Page 7 of Falling for the Enemy

If only that were true. Then he might be able to walk away. He could stop showing up on her back porch at random hours of the night.

He raised his fingers, drenched in the proof of her lies, and pressed them between her full lips. “Taste how bad you want me.”

She bit his fingers, and he hissed, ripping them from her mouth and returning them to her needy pussy.

“Do that again, and I’ll⁠—”

“You’ll what?” He jerked her hair back as he thrust his hips forward, hitting the exact place deep inside of her proven to cut off her lies.

Her breath hitched, her body contradicting her claim to unaffectedness. Drenched, her body clenched his throbbing cock. Sometimes, the raw honesty of her physical reaction gutted him in ways her sharp tongue could never undo.

Neither of them was unaffected by this. That’s where the danger lay. Whatever it was, it had them in a chokehold, one they wanted to surrender to as much as they needed to escape.

He worked her slowly, dragging the heel of his palm against her swollen clit as his fingers swirled and teased, rolling past that moment where a lesser woman might beg for mercy. She gripped the wainscoting with white knuckles as her forehead dropped against the wall.

His unseeing focus settled on those chipped fingernails, jagged from typing as if they never knew a proper manicure.

“Fuck,” she panted, losing her power over words.

“Give in. Stop holding onto control.”

She growled as he worked her faster, and the sound splintered into a moan. Her body clamped around his plunging cock, greedy and furious, as she rose onto her toes. The slick sound of her arousal coating his sliding flesh filled the narrow hallway with too much obscenity for Joan Jett to drown out, and soon Jocelyn’s needy cries dominated the house. The fight for denial carried in her voice, despite the obvious pleasure he delivered, but soon enough, he’d win her surrender.

He knew her body like the back of his hand. Knew how to make her come in seconds flat. Knew what she liked and what made her voice pitch to a sound only dogs could hear. But it was her refusal to let him win easily that maintained the performance barrier they both needed to keep going this way. It was a game. Two enemies with the chemistry of a summer lightning storm. Chaotic and powerful. Electric and enthralling.

“My Vikings would never leave a woman waiting this long.”

“What did I tell you about measuring me against your fictional fuck boys?” He pulled his cock free, punishing her for the comparison. “Ink and paper can’t fuck you like I can.” He rimmed her wet opening with his glistening length, refusing her until she admitted the truth. “Whose cock’s better now?”

She pushed back against him with shameless urgency. Maybe it was her rawness that got him so hard—the lack of modesty and performance. There was something animalistic about both of them when they stopped hiding behind walls. Something he never found with anyone else.

“Soren, you dick, stop fucking around!”

The more she wanted it, the more he wanted to keep it from her. He pulled back until she growled in furious frustration.

“Big moon tonight.” He slapped her ass, sharp enough to leave a pink handprint against her pale skin, and her spine stiffened.

“Fuck. Off.”

He gripped her hips, hitching her back as he dragged a hand up her spine to angle her forward. He guided himself between her thighs once more, teasing the tight, wet mess he made of her. The head of his cock notched against her entrance, but didn’t enter. He lived for tormenting her. “I think you meant to say fuck me.”

“You wish.”

He could drag it out. They lived in an endless game of chicken, always challenging each other while refusing to be the one to break first. But goddamn, her pussy felt amazing. Hot and gripping, luring him in like a siren at sea.

“Soren…” The soft plea of his name on her lips was the closest she’d come to begging, and it broke his control.

Driving into her in one long, merciless stroke that punched the air out of both of them, they each groaned with deep satisfaction. Her body squeezed around him, hot and impossibly tight, and the raw response she gave was guttural enough to shake a primal nerve loose in his chest.

Soren didn’t give her time to adjust. She didn’t want him to. That was the unspoken contract between them, the understanding that tenderness would require an acknowledgment of feelings both would rather die denying. So, instead, they met each other in the violent, breathless territory where want didn’t need a name.

His pace was punishing from the first thrust, his fingers digging into the swell of her hip, sharp enough to leave marks she would trace in the morning and likely regret. The lies would come after, insults blanketing a broken promise that this would be the last time, though they both knew this nightmare was far from over. They were both stuck in a game of fuck it out until it passes, like an endless fever that had to be suffered to the end.

He thrust deep, and the wall absorbed the impact as her palms braced flat against the surface. The hallway filled with the percussion of skin and the ragged exchange of breath that neither of them could control.

Each time he buried himself to the hilt, she answered with a roll of her hips that dragged him deeper, as if depth were the only language left between two people who weaponized every other form of communication.

“Harder.” The raw command was a wrecked plea, stripped of its usual sarcasm, and it almost undid him.