This is the hangover from hell.
I sip and gag, appalled by the taste.
“It’s vile.”
“I never said it tasted nice. I said it would help with the hangover.” He glares and his features elongate, threatening to become demonic. “Drink or I’ll force it down your throat.”
I gulp, ignoring the nausea, and drink. The liquid is truly vile, and I swallow it down quickly, retching after I finish it.
“Good girl. It’ll take a minute or two. Hold on for me, baby.”
I groan and try not to vomit, tipping my head forward onto his shoulder. He’s warm. His chest is surprisingly soft. His arms feel safe as they wrap around me. His strokes down my back are tender.
“Why are you being nice?” I mumble.
“I do not know,” he replies. “You got shitfaced last night and behaved badly.”
I groan, remembering dancing with Enzo in some club somewhere. He didn’t seem to mind my drunken antics when I was grinding into him or flaunting my body. I distinctly remember him grabbing my ass on several occasions, and a shade of crimson breaks out over my face as the horror of last night comes back to haunt me.
“Baby, I loved last night. You’re fucking hot when you dance like that. But getting drunk to avoid a fucking won’t work with me.”
“Did we?”
A deep laugh rolls off his chest. “No, Adi. We did not. Use alcohol to avoid my cock again and you will not enjoy the consequences.”
I nod and realize my head feels better, and the room’s stopped spinning. My nausea’s fading away and I jerk my head up, staring in disbelief as my hangover disappears.
“How did you… What did you make me drink?”
“Consider it another perk of fucking a demon,” Enzo says. “Don’t worry. It’s safe. There’s nothing too disgusting in it.”
I’m not sure that’s as reassuring as he’d like it to be. By demon standards, that could mean a whole world of things humans find repulsive, and my lips twitch in annoyance.
“Did you have fun?” he asks.
I stare at the painting on his wall as I think about his question. The sad truth is I did. And a lot of it. I’d drunk whatever I wanted, danced whenever I wanted, and felt entirely safe, certain Enzo wouldn’t let me come to harm. I’d lost all my inhibitions and felt better for it. More alive. Less beholden to the opinions of others—or that nagging voice in my head telling me I need to behave.
“Adi, stop giving a shit about what others think of you. You’re constrained by ridiculous ideas about how you should behave and you’ll be a damn sight happier if you accept the things you enjoy and stop giving a fuck about whether it’s right or not.”
Enzo isn’t just talking about dancing or drinking. He’s moving the topic onto other pleasurable pursuits and I’m well aware of where this conversation is heading. We’re circling back to what he wants me to admit, and this is going to end in another fucking.
Worse, Enzo has a point. It’s incredibly annoying, but he is right, at least on this occasion. This hasn’t been the way I’d wanted to discover what I liked in bed, but it’s been effective, and the cold, harsh truth is that Enzo is an excellent lover. He’s gifted. He’s been generous. And he has me practically begging to try more things with him.
When I’m ready.
And that’s the sticking point here.
He takes what he wants and I don’t feel ready for it. He’s not encouraging me, he’s demanding. He isn’t nudging or guiding me, he’s dragging me kicking and screaming. He’ll want to play again and it won’t be long, now that my hangover’s cured.
A girl shouldn’t complain, but this is getting ridiculous.
And it’s becoming increasingly frustrating. My pussy clenches every time he even thinks about initiating sex and my clit throbs so often it might as well be permanently on. Enzo is an asshole, but he makes my body come alive and the climaxes and pleasure are divine. They’re heavenly. They’re nirvana, except they’re given by a demon.
And he’s been withholding them.
I’m frustrated. I’m desperate to come. Desperate enough to consider running to the toilet to masturbate, but I’m damn sure the asshole would know, and then there’d be some sort of consequence.
It’s becoming a problem. More than a problem. A burden. A distraction. It’s all I can think about and it’s only been two days. I’m not sure if I’m going to make it to three.
