Chapter Twelve #2
“Your things.” She laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. “Everything is yours. This penthouse. My clothes. My schedule. My life. My fucking privacy all these years --”
She twisted suddenly, using her whole body as leverage, and I had to shift my stance to maintain my grip. Her heel came down hard on my foot -- would have crushed bones if I hadn’t been wearing shoes with reinforced toes. As it was, I felt the impact but no real pain.
“Nice try.” I spun her around, her back against my chest now, both her wrists crossed and held in one of my hands.
“But I’ve been trained to restrain people who actually know how to fight.
And I don’t mean the little tricks your father taught you.
I mean actual training. You’re going to have to do better than that. ”
She slammed her head backward, trying to catch my face. I moved just enough that she hit my shoulder instead. Then she kicked backward with her foot, using enough force that we both stumbled. The side table caught my hip and tipped, sending books and a vase crashing to the floor.
“Fuck your training.” She was panting now, her body pressed against mine in a way that was doing things to my control I absolutely couldn’t afford. “Fuck your restraint. Fuck your years of stalking --”
I released her wrists and shoved her toward the wall, needing distance before my body betrayed what this struggle was doing to me.
She caught herself against the plaster, spun to face me, and grabbed the decorative pillow from the chair.
Tore it in half with a violence that seemed impossible for silk and feathers.
The stuffing exploded around us like snow.
“That’s what I think of your control,” she spat, already reaching for another pillow. “Your plans. Your obsession --”
I crossed the space between us in two strides and caught her hands again, this time pressing her back against the wall with my body weight. The second pillow dropped, forgotten, as I pinned her there with my hips against hers, my hands securing both her wrists above her head.
“Are you done?” I asked quietly.
“No.” But her voice had changed. Less rage. More something else. Something I recognized because I was feeling it too -- the way violence and desire were bleeding together until they became indistinguishable. “I’m not done. I’ll never be done --”
She yanked one wrist free -- I’d let my grip loosen, a mistake -- and her nails raked down my face hard enough to draw blood. I felt the sting, felt something warm trickle down my cheek. Instead of anger, I felt satisfaction. She’d marked me. Claimed me the same way I’d been claiming her.
“Better.” I caught her hand again, but not before she’d gotten her other hand into my shirt, tearing fabric. Buttons scattered across the floor. “But still not good enough.”
She was breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling against mine. I could feel her heartbeat racing, matching my own elevated pulse. Her pupils were dilated, her lips parted, her skin flushed with exertion and, as much as she’d never admit it, a hint of desire.
“I hate you.” The words came out without conviction.
“I know.” I shifted my grip, securing both wrists in one hand again so I could use my free hand to cup her jaw. Blood from the scratches on my face dripped onto her neck. “But you want me anyway. I can feel it. Your body’s responding even while your mouth spits insults.”
“That’s not…” She tried to turn her face away, but I held her steady.
“It is.” My thumb traced her lower lip, felt it tremble. “You can lie to yourself if you want. But your body doesn’t lie. Your pulse is racing. Your breathing’s shallow. You’re wet -- I can smell your arousal even over the rage.”
She made a sound that was half denial, half something else. Her body arched against mine involuntarily, and I felt the movement all through my core.
“You’re insane,” she said again, but the words had lost their edge.
“We’ve established that.” I released her wrists and stepped back, needing to prove to both of us that I still had some control. “But you knew what I was when you agreed to marry me. Knew I wouldn’t be safe or easy or comfortable. You just didn’t know the full extent of it.”
She stared at me, her wrists red from where I’d held them, her dress torn at the shoulder from our struggle. Around us, the bedroom looked like a war zone. Broken mirror. Shattered lamp. Water stains. A torn pillow bleeding feathers. Scattered books and buttons and broken glass.
We’d destroyed it together.
“I want a divorce.” But she didn’t move toward the door. Didn’t try to leave. Just stood there against the wall, her chest heaving, her eyes on mine.
“No, you don’t.” I moved closer again, drawn by something I couldn’t name and couldn’t resist. “You want this to be simple. Want me to be the villain you can righteously hate. But it’s not that easy. Nothing about us is that easy.”
“Because you made it complicated.” Her hands came up to my chest, and I couldn’t tell if she was going to push me away or pull me closer. “You took something that could have been a clean business arrangement and turned it into this -- this obsession --”
“It was always an obsession.” My hands found her waist, pulling her against me. “From the first moment I saw you. I just hid it better than you’re giving me credit for.”
Her fingers curled into my torn shirt, and I saw the moment her anger transformed into something darker. Something that matched what I’d been feeling since the moment she’d thrown that lamp.
“I still hate you,” she whispered.
“I know.” I leaned down until my mouth was inches from hers. “Hate me while I fuck you. Hate me while you come. Hate me while you admit that you need this as much as I do.”
Her breath caught. For three heartbeats we stayed frozen, teetering on the edge of something that would change everything.
Then she yanked my head down and kissed me.
The kiss was far from tender. Her mouth crashed against mine with the same violence she’d used throwing the lamp, her teeth catching my lower lip hard enough to make me taste copper.
I didn’t gentle it. Didn’t try to slow her down or make this something it wasn’t.
I kissed her back with three years of waiting, three years of watching, three years of wanting compressed into the press of lips and tongue and teeth.
