and biting, his teeth scoring my lower lip. I bite him back.
"Harder, princess," he groans against my lips, demanding that I bite him harder. I do. God, I fucking do, so hard I taste his blood.
He pulls back with a smile, licking the red from his lip with a slow, deliberate move.
"You're a fucking psycho," I spit, so turned on I can't think straight.
He grins, blood-stained and beautiful. "You shaped me with your own hands, Brielle."
He yanks me down all at once, forcing me to my knees. The rug is rough against my skin. I look up at him, hate and want mingling in my chest, burning like acid.
He unzips his pants, never breaking eye contact as he pulls his dick out. His cock is already hard, thick, and angry. It's a beautiful monster, just like he is.
He takes it in hand and strokes, slow and taunting.
"Open your mouth," he commands.
I keep it shut, my jaw locked, and shake my head. "Go to hell," I say between clenched teeth. It comes out garbled, but still recognizable.
He fists my hair and jerks my head back hard enough to sting. "Open."
I keep my lips pressed together, so he drags the head of his cock across them, smearing precum. The humiliation burns, but what burns worse is the way my body reacts—my thighs clenching, a flood of heat between my legs.
I barely manage to fight back a moan.
