Page 67 of Undone

“No, Smith.”Her eyes pleaded. She backed up until her butt hit the easel. I grabbed the back of her head as my lips crashed down on hers. I was the surf—angry and proud as I came and went how I wanted.

No one could control me.

Not even this slip of a woman; whose handprint left a block of color on my cut where she pressed against me, in an effort to stop my wave from pulling her under.

She pulled back for air and her palm, covered in paint, smacked my face. I was too stunned to react, so she was able to smack my other cheek.

Anger burned.

So much anger.

For Vasyl.

For us.

For the DOM in me needing to make my mate come to heel.

I grabbed her wrists and pinned them behind her back. I yanked her to me, but she fought like hell not to let me win.

Everything crashed to the floor. The speakers blasting the classical piano came unplugged as the two of us became undone.

She landed on top of me, breathing hard. “I hate you!”

“Then keep hating me, babe.” I grabbed the back of her head forcing it down. She bit my lip. “Jesus, you little wildcat!” She raked my face with her nails, but my beard protected most of my skin from being ripped up.

“I saw you.”

“I know you did. I set you up.”

“ARGGGHHH!” She screamed, pummeling me with her tiny fists. I rolled, trapping her beneath me. Our bodies slid on the paint-covered concrete floor as we battled for dominance. “Just leave me alone! I’m done! Get out!”

I responded by nipping at the spot just below her ear.

“Ow!”

She tried kneeing me in the groin, but I blocked her just in time. I was wild—out of control. The rage that brewed and simmered ever since I saw Vasyl on the ground with a hole in his chest, was ripping me apart and knowing they had targeted my woman—fueled it even further. I needed her to reassure me that she was still here fighting and breathing. Even if the man she was fighting was me.

We rolled ourselves in spilled paint, grabbed at each other; hating and loving one another at the same time. I was angry as hell that I needed her as much as I did. It made me weak and I knew I had given her plenty of reasons to hate me as she clawed at me.

She grabbed my beard and gave it a tug. I answered by biting the spot between her neck and collarbone while my hands molded her butt to the bulge under the fly of my jeans. She cried out in anguish—fists beating me wherever she could reach. “I hate that I still want you—” The rest of her words were lost in my reckless kiss.

She clung to me, her hands roaming wild. Luce was the one to reach between us, unbuckle my belt, unzip my jeans, and pull me out into her hand.

No words were spoken as we went at one another. I tore her shirt to shreds. My hands yanked her jeans to her ankles.

It was hate.

It was love.

The two fought and I wondered which would win.

Kissing.

Sighing.

Stroking.

But I was wrong—lust was the third player in our game. It took over, easily winning it all.

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