170
I sit waiting with bated breath for what feels like an eternity, extreme anxiety coursing through me. Finally, the door opens, and voices come into the apartment. There seem to be two or three, and I can’t tell if any are Jake. I wait and listen. A male laugh that sounds like Daniel, and possibly Arrick too, and then I hear Jake’s voice, low and husky, and my heart constricts with relief.
The bedroom door opens almost instantly, and he sticks his head around sheepishly, his brows furrowed as he locks eyes with me like a child about to meet the principal. There’s no evidence of any fighting on him at all, no messy face or mussed hair, no torn clothing. I look away from him, conflicting emotions rising in my throat, relief and anger. I want to cry suddenly now that he’s finally here and safe.
He walks toward me; As he gets closer, I can smell the outside air from his clothes and the faint smells of nightclub and a lot of alcohol.
“You still mad at me, Bambina?” he asks. He has my coat and bag in hand and throws them onto the chair in the corner. He slides across the bed and gently pulls my legs out from under me so he can lay me flat. I ignore him, looking away still as my body starts to slide down with his maneuvering. “Don’t do that, dolcezza.” He removes my hand from my hair, followed by a tug on my chin to make me stop chewing my lip. He’s being gentle and cautious, with wariness in his voice. He slides over me, resting a knee between my legs, his weight on his arms so he’s above me and looking down.
I stay steady with my head turned to one side, fighting the urge to cry, fighting the urge to curl up into his body. I want to search his face and body for signs of injury. Still, overwhelming emotions bubbling chaotically inside make me stone cold, like old Emma would be, leaving a blank expression and icy demeanor.
“I see through this, you know,” he breathes, leaning in to touch his lips against my cheek, his nose tracing gently across my skin, igniting familiar flutterings and crazy tingles. I close my eyes so he doesn’t see any hint of a response. “The silent treatment, huh?” He kisses my neck gently, trailing down to the collar of my shirt. One of his hands slides up under the hem, skin on skin, across my abdomen, and up to my breast, slowly and surely. I hold my breath, biting my inner lip to quell any noise that may come out involuntarily. I can’t just give in to him and let him think his behavior is acceptable.
“I can make you respond, Emma … I know you better than you think,” he whispers, with still a drunken slur to his voice and the overwhelming fumes of alcohol seeping from him. He starts gently sucking my ear lobe, his hand still moving over my breast; his fingers stop over my hardening nipple as he smiles against my ear, “Doesn’t take much.” He leans against me, lifting my shirt and putting his mouth there instead. I flinch as desire courses through me, my body dying to turn and wrap around him.
I hold myself steady, trying to find that anger and hold onto it, angry at myself for being so weak when it comes to him and mad at him for thinking all it takes is a slow seduction, and I’m won over. His hand moves and trails down toward my underwear, skimming the waistline suggestively before sliding inside, his fingertips moving to my core slowly and finding it more than willing.
“See.” He stops his assault on my nipples and concentrates on the apex of my thighs instead. I bite my lip hard to kill the moan that threatens to erupt; his teasing is working, but I’m not ready to back down yet.
I can do this: I can fight Carrero’s charm.
He leans down low to my navel and licks my abdomen suggestively. My pulse quickens, desire coursing, and I hope his mouth moves further south, hating my weakness against his advances, but he stops suddenly and jumps up from the bed, walking off.
Turning at the door, he says, “I’m not going to rape my girlfriend, Emma. Come find me when you get over it.” With a smirk, he pulls the door shut, walking off toward the low hum of male voices in the living room. It’s like a slap, and my rage reignites fully. Grabbing the nearest thing to me, I throw it hard at the door with a vengeance. The hard-back book Jake’s been reading hits it with a loud thump before dropping to the floor amid a flutter of pages in a dramatic fashion.
I jump out of bed, storm to the bathroom, holding back the tears, and slam the door shut, locking it tight before sitting down on the fluffy bathmat and crying my eyes out.
I’ve no idea what the hell is wrong with me, this overwhelming need to be angry at him, to punish him, and now this broken heart because he refused to play my game.
