He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Maybe both."
"That's helpful."
"I don't have better answers, Aurora. I don't know how to do this. How to be with someone. How to balance protecting you with giving you freedom. I just know that I'm failing at both."
"You're not failing. You're just... suffocating me."
"And you're driving me insane."
We stare at each other, the air thick with tension that isn't entirely anger.
"I hate this," I whisper, tears in my eyes.
"Which part?"
"All of it. Fighting with you. Wanting you even when I'm furious. Not knowing what we are or what we're doing."
He crosses the room in three strides. "I fucking hate it too, Aurora, I hate it."
Then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is hard, angry, all teeth and desperation. I kiss him back just as furiously, channeling everything I can't say into the contact.
His hands are in my hair, yanking my head back to deepen the kiss. The pull is sharp enough to make me gasp, and he swallows the sound. I claw at his shirt, trying to get it off, needing to feel his skin against mine.
"You make me fucking crazy," he growls against my mouth.
"Good, you make me want to scream too."
He lifts me in one smooth motion, and I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively. We're stumbling toward the bed, knocking over a lamp in the process. The crash of it hitting the floor barely registers. Neither of us cares about anything except getting horizontal.
God, I want this, I’ve wanted this for so long.
He drops me on the mattress, and I bounce slightly before he follows me down. His weight presses me into the bed, his hands everywhere at once, pulling at my clothes with rough urgency.
"I'm still angry at you," I gasp as he yanks my shirt over my head in one aggressive motion.
"I'm still angry at you too."
My bra is gone seconds later, his fingers making quick work of the clasp. His mouth finds my breast, biting down hard enough to make me gasp and arch into him. The sharp pleasure-pain sends heat flooding through me. I'm fumbling with his belt, my fingers clumsy with need and frustration.
He strips me bare in record time, practiced and efficient. Then he stands, removing his own clothes while I watch. I'm breathing hard, admiring the body I'm furious at wanting so desperately.
"Turn over," he orders, his voice rough with desire and anger.
"Make me."
His eyes flash with something dark and dangerous. He grabs my hips in both hands, flips me onto my stomach with enough force to bounce me on the mattress. The display of strength should probably concern me. Instead, it makes me wetter.
"Brat," he mutters.
"Tyrant!”
His hand comes down on my ass with a sharp crack that echoes in the room.
I yelp, more from surprise than actual pain, though there's definitely a sting. "What the hell was that for?"
"For driving me insane." He does it again, and I feel the heat bloom across my skin. "For arguing with me about everything."
