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I grin, wrapping my hand around my cock and giving it a long, slow stroke. “Can you put that on the table? My hands are full.”
His jaw twitches, and it’s kinda sexy, I guess. Kinda what I wish I looked like when my jaw twitches.
He shoves past me, and I mean shoves so hard, he knocks me against the foyer wall and storms to the dining table opposite the living room. He slams the FedEx package down and turns on his heel to glare at me. “Will there be anything else this morning?”
He’s now facing me and the porn, but his gaze hasn’t drifted from my face. I’ve still got a hand on my dick, leisurely stroking it to the mewling sounds of a woman coming. My balls thump. Why is this so hot? “Not unless you want to open the box for me.”
He’s not moving. He’s spoiling for something.
I keep my eyes on him, like I can keep him here with my stare.
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, kid.”
I let a slow grin bend half my mouth. “Where’s yours? You like delivering my packages by hand like you’re my house boy?”
His bright blue eyes go glacial. “Watch yourself.”
“Or what?” I ask.
There’s a pause long enough to make his next words feel intensely meaningful.
“You know what.”
My breath quickens. The artery on the right side of his neck catches the sunlight glinting through the windows, and it’s bounding. He wants another fight—I can feel it. I shouldn’t want that. He nearly gave me a concussion Sunday morning, and yet, I’m too curious to know whether the outcome of another thrashing will be the same without cocaine. I don’t know what’s happening here, but I do know it’s not boring.
“Open it,” I challenge him, nodding to the package as one porn ends and another begins. A cacophony of fucking sounds signaling an intro sequence fills the room, adding another layer of filth.
“Take your hand off your cock and open it yourself, you lazy, spoiled fuck.”
“Ooo…ouch. That stings, Jack. It makes you almost sound…jealous?”
He stalks toward me, shoving up his jacket sleeves. He ignores my jerking hand, the porn, everything but my eyes. I raise my gaze to meet the barely contained rage in his.
“I wanna fucking hurt you,” he growls.
“Why?” I ask softly.
“Because you’re begging for it, rich boy.”
“I’m just enjoying myself in the privacy of my own home, Jack.”
He cocks his head slightly. “What’s my name again?”
“Jack. Doorman. Blue-collar bitch,” I breathe.
That does it.
His hand wraps around my throat and squeezes, knocking my head against the wall hard enough to make me see stars.
With the hand that’s not on my cock, I dig my nails into his straining, tattooed forearm, shocked at how hard and unyielding it is. So I scrape. Viciously enough to draw blood and leave some marks of my own.
“Get off me,” I rasp, not meaning it. In fact, I find myself wanting him to hurt me worse.
“Make me.”
I pull up my knee, intending a strike to his balls, but he backs away just in time, and I connect with his gut instead. He closes in on me, chest pressed to mine, yanking my head off the wall only to slam it back again, the pressure on my throat doubling. Yes.
Dizziness fogs my brain, and I lose my balance before I scramble to get my leg planted beneath me again. One thing I don’t falter on—one thing I refuse to lose a grip on—is my dick.
