10. Penelope
Who does this presumptuous asshole think he is?
His eyes look more green than gray tonight, and that wolfish smile is giving me hot, vaguely unhinged danger vibes. If he even thinks about putting his hands on me I’ll—his lips meet mine with a fierceness that takes my breath away. They’re commanding, and when I roll my lips closed and refuse him entry, he pinches my nipple through my shirt making me squawk. It’s exceedingly ladylike.
Not.
I’m not sure whether that gurgle at the back of my throat is indigestion, frustration, rage, or arousal but he takes it as a sign to do it again.
I push him back with both palms. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Kissing you until you don’t hate me anymore.”
“You could kiss me every day until the day I die, Tate Myers, and I’d still hate you with everything I’ve fucking got.”
He licks his lips. “Let’s find out.” He’s kissing me again, pressing my back against the door to his room, the handle digging into my hip, biting into my skin. His hands skim my body, as it breaks out in a mist of sweat. He’s handling me like I belong to him.
He’s so freakin’ arrogant... privileged... the nerve! The assumption that his tongue in my mouth could wipe away my loathing for him, did he hit himself in the face with his hockey stick after he hit Oli?
He kisses deeper, pressing harder. His tongue lashing against mine like the crack of a whip, a ferocious battle for control taking place between us.
I could stop him.
I could say no. I should say no. I am more than capable of saying no. Despite me being pinned, I know if I stopped things, he’d let me walk. He would. And if for some reason he didn’t, I’d rip his balls from his body and take them with me as a trophy.
I shove him back again.
The guy is a beast. An athlete. He’s strong and toned and powerful. If he wanted to force himself on me, he could.
“Stop.” My voice is as shaky as my legs. I hate that he’s affecting me like this. But what I hate even more is that I want him. At least my body does. My brain wants to impale him on something pointy.
He wipes his bottom lip with the side of his index finger, his eyes full of perilous fire and longing. “Is that what you really want?”
He takes a step back, the silence between us crackling with anticipation and lust. The space he has created between our bodies makes my nipples ache.
I hate that I want him.
I hate that I can’t think straight. It’s like he kissed the common sense out of my body.
When I stay quiet, the cocky fucker smirks. “That’s what I thought.” He cages me in, bracing his hands either side of me against the door. “Give me your mouth, Pitstop.”
“Eat shit, Myers.” I’m hoping the hardness of my voice, the unwavering coolness in my eyes will deter him. And I’m hoping the use of his surname will ground me in the fact I hate him, I hate his family, and I hate everything he stands for.
Except his smirk spreads to a wide smile. “I can’t say eating ass is my favorite.” He tips his head. “But for you...” He jerks his chin. “Bend over, Beautiful.”
That shouldn’t make me wetter. That shouldn’t stoke the fire I’m trying to douse with ice, or cold water, or whatever fire suppressant I can find inside my body.
But it does.
He kisses me again, and I can tell the moment he realizes I’ve given in. My body sags, and he moans in victory against my mouth. “There she is.”
I hate the fact he knows me and my reactions this well, most of all.
When his hand finds its way under my hockey shirt, I hold my breath. While I’ve not seen everyone Tate has slept with over the past year, I’ve seen the puck bunnies my brother fucks. I don’t look like them.
Where they have slim waists, toned arms and legs, and perky tits, I have bulges, rolls, and fat. And while most days I love myself just how I am, and fuck anyone who doesn’t agree because I’m a goddamn delight, in some moments, like this one right here, insecurity threatens to suffocate me as it creeps up my body as though it’s piggy backing on his fingers.
“Easy.” He moans against my neck as though he’s reading my mind, and he kisses me.
This slow and sensual shit isn’t working. I still want to stab him in the jugular with a pen. If he gives me too long to linger on that thought, I might follow through. If this is going to happen, it needs to happen fast. Then I can get him out of my system and move on.
I don’t know why I think that. There’s a voice deep inside me that’s whispering, ‘liar,’ but I squash it down, and push him again.
“Lie down,” he demands.
“The fuck I will. Then I’d have to stare at your ugly face while you fuck me.”
His face really isn’t ugly. He even makes a missing tooth look hot as hell.
His eyes flash like all his Christmases have come at once. My fatal mistake was letting that slip. Now he knows I want him. “Fine. Pants off and bend over.”
When I don’t move, he pulls me over to his bed, turns me so I’m facing the mattress, and stays behind me for a long moment.
I don’t like that I can’t see him, so I try to turn but his firm hand at the base of my spine stops me from moving. The warmth from his hand spreads throughout my whole body.
He jerks my pants down around my ankles, shoves me forward onto the bed, and gropes my ass with both hands.
When I hear the tearing wrapper of a condom, my body freezes. Once he has his dick in me, there’s no turning back. That’s not really true. But it does cross a line.
Sleeping with the enemy. Am I really going to do this?
His fingers slide into my dripping-wet pussy, and the aroused sound that catches in the back of his throat is damn near enough to make me come undone. “So delectably wet for me Pitstop.”
“Are you going to stand there looking at it? Do you not know what to do?” I rear up and look back at him. “Do you need a map?”
