Page 108 of Midnight Curfew

He buttons his pants, speaking up. “Oh, I’m not leaving,” he says, peering over at me. “Curfew doesn’t lift for five hours.”

What?

My face falls as he saunters over. “I just wanted my pants on,” he taunts, “because we’re about to be all over the place.”

And I barely have time to lift my hands before he’s clutching my arm in one hand and my neck in another and throwing me down on the hardwood floor of my bedroom.

My ribs ache as I get the wind knocked out of me, and the thud of my weight hitting the floor reverberates through the house.

Goddammit! Sophia…

Pushing up on all fours, I’m shoved back down again, his foot on my back. I flip over, grab his leg, his hair swaying over his brow as his abs flex, and I yank him, letting out a howl.

He crashes to the floor, and I scramble to straddle him, climbing on top.

I punch him with my right and slap him with my left. “Is this the kind of aggressive you wanted?” I bellow. “Huh?”

I’m not a fucking kid anymore.

I punch him again, but he launches up, fists the hair on top of my head, and plants his fist in my jaw once, twice, and again in quick succession. Pain shoots through my face, and I feel the sting on the inside of my cheek.

Gripping his neck, I shove him back down, pinning him to the floor as I avoid his hands grappling for my head.

He snarls, and I see blood trickling out of his nose, but his nails drag down my chest, and I growl.

As soon as I loosen my hold, he rolls us over, planting his fist right in my gut.

The wind rushes out of me, pain spreading through my stomach.

“You gonna have me fired for this like a pussy would?” he yells. “Huh?”

I force a laugh, trying to throw him off me. “ ‘Have you fired’? You still don’t get it, do you?”

My blood boils, but everything in my stomach—in my head—feels light like I’m racing the loop of a roller coaster. He grinds on me as we fight, and something builds deep in my throat. Craving.

I still want him.

“Oh, I get it.” He punches me so hard my head twists. “You’re still a fucking piece of shit who only bothers those with less money, less connections, and less power.”

He grapples for my hands.

“Because you get pounded into the dirt by daddy on a daily basis,” he bites out, “and only pick fights you can win so you can feel like a real man!”

Piece of shit…

I yell, flipping us over again, pressing my forearm to his throat as I straddle him. “Less money?” I bark. “Less power? Are we still brandishing that facade?” Sitting up, I throw a slap across his pretty fucking face. “Macon doesn’t spend the money in ways that raise IRS alarms, but it’s there! Where is it coming from?”

I slap him again.

“From real men,” he replies, breathing hard.

I punch. “Where?”

“Better men.”

Goddammit.

“Where?” I bite out in his face.