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One I’ve decided works to my benefit despite the promise I made to myself I’d never relapse.
I step to her and point toward the back of the saloon. “Get in my office.”
It’s a slower evening, a lazy Sunday that’s hot and sticky and has people dialing their ACs to full blast. Sydney’s the only barmaid on shift. Ruby called out and Mick’s preoccupied watching the lotto numbers on TV.
Truthfully, she’s working her ass off, doubling as bartender and waitress, making drinks and delivering them.
But she’s dropped a glass stein and caused it on shatter to the floor in her rush.
A sympathetic guy would feel bad. He’d attempt to help her during a time she’s overwhelmed.
I have no intentions of helping Sydney Singer.
As I order her to the back, I bark at one of our prospects visiting the bar to grab a broom and clean it up.
She does as I say—she spins on her heel and marches defiantly to the back office.
It won’t be the first time in the last couple days. Damn sure won’t be the last.
I let the door swing shut behind us as I invade her space. I get up close with burning hatred on my face and in my gaze, setting my trap, making it so there’s nowhere to run. Sydney puts up an act, playing tough. She stands defiant ’til I unleash myself on her.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” I ask, gripping her arms and spinning her around. Her hair whips me in the face, I’m so aggressive. “How many times have I warned you? You fuck up, I fuck you.”
She pushes back against me, her ass rubbing against my groin even while she’s clenched in my hold. Her words are breathy. So fucking sexy.
“It sounds more like you’re looking for an excuse.”
“An excuse,” I growl. My hands crush her upper arms within my grasp to the point she winces in pain. Then I push her down, bending her over the armchair how I want her. “Maybe,” I admit, letting one hand roam liberally along her ass. Her fucking cutoffs are so short, as soon as she’s bent over, I have access to the underside of her ass cheeks. I slap a hand to the left one, my palm gripping the meat of it. My breathing’s already out of control. Heavy and chaotic. “But it doesn’t fucking matter,” I go on. “’Cuz you do what I say. And I want to fuck you. So fucked you’ll be.”
She bucks back. As if she’s about to put up a real fight about it. But I push her down more and she seems to accept it’s happening. I shove a hand between her legs, making the denim rub against her pussy in a manner that brings friction. She sucks in air as a reaction, then squirms as if asking for more.
I lean over her, my arms trapping hers against the framework of the chair. “You like how that feels, Sydney baby? When that pussy gets rubbed on? Ask me for it.”
I can feel her internal struggle. Her reluctance. Her stubbornness. Her never-ending fight.
It’s the same as my own.
We’re the same in that way.
I’ve spent every day and night since she turned up at the Steel Saloon talking myself out of my attraction to her—it conflicted with my hatred and suspicions of her—but I’ve found a toxic, fucked up middle ground.
A place where I can hate Sydney but still get to experience her tight pussy choking my cock.
She’s discovered it too. It’s why she plays along each and every time I corner her.
It’s why she’s yet to run scared.
I unbutton her denim cutoffs and slide my hand down the front.
“No panties, Syd baby,” I groan, letting my fingers explore.
…and there’s so damn much to discover. You’d think I’ve never fucked a chick before the way I take pleasure in touching on Sydney.
But, in a way, it’s like some new experience. Whatever fucked up dynamic exists between us is different than anything else I’ve encountered.
I want her at the same time I want to destroy her. I’d love nothing more than to fuck the shit out of her and then banish her from my life for good.
Things between us are always impatient and aggressive. I don’t bother with her top. She doesn’t bother with any more protests.