I’m a crazy bundle of emotions that don’t relate to one another, probably still more drunk than I realize, with an overwhelming need to hit something hard. The bathroom door handle moves a little, startling me, then stops, then again as he tests that I have locked it before it stills, his footsteps moving away. I wait and watch, unsure if I want to see him, but then that rage erupts again because he didn’t even try to coax me out to talk to him.
Jake always pursues and wins me around; it’s one of his most infuriating qualities. He never lets things lie and always pushes me to open up. So why not tonight? Why is he being an asshole and acting like I don’t matter?
Wiping my face dry with rage, I get up, unlatch the door, and storm into the bedroom surprised to see him standing there waiting for me with folded arms. His eyes meet mine with a hint of triumph, which only annoys me further.
Damn him for always anticipating my next move.
“So, she’s in a temper tonight. Drunk, horny, and angry. Interesting combo for my beautiful little hellcat.” He tilts his head, watching me. “Poor book didn’t much like meeting the door, though,” he shrugs in amusement.
I glare at him frostily, tilting my chin up, and march toward the bed to make a show of how pissed I am. He catches my arm, tugging me to him abruptly. Putting both hands around my upper arms, he leans down to kiss me, his mouth finding mine soft, betraying my weakness. My senses snap back into focus, and I viciously bite him on the lower lip. He moves back in surprise, his hand coming to his mouth for a second, a frown enveloping his face, and then he tightens his hold on my arms, tugging me toward him and kissing me again. This time it’s harder; I respond greedily and bite him again as fury surges in front of lust. This time it’s done with more intent as I feel a rush of something inside me; he clutches me tightly and tosses me back on the bed.
For a moment, I think he’s going to storm out, but he doesn’t; he follows me slowly, climbing on top of me, catching my hands and pinning them by my head, and staring at me in a calculated way. I struggle and fight him off, unable to tear my eyes away from his gaze. His pupils widen with lust and something terrifying, a look he’s never given me. I’m not sure if he wants to kiss me or hit me. I struggle weakly, but he has me expertly pinned down.
His lip is red where I bit him, and the urge to soothe it comes from nowhere. I reach my head up mid-fight and suck it, gaining a groan from him, pushing me further. With confusion ripping through my mind at my inability to pick a mood and stick with it and angry at myself for being weak, I bite him again. He pulls back harshly and aggressively forces my arms above my head so I can no longer move my upper body. I bring my knee up impulsively, but his leg pins me down swiftly, anticipating it.
“So, she wants to fuck, but she also wants to fight, huh?” he growls, gazing at me wolfishly, a smirk moving across his face. “If you want angry sex, baby, all you need to do is ask … I’m all yours.” He moves down, nibbling my neck, aware that I can’t fight him off. All I can do is glare at him.
Do I want him to have sex with me while feeling this way? Yes. The desire building within me threatens to explode if he doesn’t take me like he can’t control it. This is what I need, an extreme reaction from him, to take me as though he’s in no control anymore, even if I’m fighting him. Heal the wounds his fighting over Marissa has left me with.
It’s what I want. It shocks me that after everything in my life, every man who ever tried to force himself on me, I want him to do this to me. He’s right, though; the thrill of what he’s suggesting has me writhing and arching my body in wanton desire, almost begging him to take me with force. I’ve so much anger and aggression within me tonight, and it needs release. This endless need to have Jake forcefully take me must have deeper emotional roots, but I don’t care. Whatever messed-up part of me switches this on is beyond my comprehension, and I don’t want to begin analyzing it. Letting go of me suddenly, he sits up, releasing my legs and arms and moving away from me, giving me space.
His eyes meet mine.
“One little word, Emma, and I quit, okay? Just say stop, and I’ll leave you alone.” He looks at me differently, apprehension in his eyes for a moment, his voice unsure.
I steel my gaze, lift my hands and shove him hard, so he falls onto his back beside me. Swiftly moving to straddle him, I yank up his shirt, exposing flawless perfection, and rake my nails down his chest with every ounce of venom I can muster. Releasing my anger in a very satisfying way, I watch him flinch and bite his lip at the pain.
This is what I need.
A grin breaks across his face; he grabs me by the hips and throws me back down on the bed, jumping over me once more into a dominant position.
“Game on, baby,” he mutters, coming in for a crushing kiss, starting something he excels at. Games are Jake’s forte and his weakness when it comes to sex; he can flip it like a switch.
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