Page 45 of Arrogant and Merciless

Yes, there’s not an ounce of logic in that statement, but all I know is that until we’re done, Taylor is mine.

I showed up at her place like a madman. Didn’t even try her phone. I wanted to see her face when I told her I knew she’d been meeting my father behind my back. Sure, there was a chance she wouldn’t be there, but I couldn’t believe Taylor would actually go out with him after spending the last few days in my bed.

I came determined to get the truth. I wanted to look into her eyes as I asked what the hell he was doing coming after her. But the moment I saw her, reason slipped away. All I could see was the woman who’d moaned my name, the one I’d kept trapped in my arms these last two nights.

I saw those lips—no one will convince me they aren’t mine—begging to be kissed, and then, as always happens when we’re inches apart, logic gave way to hunger. Passion outstripped anger and jealousy, shoved to the sidelines by lust.

“How’d you know I was already home?”

“I went to pick you up at the bar.”

She opens and closes her mouth, but instead of asking why I came looking for her when we hadn’t planned anything, she steps inside her apartment without a backward glance, as though she’s certain I’ll follow—which, of course, she’s right about.

The sense that I’m losing control over who I am drives me to my limits; Taylor barely shuts the door before I pin her against it and kiss her.

When it comes to this woman, conversation is dangerous. I don’t want to complicate matters; I’d rather focus on what I can handle: the insane lust she stirs in me.

When I capture her mouth, kissing her like a soldier back from war who hasn’t seen his lover in years, she not only accepts but welcomes my madness.

I tug up her dress, and her panties crumble in my fingers as I rip them like tissue. I lift her in my arms, forcing her to lock her thighs around my waist.

“Hold on to me.” I wait for her arms to circle my neck, then open my pants, whip a condom from my wallet with record speed, and roll it onto my cock.

I touch her pussy and groan with need when I find her soaking from my surprise attack.

“I have to fuck you hard, but I don’t want to hurt you. Tell me if it hurts?”

“You’d never hurt me,” she says, repeating the phrase she used the first time I had her.

“Not on purpose, no.”

“Never?”

“Your body, never.”

“What else, then?”

I pause, teasing her entrance a few times with my tip before plunging into her molten heat. “I’ve been honest with you from the start. I expect the same,” I say, as though that’s a complete explanation.

Anger flares again, but I don’t want to think about that bastard right now. I lose myself in her body, focused only on our pleasure. She yields entirely, showing me with every thrust that our connection was no illusion. It’s real.

Taylor is my most delicious fantasy. I’ve never felt such desire for a woman. She doesn’t speak; she just lets me take her, kissing and biting my neck, tearing off some buttons from my shirt.

That she gives herself without demanding anything should be a relief, but it only adds to my confusion. She takes just as much from me as I demand from her, devouring me with the same hunger with which I fuck her. The sex is rough, intense; our bodies don’t want gentleness—they want satiation.

When climax hits, savage and simultaneous, I keep her clutched to me, my face buried in her neck.

“I expect the same,” I repeat.

“What?”

I lower her slowly, and after adjusting her dress, I close my pants. I don’t back off an inch; I stand there gazing at her, pressed to the door, eyes still bright from her orgasm, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from my kisses. “I’ve played fair with you. I expect the same.”

“What are you talking about?”

I pull out my phone from my suit jacket and show her the pictures I snapped of the waiter’s screen. And just like the first time, anger surges back when I see my father touching her.

She stares at the photos in silence for a few seconds before lifting her gaze to meet mine. “What does this mean?” she finally asks.

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