I’m tired, cranky and in need of a glass of wine, a book and a bath. I run a hand down my face before I pull my keys from my pocket and unlock my door, stepping in and immediately kicking off my shoes at the door, foot throbbing, before dropping my bag and coat right there. I don’t even bother hanging it up.
I trudge through the apartment, the silence especially haunting with my lack of findings today, but what could I do?
“What happened?” The deep voice startles me enough that a small yelp comes out before I glare at the intruder.
“I’m getting the locks changed,” I growl, shoving past where he stands in the threshold of the kitchen, knocking his shoulder with my own. He doesn’t move, but he lets me pass at least.
“You know that won’t keep me out, Eleanor, if I want in, I’ll find a way.”
“What happened to me finding you?” I pull a glass from the cupboard and the bottle of wine from the fridge, not bothering to offer one to Kingston. He’s not invited to my pity party for one seeing as he is part of the problem.
I fill the glass to the rim with the white wine, keeping my back to him. I feel his eyes on me, burning holes right through my spine.
“What happened?” He repeats.
I take a large gulp of wine, “Nothing, Kingston. Please leave.”
“Why did you text me?”
An abrupt laugh shoots from my mouth, “Why the fuck do you care!?” I scream. Maybe this is part of the problem, the damn sting his leaving this morning caused, only tripled by that fucking note.
I spin on him, clutching my wine, “Get the fuck out of my apartment,” I growl, “Get the fuck out right now!”
His eyes widen, only slightly, but enough to reveal I’ve caught him off guard.
“I’m on my own, remember!” I bellow, my rage filling the spots pity just stood in, “I’m just a good fuck to keep the edge off, right?”
“Eleanor,” he holds his hands up placatingly.
Fuck that.
I down half the wine, trying to satiate the urge to throw it on him.
“You know what, Kingston,” I say to him, “I don’t want your help anymore. I don’t need you. I don’t want you turning up at my apartment whenever you fucking feel like it, I don’t want your threats, and your mind games.” His jaw is clamped tight, his teeth grinding, the muscle in his cheeks jumping. His eyes are full of icy blue fire, which only flares brighter as the next words leave my lips, “but most of all, Kingston, I don’t want you.”
I take casual steps towards him, inhaling that intoxicating scent, but for once it doesn’t put me under some sick, lust filled haze. I stop when I am inches away from him, my breasts brushing his chest, our breaths mingling, “Get. Out.” I say.
He licks his bottom lip, teeth following to scrape the soft flesh as his eyes bounce between mine, “Look at you, Eleanor, finally growing a backbone.”
“I hate you.”
“Do you, though?” He smirks, “Do you hate me because of what I can make you feel? Is it because I can fuck you like no other man can? Is it because I’ve opened your eyes to a whole world of pleasure that you’re too scared to explore?”
“No.”
“No?” He quirks a brow.
“No, Kingston, I hate you because you’re cruel, and you’re wicked. You manipulate and take without consequence. I hate you because you are everything that is wrong with this city. This fucking world.”
“Is that right, love?”
“Yes.”
He steps forward an inch, closing that gap between us, so close that his lips brush mine. I don’t back down, I can’t now. He has to take me seriously, if he doesn’t, I’ll never have a normal life again.
Normal.
Normal.
Everything was always normal.
Mundane and routine.
I stop that train of thought immediately. I will not hesitate.
For a few long seconds we stand staring at each other. I can feel that anger ebbing, but I clutch at it, holding onto it with an iron fist.
“So, my note upset you?” He asks gently.
“Yes, Kingston,” I admit, my words biting, “I’m not going to be used and discarded like a fucking toy. I’ll do it on my own.”
“You’ll get yourself killed,” he replies.
“I’m on my own either way.”
The fire in his eyes dulls, “You’re not.”
“Don’t Kingston,” I warn, “just…leave.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Tears prick my eyes which makes everything ten times worse. Anger gives way to frustration, and without thinking about what I’m doing, my arms shoot forward and I shove him, I shove him as hard as I possibly can, using every ounce of strength I own.
He stumbles back but I follow. “Get out!” I plead, my fists thump into his chest, “Get out!”
He lets me pound into his chest.
“Leave!” I growl.
My hands slam against his pecs but this time, he doesn’t let me do it again. He captures my wrists and yanks me forward, hard. I slam against his chest and then his mouth descends onto mine, his tongue diving between my lips. Fire erupts in my veins.
My fingers curl into his shirt, in a push or a pull, I have no idea. My back hits the wall, his chest pinning me there as his mouth continues to explore and claim mine.
“I’m not leaving,” he whispers against my lips, “I’m not leaving.”
I don’t say anything as I drag him back to me, planting my lips against his, feeling every hard inch of him against every soft part of me. He cradles my face, his tongue bar clipping against my teeth as his kiss turns hungrier with every second.
That’s how it was, hot and angry, like wildfire and a crushing tidal wave. I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t be without it either, not now I’d had it. He was right, I hated him for what he had awakened in me. I hated how fucking weak he made me, and I dreaded to think what would happen the longer we spent time together. It’s been barely any time at all, and he has consumed me, what will be left of me when he grows bored and moves on?
But I still don’t stop him as he grinds his hips forward, pressing the hard rigid length of him against the apex of my thighs, telling me exactly how I made him feel.
Lust and desire were dangerous.
It clouded your judgement, fogged your senses, those red flags and the toxicity become second to the fiery need that devours your body. It makes you need rather than want, like without it would be to be without air in your lungs.
You lost control. Lost your senses.
And I was letting it. Still letting it because there wasn’t enough. Once, twice, it’s not enough.
He was addictive.
He groans into my mouth as my hands move to his shoulders and my fingernails bite through his shirt and sink into his skin.
The noise only serves to make me wetter, needier.
As if sensing it, he steps back, rubs his hand across his mouth and demands, “Strip.”