By the time that ride ended, I felt like I'd been locked with a keg of dynamite and a smoldering wick that sucked all the air from the tiny room. I wanted that keg to explode, blow the doors off, let me breathe. Because if Gabriel didn't vent his frustration, then slamming a door or cursing would make me seem selfish.
Look at me. I'm pissed off and I'm frustrated and I'm hurting. Pay attention to me. I'm the one who matters.
Gabriel unlocked his condo door so slowly I wanted to rip the key from his hand and do it myself. He was being deliberate, resisting the urge to throw the door open, stalk inside, and say, Fuck this. Fuck all this.
He'd gone about three steps when he seemed to forget why he was there. He stopped. I circled wide, careful not to startle him, in case he'd forgotten I was there. And he did seem to have, his eyes widening when I moved in front of him. Then he gave an abrupt nod.
"Yes. Packing. I need..."
He turned, and it was like his brain cut out, every ounce of energy spent keeping his temper reined. When his phone beeped, he tensed so fast I thought he'd throw it again.
He pulled it out and saw the damage from when he'd whipped it into the wall. Then he carefully and deliberately set it on the table, as if to say, I won't do that again.
I moved in front of him again, slowly, but he still jumped.
"Sorry," I said.
"No, I just..." He looked around, as if trying again to remember what he'd come here for.
I reached up, lacing my hands behind his neck, braced for him to tense. Instead, he closed his eyes, relaxing and leaning into my hands. I moved closer, my body brushing his, fingers moving up into his hair. He exhaled, the barest sigh. I could feel the tension strumming through him, and when his mouth lowered to mine, it moved carefully, restrained. But as soon as we touched, the restraints snapped, and he pulled me hard against him, his mouth coming down rough and urgent. Then he pulled back abruptly, holding me at arm's length. "I didn't mean--" he began.
I took a half step closer. "It's okay."
"It's not. I'm out of sorts and--"
"And that's fine," I said. "So am I."
I kissed him, pouring all my own frustration into it. And that really did snap off those restraints, and hell, oh, hell. Five seconds later, I was halfway over the back of the sofa, my legs around him, hearing the sound of a shirt ripping and not knowing whose it was and not really giving a damn. Then I was against the wall, his hands pinning my arms, kissing me hard enough that I tasted blood. He must have, too, and he stopped, blinking.
"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, letting me go so fast I started falling to the floor before he caught me.
"It's okay."
He shook his head. "No. I didn't mean to hurt--"
"Gabriel?" I wrapped my hand in the front of his shirt. "I'm a big girl. I can tell you to stop, and I know you will. If you think I'm giving any indication that I want you to slow down?" I yanked him closer. "Then you are really lousy at reading the signs."
He let out a strained chuckle.
"You're angry. You're frustrated. Let's work on that." I pulled him closer and leaned into his ear. "If this is any indication of how you'd like to work on that, I am one hundred percent in."
He shivered against me.
I moved my mouth to his lip and nipped. "Pretty sure I can give as good as I get," I said. "And the same warning goes for you--if it's too much, say so. Is it too much?"
He answered by backing me against the wall hard enough to rattle the door. Then I was straddling him, pinned to the wall, his mouth crushing mine, and when his shirt came off, I suspected it wasn't going back on without some serious mending.
If asked before now whether I'd had rough sex, I'd have said yes. What I'd had, though, had been enthusiastic sex. In-too-big-a-hurry-to-be-gentle sex. There'd been some experimentation with BDSM, but very mild, because while I was intellectually curious, once I actually experimented, it didn't hold the appeal I expected.
I didn't like giving up control. Really didn't. As for the idea of taking control, I'd tried it, with a lover who wanted that, but there'd been no...thrill of victory? I'd already held the upper hand in the relationship, and dominating in sex only seemed to hammer that home, which really didn't do anything for me.
This wasn't BDSM. It was just rough sex. Really rough sex. Fingers grabbing hard. Nails digging in. Nips that drew blood. Restraint and struggle mingled with hard kisses that lasted until they hurt. Then a moment to cat
ch our breath, touching and caressing and gentle kisses and murmurs and whispers and sighs, and then right back into it, a stroke turning to a grasp, a caress to a light scratch, as if testing the boundaries.
Testing and reciprocating, the heat and fervor building again. Not sex as a battle but as a game, the upper hand changing constantly, both of us fighting for it and then, when the other achieved it, giving in because, yes, if Gabriel wanted that upper hand, there was no way in hell I could physically take it from him. But if I managed to get on top or pin him, he'd let me have that, which meant I'd won. A willingness to submit from a guy who did not ever submit? Delicious.
There was control in submitting, too. In knowing I could, with a word, stop him.