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From my memories of him as a teen, he was fast and determined. Now, he’s intense, animalistic in his violent fucking that almost always is coupled with some sort of pain.
The type of pain that adds an edge to each release he rips out of me. At first, I tried to resist the pull, to not fall into his carefully crafted web, but I soon realized it was useless.
Not when I can’t get enough of him.
Not when I crave more of his firm hand and unapologetic touch.
Sometimes, soon after we’re done. It’s an unfortunate addiction at this point.
It’s why I’m staring at the silent phone.
It’s definitely not because I miss his company or need it now more than any other time or something.
We usually bicker like the worst of enemies. Our philosophies, perspectives, and view of the world are as different as night and day.
He’s a manipulator. I’m a rationalist.
He’s violent in both thinking and action. I’m more diplomatic.
He’s the storm. I’m the sea that refuses to be flipped upside down.
And yet, we have the deepest conversations. He’s one of the few men who isn’t intimidated by my mind, and the only man who wants more of it.
However, our conversations usually end up in a verbal fight and then a hate-fuck to sort it all out.
It’s unhealthy, bordering on toxic, and should’ve ended a long time ago.
And yet, any moments spent with him are the only time I’ve ever felt so undeniably alive. The only time I don’t think about the threat my father poses or the fast-ticking bomb that is my life.
Besides, it’s not like we have nothing in common. Okay, just a little, like how much we both love and care about Gwen or how we both have no tolerance for bullshit.
Especially each other’s.
Point is, we can agree.
Who am I kidding? It’ll be a cold day in hell before we ever do that.
Still, what we have—whatever it’s called—works in a strange way.
Taking a sip of my drink, I open the texts and take another swig. Then I finish the whole glass.
Not that I need liquid courage.
Just to make sure, I pour another glass, finish it, and then quit the bullshit and drink straight from the bottle.
Only when my nerves loosen a little do I type the text.
Aspen:Caroline left with Mateo. I’m alone.
He sees it but doesn’t reply immediately. I drum my fingers against the counter and take a few more sips.
Kingsley is usually the one who texts first, picks me up first, barges into my space, mind, and body without apologies first. And as soon as I take the initiative and text him, he ignores me?
I shake the phone, then narrow my eyes on it, then contemplate throwing it in the sink.
Just when I seriously consider the last option, his reply comes.
Kingsley:Congratulations on losing the freeloader and her demon dogs.
