“It’s not funny when I have to explain the joke to you, dipshit. All the Monster-drinking, wall-punching dudes are named Kyle—” Wait. Why am I explaining this to him? “You know what?Get the fuck out of my room!”
Kohen moves faster than I do, cornering me like I’m a caged animal. The chill of the wall seeps into my back, and the sheet I had draped over myself lies discarded on the floor. I press my palms against his chest to stop him from getting closer, but it’s as if I’m Sisyphus pushing the boulder—minus the strength, endurance, and will—because Kohen keeps coming closer.
His hand goes around my neck, thumb feeling for my thundering pulse, his preferred position. Our combined ragged breaths settle over my skin like I’m in a sauna. Unlike all the other times he’s had his knee wedged between my legs, the only thing stopping my pussy from making direct contact with him now is the pair of thin cotton panties I’m wearing—my verydrenchedcotton panties.
The differences don’t end with the uneven division of clothing between us. It spreads to how his eyelids have gone heavy, even though the rest of him oozes disapproval.
The worst difference is what’s going on below our waists.
His thigh isn’t just wedged between my legs; the thick fabric of his pants is touching the only material I have on the bottom half of my body.
If I thought the ungodly thing warring in his pants was impressive a minute ago, having it pressed against my stomach feels akin to having a gun pressed against my head; a little horny at what could be done with it, and a teeny bit uneasy about the prospect of death.
But fuck me sideways if I’m not tingling all the way down to my toes imagining what this pyromaniac looks like without clothes. Better yet, what all that muscle will feel like under my fingertips. And like a damn frigid virgin, I squeeze my legs around his thigh—which is the worst possible thing I could have done because my lust-addled brain doesn’t catch up fast enough to stop me from moaning.If Kohen looked like he wanted to eat me alive earlier this afternoon, right now, he’s ready to splay me out to feast on me like I’m a Sunday roast, and he’s been starving all week.
I try to save face by curling my lips into a scowl, but then his hand on my hips—something I hadn’t realized until now—grips me tighter, guiding my hip into soft rolls. The feeling of my throbbing core against the rough fabric of his jeans has my eyes rolling to the back of my head, and I’m done for.
I’ve lost before the rules of the game are even set as I whimper—I fucking whimper like I’m touch starved, and he’s the only person alive that has touched me like this—and he’s done absolutely nothing to me. This is the first time someone has touched me sober, where I feel electrified instead of repulsed.
I see why people seek solace in external sources like God to get over drugs, because right now I’m seriously considering turning to sex. It’s almost the same; the body tingles, the lightheadedness, feeling like I’m on top of the world, reaching for the stars like I never have to worry about falling. Nothing matters but what’s going on within the parameters of my skin.
Kohen does it again, dragging my center over his hard thigh, pressing his cock harder against me when he brings me up. My head falls back against the wall while his dips down to watch me with more scorching intensity than the sun.
This is wrong. Fucked up on every level. But I’ve always been a sinner, getting turned on by the things that are bad for me.
Kohen’s stare brings me back to earth, and it takes extreme effort not to move my hips again to feel his cock and alleviate the pressure that’s ready to explode. “What the fu—”
“No.” My eyes widen as I gasp when he closes hisfingers around my windpipe, depriving me of my oxygen and rendering me silent. “I’m sick of hearing shit come out of your mouth.”
If he notices the subtle movement of my hips in response, he doesn’t let on. He doesn’t react when I slip my hand over his broad shoulders to the back of his neck or when I sink my nails into the knotted muscles that ripple beneath the surface of his skin. Blood pebbles beneath my nails, and I do it again in a different area while focusing on keeping my damn hips still.
“You—”
He tightens his grip around my throat, cutting me off. My eyes roll to the back of my head as another moan builds in my chest.
A trip to the shrink isn’t enough. I need to be put down.
I make my muscles go rigid when he tries moving me again, but all it does is make him flush his body against me, dragging his thigh along my pussy so there isn’t an inch of space between us. The simple gesture tells me everything I need to know: I don’t need to comply for him to get me off.
He does it again and again until my body becomes putty in his hands, grinding against him like I’m an animal. The vein in his forehead throbs as he watches me from beneath his heavy lids. I can see him cataloging every minute response and saving them for later—probably to use against me. I fruitlessly try to push him away. I do it partly for show and to assure myself that I tried.
“Fuck you,” I manage to breathe out of my burning lungs, grinding up and down his thigh.
His hot breath fans my ear as he roughly nuzzles the side of my face, tilting it so he has better access.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it, Blaze. You’re looking at me like you hate me, but you’re riding me like you love me.”
The deep cadence of his voice sends a shot of liquid fire straight to my core, and I press myself harder against him with the next grind. The sound of his harsh breath is nearly muted from the blood rushing through my ears.
Stars dance behind my vision as I try to push him away. We both know I could make it happen if I really wanted him to stop. I’ve kneed him in the balls plenty of times. Mostly, he knows just as well as I do that if he keeps going, I will make an even bigger mess of his jeans.
The fingers gripping my hips dip beneath my panties and dig into my ass, holding it like he’s about to fall off a cliff. A barely noticeable sound rumbles at the back of his throat when he skims my soaked center, and my eyelashes flutter. The combination of sound and touch forces me to bite my lip to keep from whimpering for more.
He rakes his teeth along my jaw, eliciting a shudder. “You don’t want to be good. You don’t want to be broken. You want to be loud and mouthy because you want someone to notice you. You want to choose when to hand over control, and it makes your pussy wet that it’s me making all the decisions.”
A muffled groan is the only response I can give him. It’s becoming impossible to keep my eyes open to watch how he looks at me. It’s even more impossible to hold my body up on my own. I need to tap out or get him to ease his grip. Somehow, I know he’d do it if I gave his arm the slightest nudge. Except I can’t bring myself to do it.
If I tap out, he wins. If he lets go, I lose the headiness I itch for every time I look for my next hit. The blood rushing through my ears, the slowed thoughts, the fuzzy vision. A part of me—some sick, twisted part of me—wants to see how far he’ll take it. Whether I’ll pass out and wake up to his lips around my nipple or my underwear pushed to the side as he lines us up.
