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She frowns at me before turning her attention back to the jar of spaghetti sauce she pulled from the cabinet.
“My parents were great. They were supportive and helpful, but not overbearing. They’d let us make our own mistakes and more often than not, they wouldn’t come at us with I told you so. Were your parents like that?”
I knew it wouldn’t take long for the questions to start. At least she did it the right way, offering parts of her life because she thinks it would make me feel obligated to do the same.
“No.”
She huffs a humorless laugh as if she expected that response.
“Where do they live?”
“They don’t,” I mutter, fighting the urge to get up and walk out of the room.
She turns to face me once again, a look of pity in her eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I lost them long before they died.”
She carries on, talking more to herself it seems than to me, as she boils the pasta before stirring in the sauce. There isn’t much here in the house that would have a close expiration date. I didn’t go shopping. This is one of the locations that Angel keeps in case any of us need it. I hadn’t planned on staying past Alani waking up from being drugged and killing the guy who hurt her.
She dishes the spaghetti out on to a plate, and walks it toward me, dropping it in front of me with such force that I feel some of the fucking sauce land on my cheek.
I grab her wrist before she can walk away.
“This childish fucking behavior is exactly what I’d expect from a fucking brat,” I growl, standing from the table.
“I bet you aren’t thinking I’m such a brat when you’re fucking me.”
The gleam in her eyes tells me exactly what she’s doing. I think I might hate her as much as she intrigues me with the way she’s attempting to force my hand.
The little minx likes it rough. She wants to be mistreated and called a whore, but it goes against how she acted in the truck when I mentioned not being able to suck my own cock.
“I always think of you as a brat,” I hiss as I work open the snap and zipper of her jeans. “Especially when I’m fucking you.”
Her eyes shine, making me think this was her fucking plan all along. I can’t ever remember a time when anyone had the power to make me act any other way than how I wanted to in the first place.
“Kick off your shoes,” I growl, but before she can obey, I spin her around, placing her face right next to the fucking plate of food she dropped down in front of me.
A whimper escapes her mouth when I grasp her hair, holding her in place with a grip on the back of her neck as I get my cock out.
I press into her without warning. Any worry I might’ve had about her not being ready fades away when I slide home without much resistance other than the tight clamp of her pussy around my cock.
“Fucking bitch,” I grumble. “Is your pussy always ready?”
She remains quiet, the push back of her hips making demands of my body.
As much in control as I’d like to think I am where she’s concerned, I know I’m wrong.
I grip her harder, slamming into her with more force, and she fucking takes it and begs for more.
Her pussy tightens, and I know what’s about to happen. Just the promise of it forces my own hand, but before she can open her mouth and declare the arrival of her own orgasm, I pull from her body and force her to her fucking knees. It’s about fucking time I get better control of myself and this entire fucking situation.
“Open your mouth,” I growl, painting her cheek with her own arousal.
She doesn’t hesitate, and it feels less like a punishment for her, and more like torture for me when she wraps her perfect fucking lips around my cock and sucks me to the back of her throat.
I fucking lose it, my orgasm pulsing through my body.
Her eyes flutter closed as she finishes me off, and I swear my brain fucking refuses to come back online for a long moment.
I want to offer her pleasure, to spread her back out on the table and eat that sweet pussy of hers until she comes on my mouth, but she stands and walks away before I can remember that speech is a skill I possess.
Going to her would be a weakness. I’ve created this routine of getting away from her after I’ve come, needing the distance because resisting the urge to pull her to my chest has become harder and harder.
I zip my jeans back up and take a seat at the table. I eat the meal she made for me, realizing a little too late it’s the only time I’ve had food cooked for me by someone who wasn’t being paid to do so.
