“I know what it feels like to fuck someone who hates you.”
“She doesn’t hate—“ He breaks off with a strangled sound when I tighten my grip around his throat.
“Oh, but she did, boy. For a moment, when her hands were here—” I flex my fingers until Kai’s breath catches with an audible rattle “—it wasn’tyourface she saw. It was someone else’s. And trust me, she hates them.”
“You’re fucked in the head,” he mumbles.
“Am I?” My thumb finds his pulse point. “Then why aren’t you pushing me away?”
His breath catches. A tiny hitch that he tries to cover with a scoff—but I feel it.
“I’m too fucking drunk for your bullshit,” he mutters.
I lean in. Let my lips brush the shell of his ear. “So why are you still here? Go home, back to your supposed girlfriend.”
“She doesn’t want—“ He pauses for a swallow. “We had a fight.”
“Oh, I know.” My tongue darts out, tracing the outline of his ear.
He makes a sound. Low. Wounded.
“She texted me.” I let my breath ghost down his neck. Feel the goosebumps rise in its wake. “Told me I was right about everything. Do you know what that means, Kai?”
His hands find my hips, gripping the fabric of my hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
Maybe it is.
“It means that she’s done waiting for you to grow up. It means she’s ready to accept that you’ll never be enough for her.”
“Fuck you,” he breathes. But there’s no venom in it. Just…surrender.
I pull back just far enough to see his face. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. The weed and alcohol have finally stripped away his defenses, leaving him vulnerable.
The perfect prey.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” I drag my thumb across his lower lip. Feel it tremble. “Someone to tell you what to do. Someone to take away all those messy choices you keep fucking up. Someone to?—”
“Shut up.”
“—own you.”
His breath shudders out.
In.
Out again.
He releases one hand, sliding his fist up my chest. I can’t tell if he’s going to grab my throat or punch me, but the storm raging in his eyes says either is a possibility.
What I don’t expect is for him to fist my hair.
To drag my head back.
To hold me steady in a painful grip as he crushes his mouth against mine.
He kisses me with the ferocity of a man sentenced to death, and I’m his last meal. I try to pin him against the wall, but he’s using every ounce of his considerable strength against me.
Instead of me pinning him, he uses the grip on my hair to swing me around, and thenhe’sthe one pushing me against the rough bricks.
