There’s a chance she dressed like this because she’s going out later.
There’s a bigger chance she dressed like this for me.
She doesn’t answer.
“Please tell me you’re not meeting up with Mushroom Dick again.” I laugh through my nose. “Because you can do a hell of a lot better than that.”
“What are you doing, Bennett? What is this?” She studies me, jaw clenched, baby blue gaze cutting through the space between us. “Are you trying to be charming? Are you trying to make amends? What do you want from me?”
“Don’t worry about what I want. This isn’t about me,” I lie.
Kind of.
This is about both of us.
I have something she wants. She has something I want.
It’s a zero-sum game we’re playing, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.
A win for me … is a win for her.
Astaire gathers a hard breath before letting it go. “I don’t have time for this, Bennett. Tell me what you really want or I’m leaving.”
“I want you to be angry with me,” I say without pause. “I want you to tell me how you really feel. I’ve said some terrible things to you. Treated you unkindly. I want you to feel all the things you never let yourself feel because you’re too busy being high on life. So go ahead, Astaire. Hate me. Tell me exactly what you think of me.”
“What? No.” Her arms fold across her chest.
“I was cruel to you. Beyond cruel. You shared personal things with me and in turn, I insulted you. You have every reason to detest me. And you should.”
“It was a misunderstanding. I’m not going to hate you for that.” There’s misplaced gentleness in her eyes; gentleness I don’t deserve.
“You see, that’s your problem, Astaire.” I take a sip. “You’re much too soft in a world full of jagged edges.”
The innocence in her eyes reminds me of a much younger Larissa.
So full of hope and unshakable optimism.
This life eats people like them for breakfast.
“I disagree. I think the world is soft and people like you are the jagged edges. You go around cutting and destroying all the good.” She’s pointing at me. This is good. It’s a start.
“Clearly you’re annoyed with me. Why not take it a step further?” I move closer, helping myself to one of her angelic blonde waves before letting it fall to her shoulder. Inhaling her sweet scent, I add, “Life has dealt you a shitty hand, Astaire.”
“And your point?”
“It isn’t healthy to bottle all that rage.”
“It is when there’s no rage to be bottled.” She doesn’t miss a beat. Could be it’s a line she practices out loud to herself in front of the mirror at home until she believes it.
“It doesn’t make you angry that your parents loved drugs more than you? That no one wanted to adopt you until you were fourteen? That the woman who finally adopted you had a handful of good years with you before she was taken from this earth? That you met the man of your dreams, only to lose him in a freak car accident mere months before your wedding? None of that makes you angry?”
Her bottom lip quakes. I’m getting through. Making progress.
Pushing her exactly where I want her to go.
“I didn’t come here to rehash my past.” She won’t look at me. Her chest rises and falls with staccato breaths.
“Get mad, Astaire.” I move closer.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Take it out on me.” Closer yet. Nothing separates our mouths but a few inches of thick, ripe tension.
“I’m done here.” She moves, slinking past me.
I manage to catch her by the wrist and guide her back, gentle enough so she knows I’m not forcing her to stay.
She’s free to go, but I want her to hear me out.
She needs to hear me out.
“When life kicks you when you’re down, fight back. Don’t lie there and take it,” I say. “Don’t feed yourself some bumper sticker mantra that makes you feel better for all of ten seconds.”
“So I should just be heartless and miserable all the time?”
“Not all the time—sometimes.”
“I’m happy, Bennett.” Her attempt at a convincing tone is a joke, an insult to both of us. “I don’t want to be like you.”
“Sometimes we don’t have a choice. Sometimes we do what we have to do.”
Her chest lifts and falls as our eyes hold, and I narrow the distance between us, my fingertips grazing her delicate jawline.
I know what happens when you keep the darkness in. One day it forces its way out, darker, angrier than ever before. And there’s no telling what it makes you do.
I crush her pomegranate mouth with a kiss and pull her against me.
Flames lick the interior of the fireplace beside us and behind us, city nights twinkle.
Astaire kisses me back, gasping for air but refusing to come up for it as we stumble backwards and sink into the leather sofa cushions. I pull her into my lap, her thighs straddling me as she grinds against me, kisses so hard and determined they hurt—the best kind.
I all but tear her sweater off of her and she lowers her mouth to mine again, her hands working my waistband, slipping beneath my boxers, palming my cock as it grows harder for her by the second.
The magnetism between us is potent, dangerous.
A strange, inner excitement floods my veins before charging into explosive currents.
She grinds against me, and I slip my fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans before flicking the button and tugging the zipper.
Her mouth collides with mine again, this time more tongue than teeth, but when she reaches for my shirt, I capture her hands.
“Shirt stays on.” I move for her bra, unclasping the hook and tugging it down her goose-flesh-covered arms.
I’m not ashamed of my scar, but it tends to detract from the heat of the moment—especially with the sympathetic, heart-of-gold types. I don’t want Astaire to ask questions, to pity me—I want her to ride my cock and not worry if I’m going to have a massive coronary at thirty years old.
Her fiery lips skim mine and she makes a subtle move for my shirt again, and again, I redirect her attentions … elsewhere … in the form of my fingers slipping beneath the soaked gusset of her lace panties. I slide them between her warm, wet pussy lips before plunging two of them inside her.
Tossing her head back, she exhales, body quivering and mouth curling up at the sides—pure bliss with a hint of throttled madness.
Sliding my fingers from her, I bring them to her mouth, inviting her to taste what I’m doing to her … the sweet torture, the conflicted arousal of wanting the very person who makes your blood boil.
“I want you there,” I point to the end of the sofa. “Bent over.”
Her eyes soften, confusion perhaps.
My body aches for her.
Overthinking and second-guessing have no part in this.
“I’m going to fuck you from behind, Astaire,” I spell it out for her. “I want you to feel all of me. Every last fucking inch, all the way to the deepest parts of you.”
She hesitates.
“What? You thought I was going to fuck you missionary-style? Look into your eyes and tell you how beautiful you are while we both pretend this isn’t just sex?” I exhale.