Page 88 of Hard to Judge

“Why are you here?” My voice is quiet. Too quiet.

“I’ve tried to give you time, but we need to talk.”

“Talk?” Is he for real? I want to sling him through windows for dicking me around. Besides…

“Where’s Hailey?” I snap.

If we’re talking, shouldn’t she be involved?

He stands. “She’s with Hard.”

This asshole may as well have punched me in the face. I’ve never been particularly possessive over someone. I couldn’t be possessive with Arlo. He’s never truly been mine.

It makes no sense that I’m feeling a certain kind of way about Hailey. She’s not mine either. But in the dim room at Crave, she felt like mine.

“Wow!” I laugh with zero fucking humor. “You really are turning her out, aren’t you?”

One second I’m upright, losing my shit. The next, the room is tilting, and my back meets the floor with a thud.

Did he just hit me? I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I don’t feel the sting of my jaw or the pounding in my head, though. Then it hits me like a bullet.

He rolled me.

“Oh, fuck that.” I hook the leg he has wrapped around mine with my ankle and prepare to escape.

“I plan to,” he growls above me.

I can’t see his face. He has me in a fucking pretzel. Me, the guy who used to wrestle and be pretty damn good at it.

His hips flex, and he rubs the hard girth of his cock on my thigh.

Like an animal, I roar and launch my counterattack.

The fucker is ready. He uses my anger against me, barring my every attempt to roll him off me.

And there are many.

Our muscles bunch. We grunt and grab. I curse. He chuckles.

“I swear to fucking god,” I bellow between heaved breaths.

“You will be, swearing to fucking god.” Arlo’s hand comes around my throat. He levers over me, pinning his weight to my windpipe. “And that fucking god will be me.”

My head swims, and it’s only partially the constriction of my windpipe. Mostly, it’s the excess blood flow to my dick.

His legs pin my arms to the floor. His weight barely keeps my torso still. At this angle, my legs are pretty useless. They’re noodles from fighting for the top and losing over and over again.

Arlo jerks my tie. Slowly, he works it off my neck.

Sweat beads on his forehead. It soaks his hair and drips onto my face. His white shirt is worthy of a wet T-shirt contest. I’m sure mine’s no better. I can barely fucking breathe betweenexertion and his hand, which is giving my dick a run for its money, and it’s nowhere near it.

“Get the fuck off me.” I plant my feet and drive my hips up.

It just presses his knees into my forearms more, sealing off what little circulation they had.

“I’ll get off in you.” He jerks my tie free.

“Arlo,” I snarl.

---