When he squeezes my clit between his thumb and finger, the throb reverberates through my whole nervous system, and I yelp.
“I think I know my way around just fine, thank you.” He drags his fingers through my slick arousal. If my pussy could talk it would be purring and asking for more, but I clamp my teeth together and refuse to let him get anything else from my body.
“Get it over with already, asshole.” Hopefully he’ll fuck the anger out of me. Hopefully once he’s done and we’ve both gotten our ‘O’s, all that will remain is indifference. This anger is exhausting, even if he does find it hot.
“Before I can change my mind.” I’m caught up in indecision.
He rams his stiff cock into me with a low growl. “Consent can always be revoked, Pitstop.” He’s thrusting against me, his balls slapping loudly as he pounds my pussy. His cock doesn’t feel particularly big, there are no decorations on it, nothing sharp, or cold, or metal, there are no attachments, but he sure knows what the fuck to do with it.
It seems to curve the right direction too, because every time he thrusts, I see stars as it hounds my g-spot with a relentless cadence.
I drive my hips back, meeting his thrusts with motion of my own so the cock hammering gets harder and harder until he’s snapping at me through gritted teeth. “Fucking come already, Pitstop.”
“Make me.”
“I can’t hang on much longer.”
“Then assert yourself, and get me over the finish line. You don’t want to be the guy who leaves me unsatisfied, right?”
A roar meets my ears as he grips my ass cheeks with both hands and drives into me with such meticulous accuracy it’s impossible to think he’s never been inside me before. The familiar tingle starts in my toes and deep inside my abdomen, as it gets bigger and bigger I bite down on my tongue, my lips, pinch my arms and hands in a bid to hold off for as long as I can.
“Stop fighting me.”
“Never, Satan.”
“Agh.” His stamina is impressive as fuck. The more I fight, the more he pushes until the bubbling becomes a boil. I spread my knees further and relent. I strum my clit for a minute. It’s probably not a minute. I’m soaking, my arousal making it easy for him to pound the shit out of my pussy, but I need to tell myself I’m making it hard for him.
“That’s it. Just let go.”
“Stop fucking talking.”
If he shuts up, I can pretend it’s someone else fucking me. Someone I don’t want to garrote with his own sock.
“Shut up and take it.”
Something about his unhinged bark at me pushes me over the edge. My muscles clench, my pussy explodes into a musical rainbow as choruses of angels sing me through my release.
Fuck. I grit my teeth. I’m not going to let him know what he does to me.
He chuckles. “So fucking stubborn.” He grunts, nutting into me, his cock swelling, pressing against my constricting inner walls. When he stills, we’re both gasping for breath. My legs are trembling so hard that if I wasn’t kneeling on the bed, I’d have fallen on my ass, or face. My arms are struggling to hold my weight, threatening to buckle under the exertion.
I wait for the relief to hit, the indifference, the hate-fire to get put out by his cum as though that’s the magic fire suppressant I’ve been waiting for. But, as he softens inside me, no emotional relief comes. The hate is still there, and it’s being bigged-up by a crippling dose of self-loathing.
What the fuck did I just do?
I don’t have long to mull, he pulls out of me, and there’s a snap of latex as he ties off the condom and shuffles to the trashcan to my right. “What’s this?”
Oh, no.
From the small table next to the door, he picks up the white, nondescript cardboard cylinder I mailed to him and looks at it. He turns it over in his hand.
“I need to get out of here.” I stand up, pull my pants up, and turn wordlessly toward the door.
“Wait.”
I pause.
“Is this from you? The handwriting looks the same as your note the other day.”
I shake my head and make a beeline for the door, but he beats me to it, blocking my exit.
“Wait up, hell spawn. Let’s open this together.”
No, no. Let’s not. Let’s definitely not.
Something on my face must give it away. I know the contents of the tube, and now he won’t let me go, or back down.
I meet his eyes. “Don’t.”
“I think I will.” He slides his nails under the cap.
I shake my head, hissing out a breath as my eyes flutter closed. “I hate you.”
“What’s the matter, Pitstop? What’s in the tube?”
I don’t answer, instead I purse my lips and flare my nostrils. Meeting his curious gaze with a steady stare of my own.
“Alright.” He winks. “We go down together.”
I shriek as his fingers twitch, and throw up my hands to cover my face even though I know it’s a fruitless endeavor.
“Confetti cannon?” He shakes it. “Glitter dicks?”
I say nothing.
“Fine. Let’s figure this out the hard way.” He yanks open the tube, and the glitter bomb explodes with a pop and a blinding flash of tiny pieces of glitter.
There’s no escaping it.
I’m covered, he’s covered, the whole room has a pink and gold haze of speckled sparkles.
When the sparkly mist settles, he blows out a breath, but there’s so much glitter on his lips it looks like he’s going to a Lady Gaga concert.
His eyes narrow, his eyelids matching his pretty lips. It’s going to take months to get that shit out of his hair, his clothes, his skin, his fucking lungs. I can’t help smiling, even though I know I’ll have the same issue. We’re both covered.
He shakes his head, making a fresh dusting of glitter float into the air. “You’re going down, Pitstop.”
“Bring it on, Satan.”