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“You’re just gonna stop?” Asher said, his voice rough.
“Asher, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t... I shouldn’t have... I was dreaming. Sorry.”
“Fuck you.”
The anger with which Asher spat those words almost made Harry turn around.
He cursed at him again, this time in Croatian, maybe Slovakian. Maybe both.
“You won’t even look at me,” Asher yelled, this time in English, before he shoved Harry in the back.
Harry hadn’t expected the rage. He hadn’t expected Asher to push him. He spun, instinct kicking in, and grabbed Asher’s arm. “The fuck?”
Asher tried to pull his arm away, but Harry wasn’t letting him go. So Asher came at him again, trying to push Harry against the wall. He fisted his shirt. Anger and something else flashed in his eyes. Harry couldn’t quite make out the emotion in the dark.
Asher let out a string of curses through clenched teeth, pressing his forearm against Harry’s chest. He clawed at him, trying to grab him, grapple him. “You shouldn’t promise me,” Asher hissed.
Promise him?
“I never promised you anything,” Harry said, wrestling him, trying to hold him. Asher was no match for him, not physically, and Harry didn’t want to hurt him. “Calm down.”
Asher was mad, yes, but the fight in him was wrong. This wasn’t a fight for dominance. Harry could easily throw him off. One good hit and Asher would be finished. Harry had fought close combat many times. He could kill with his bare hands.
Something in this fight was wrong.
“Asher, what the fuck are you doing?”
In their wrestle, Asher’s blunt nails scraped over Harry’s skin. He wasn’t trying to get away; he was trying to get closer.
Christ.
Harry understood then what this was.
It wasn’t a fight for domination.
It was a fight to be dominated.
Asher struggled harder, twisting his arm out of Harry’s hold, and he gripped Harry’s cock. His eyes met Harry’s, fierce and defiant. Daring him. “You want it. Why won’t you give it to me?”
Jesus Christ.
Harry was stunned and confused. Until Asher swung his fist at Harry’s jaw, connecting, hard, but not enough to rattle him.
Just enough to piss him the fuck off.
He came in for another swing and Harry deflected the punch, grabbing Asher’s fist and twisting him around, pulling him against him, Asher’s back to Harry’s front.
Asher froze, taking one second to breathe, before he began to struggle again. Harry held him tight, his arm across Asher’s chest. Asher tried to mule kick him, thrashing, and Harry had to hold him tight.
So tight.
Asher pushed back against Harry, his ass against Harry’s crotch. “You’re still hard,” Asher breathed. “You want it as much as me.”
Harry growled, holding him rough enough to bruise. “You don’t want it like this.”
Asher fought to get his hands free. Not to fight against Harry... but to undo the button on his jeans. Then he kicked again, elbowed, and struggled. And fought. In their tussle, Harry caught an elbow to the face and heel to the thigh, and his own rage took over.
He twisted Asher’s arm up behind his back and walked him, almost lifting him, and shoved him over the edge of the bed. Harry held him down, pressed his weight on him, his forearm across Asher’s back. His erection pressed against Asher’s ass.
