My self-preservation tells me ‘okay you know what maybe… maybe you need to get up on out of here before you become one of those victims on the news.’ But I'm a dumbass.
I push him as hard as I can, but his chest rumbles back against me, causing my back to slam hard against the front door once more. Trying again, he rocks me, shoving me with his hands this time against the wood.
Now I'm crying. I'm mad but I'm also crying. Maybe he'll have mercy. I don't want to fight him. Maybe I overstepped. But that's not who I am. I want to fucking fight.
If he's trying to kill my spirit that shit is not happening and I would fucking die before I let it. Grimacing, I shove him again, only for his left hand to fly up and clamp around the front of my throat.
The growling noise he makes through his closed mouth as he glares down at me, chin up, breathing faster through his nose, as he walks me back, is intoxicating.
Lincoln holds me by my throat against the front door, slamming me there in place, causing my body to vibrate with the impact.
“You want to fight me? Huh?! You want to fuckingfightme?” he growls through his teeth like he'sbarelyholding in his anger.
I'm not an idiot.
Okay maybe I am, but I'm smart enough to know that if he really wanted to kill me, he would have.
“Get off of me!” I grimace, wanting to hold on to my defiance.
His body is pressed up against me. His hand tightens, and every time I struggle, his hand squeezes tighter.
He pulls me to him, only a fraction by the throat, before slamming my head back against the door.
Jesus Christ.
We've never beenthisrough before.
We've had it very rough and I've asked him to do stuff like this for me in the past but never during a disagreement, fueled byrealrage.
He has tears in his eyes that haven't fallen yet, and whatever the hell it is that he thinks I did to him must have really hurt him because… old dude is mad as hell right now.
What can I do?
My hands are trying to claw at his hand to let me go but his left hand has me in a vice.
The veins are all bulging on his forearm, and so I do the only thing I can do, which is to go for the balls.
But when I do, my hand has a mind of its own.
My fingers on my right hand wrap around his cock, which is extremely hard.
Oh my God. It's so…hard.
With the underside of my palm I begin rubbing in a slow, teasing pace. He's wearing these dark gray cotton pants that double as boxers except that they go all the way down to the legs. I like them a lot because I can feel everything.
His cock throbs hard against my hand with furious need, starved to bury itself deep into something, and unload all that coiled rage and testosterone.
He's not stopping me and his hand isn't loosening. As a matter of fact it tightens. The growling noise emanating from him deepens and one tear falls, ill-fitted against the fury-etched expression he wears.
One that screams:dangerous
The pace of his breathing accelerates the more I rub his cock through his pants.
Smooth as a criminal, his right hand drops his pants from around his waist. The back of my skull slams against the front door once more with finality before he takes his hand off my throat and yanks down my pants.
I try to help him but he bats my hands away.
Grabbing the top of my hair, which is now completely out of its bun, wavy, stretched strands flowing around and every which way, he pulls me toward the living room, tossing me onto the floor unceremoniously. My body rolls back to a stop.
