Page 25 of Power Play
He's taller than me, so I'm glaring up at him. But in an instant, his grin turns from predatory to satisfied. I frown, confused.
That is, until I feel his hands on my hips, holding my lower half against him. That's when I realize. He isn't doing this to hurt me. He wants a reaction out of me, a fire. He wants to see me come alive.
The anger melts into confusion.
I'm about to ask him what the hell he was thinking when he curses lowly. "Fuck, Lace."
He grips my face in his hands and presses his lips to mine in a hungry, desperate kiss. I'm stunned. But still kind of pissed at him. I don't give a shit what game he's playing to get me to crack, he still said some hurtful things and I haven't forgiven him.
Our teeth clash as I kiss him back. Both of us seem angry, out of control. A wildfire about to burn us both.
I shove my hand down his pants roughly, not caring if I hurt him. "Is this what I have to do to shut you up?" I growl against his lips. He's hard in my hand and I squeeze him mercilessly. I'm aware I'm wet and wanting, but I'm more angry than anything. I want to punish him the way he punished me.
His hand snakes up my shirt, and he palms my breasts roughly before pinching my nipple painfully. Unfortunately for him, I fucking love it.
But I don't give him the satisfaction of a moan.
I undo and pull off his belt, throwing it to the side before unzipping his pants and tugging them down just enough I can free his cock. I stroke it once, roughly, before gripping his balls hard in my hand. I could hurt them, I could twist them, I could fucking bring him to his knees. And while I want to punish him, I'm not that heartless.
"Are you wet for me?" He groans against my neck.
"Fuck off." I spit back, still full of rage.
He chuckles and shakes his head before biting me, hard, on the shoulder.
"I fucking hate you," I reply, knowing deep down it's a lie. I hate the way he's treated me. And I hate the conflicting feelings I haveabout him. But I don't hate him. He's shown me enough to know there's a good guy lurking under all this ‘fuck you’ asshole persona.
"No, you don't," he replies.
Blind with angry lust, I lift my leg and wrap it around his hip. I never understood hate fucking until now. The line between love and hate is thin, or so they say. Right now, the line between punching him and fucking his brains out is thin. But an orgasm promises to at least help me forget about this awful day.
He spins us, pinning my back against the wall, the hand bar digging painfully into my ass.
He pulls a condom from his back pocket, because of course he has one there. He covers himself and tugs down my scrubs - which fucking hurts because they're tied at the waist - before thrusting himself home. I'd like to think he didn't give me a chance to think about it, but that's a lie. I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about the pros and cons. I didn't want to think about whether I should or shouldn't fuck Jonesy in an elevator. I didn't want to think at all. It takes several seconds to put on a condom and pull down my scrubs and shove my panties aside. If I didn't say no, that's on me.
The only thing I know is that I trust him. He may act like an asshole, but he isn't one. And I do trust him with my body.
Because when he enters me, all the anger, all the noise, all the shittiness of the day, just evaporates. I'm not Lacey Bennet, the new physical therapist for the Titans. I'm not Lacey, Tracey's less impressive twin. I'm not Lacey, my parents' biggest disappointment. I'm nothing at all but blinding pleasure.
He closes his eyes and grunts as he thrusts into me at a punishing pace. I meet him thrust for thrust, though, digging my nails into his shoulders, fucking myself on his cock just as much as he's fucking me.
I expected this. Namely, faceless fucking. I'm nothing better than any of themanybunnies he's been with. I just so happened to walk by at two AM while he was alone and drinking.
But I don't fucking care. I'm using him as much as he's using me.
Until he comes.
When he comes, he opens his eyes and holds my face in his hands, whispering my name.
A sob and a tear threaten to break free, but my own orgasm is still rolling through me, so I focus on that. I don't want to think about what it means. Jonesy and I had hot, angry elevator sex. And we're done.
He pulls out and tucks himself in, still wearing the condom, while I fix my scrub pants.
I hit the emergency button again, and a second later, we're on my floor.
Talk about fucking awkward. Do I thank him? Tell him to fuck off?
"That will never happen again," I grumble. Yeah, my brain's still drunk on lust.
