“You’re not letting me in!” she yells.
I throw my door wide open as my eyes flick to her tits for no less than the tenth time since this conversation started.Conversation…if you can call it that. “Come the fuck in, then.”
Her eyes widen as I walk over to switch off the music.
She doesn’t cross over my threshold.
“Too scared to step foot into the lion’s den?” I sneer, walking back toward the doorway.
“More like too scared to shake the beehive,” she mutters.
I take another step toward her, and another, until I’m standing a foot away. I could reach out and pull her against me, but she takes a step back into the hallway. I follow her step for step, and she backs up until she runs out of space. Her back is against the wall next to the elevator, and I keep that same foot of distance between us.
My eyes flick down to her lips before they move back to her eyes, which are wide with fear.
I close that final gap. My sweaty body presses against her soft, cool frame, and a gasp parts her lips. I lean down and run my nose along hers like I’ve done twice now, but this time, I don’t have it in me to stop.
“Remember when I said I don’t make mistakes?” I ask softly.
She thinks I’m setting another trap. Maybe I am.
“Yeah?” she says, her voice tentative like a question and breathless at the same time with me so close.
“I lied.” My lips crash down to hers, and she laces one of her hands around my neck, pulling me down with her as I loop one arm around her waist and flatten my other palm against the wall above her head for balance.
Because she knocks me all the way the fuck off balance.
Fucking hell. I hate her, and yet I want to fuck her into tomorrow. I want her to wince every time she sits tomorrow so she can remember who owns her cunt.
I wondered what her lips tasted like since the moment I first saw them.
And now I know.
Magic. Pure motherfucking magic.
Her lips are soft and plush, and at the same time they’re confident and sure. They part, letting my tongue in, and we kiss as I pull her body closer to me. Her free hand grips onto my bicep, and my arm automatically flexes with the feel of her hand there. She moans into my mouth, and that’s it. The signal that she wants this.
I want it, too. Inexplicably, but I do.
I pull back from our kiss, and a guttural sound of frustration rises from her chest.
“Ugh! God! I hate you!” she says, and she balls her hands into fists that she uses to pound on my chest.
It’s cute, really. She’s frustrated.
“Feeling’s quite mutual,” I mutter. I pick her up and toss her over my shoulder, and she’s kicking and screaming as I carry her into my place.
She beats on my back, but I’m used to getting plowed into by defensive ends week after week. It feels like a massage coming from her.
“Put me down!” she screams at me.
“Why?” I challenge as I carry her through my family room and attached kitchen, down the hall, and toward my bedroom.
“Because I hate you and I’m capable of walking myself!”
“Yeah, well, if I give you that chance, we might both change our minds, and I can tell by the way I had you moaning during that kiss that it’s not what you want.”
She doesn’t have a response to that other than a small gasp, but she does manage to stop kicking and screaming. We arrive in my bedroom, and I toss her on my bed. I walk around to the drawer where I keep my condoms, grab one, and toss it to her. She sits up and glances at the wrapper where it landed on the bed beside her.