My hands found the zipper of her dress -- the emerald green one I’d chosen this morning -- and pulled it down with force that tore the delicate fabric.
She didn’t protest. Just yanked at my already-ruined shirt until more buttons scattered across the floor.
Her nails found my chest, raking down hard enough to leave marks that would last days.
“You want to mark me?” I broke the kiss long enough to get the words out. “Do it. Show everyone I’m yours the same way you’re mine.”
She did. Her teeth found my shoulder, biting hard enough that I groaned. The pain mixed with pleasure until I couldn’t separate them. Couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
I pulled her dress down her body with movements that were more tearing than undressing.
She kicked off her heels and they hit the wall with sharp cracks.
My hands found her breasts through the lace of her bra -- black, expensive, something I’d bought for her -- and I squeezed hard enough to make her gasp.
“Fuck you,” she panted against my mouth.
“That’s the plan.” I unclasped her bra with practiced efficiency, threw it aside, filled my hands with her bare flesh. Her nipples were hard against my palms, her skin hot beneath my fingers. “But first, I’m going to make you admit you want this.”
“I don’t --”
I pushed her backward and she fell onto the bed, landing among the pillows and scattered feathers.
I followed her down, covering her body with mine, pinning her to the mattress with my weight.
My mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast. I bit down on the sensitive skin just above her nipple and felt her body arch beneath me.
“Liar.” I moved lower, trailing kisses and bites down her stomach. “Your body’s screaming the truth even when your mouth won’t.”
I hooked my fingers in her panties -- matching black lace -- and tore them away. She made a sound of protest that transformed into a moan when my hand found her center, confirming what I already knew. She was soaked. Desperate. Everything she claimed she wasn’t.
“You’re dripping for me.” I pushed two fingers inside her and felt her clench around them. “For years I’ve waited to feel this. To know what you feel like when you want me.”
“I don’t --” But the words broke off into a gasp when I curled my fingers, finding the spot that made her hips lift off the bed.
“You do.” I worked her with methodical precision, the same way I’d learned her body in our previous encounters. But this was different. This was her choosing it even while hating that she was choosing it. “And you’re going to come on my fingers while admitting it.”
She grabbed a pillow and pressed it to her face, trying to muffle the sounds escaping her throat. I pulled it away with my free hand and threw it across the room.
“No hiding.” My thumb found her clit, circling with the exact pressure I’d learned she needed. “I want to hear every sound. See every expression. Know exactly what I do to you.”
Her hands found my back, her nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. I felt the sting and the wetness and the satisfaction of being marked by her again. We were destroying each other with the same intensity we’d destroyed the bedroom.
I worked her higher, watching her face as the pleasure built. She fought it. Tried to resist the orgasm I was forcing on her. But her body betrayed every attempt at control, her inner muscles fluttering around my fingers, her breathing going ragged.
“Come for me.” I leaned down and bit her breast hard enough to leave a mark. “Show me you’re mine.”
She shattered with a cry that was half rage, half surrender. I felt her clench around my fingers, felt her body arch and shake, watched her face transform with the force of the orgasm she’d tried so hard to resist.
Before she’d finished, I was positioning myself, pushing my pants down just enough to free myself. She was still shaking when I pushed inside her, filling her in one deep thrust that made us both groan.
“Fuck.” The word escaped her as I bottomed out, as deep as I could go.
“Yes.” I pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in. “That’s exactly what this is.”
I set a punishing rhythm, each thrust claiming her completely.
Her legs wrapped around my waist, her nails in my back, her mouth finding mine in kisses that were more violence than affection.
We moved together like we were fighting, like we were trying to hurt each other, like we were expressing something that had no words.
The bed scraped against the floor with each thrust. Something else crashed -- maybe another lamp, maybe a picture frame. I didn’t care. All I cared about was the woman beneath me, the way she felt wrapped around me, the sounds she was making despite trying to stay quiet.
“I hate you,” she panted against my mouth.
“I know.” I changed the angle, hitting the spot inside her that made her cry out. “Hate me while I make you come again.”
My hand found her clit, working it in time with my thrusts. She was already close -- I could feel it in how her body was tightening, how her breathing was getting more desperate. She fought it again, tried to resist the pleasure I was forcing on her.
“Let go.” I bit her throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark that would be visible tomorrow. “Stop fighting what you need.”
She broke with a scream that I swallowed with my mouth on hers. Her body clenched around me so hard I saw stars, her orgasm triggering my own. I came inside her with a groan, every muscle tensing with the intensity of it.
We collapsed together, both of us breathing hard, both of us covered in marks and blood and sweat. I rolled to the side, pulling her with me so she was tucked against my chest. Her body was still trembling with aftershocks. Mine was too.
The bedroom had certainly seen better days. In addition to the chaos from her tantrum earlier, there was now blood on the sheets from where her nails had torn my back open. Our clothes scattered like evidence.
We’d destroyed everything.
I felt her breathing start to slow, felt her body relax against mine despite everything. My hand traced patterns on her bare shoulder, following the curve of bone beneath skin.
“You can’t escape me,” I said quietly. “You never could.”
She didn’t respond. Just lay there, her face pressed against my chest, her breathing evening out.
I’d told her I loved her. Confessed my obsession with her.
Now it was up to her to decide if she’d accept it. Accept me. Or if we’d continue this fight a while longer.