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My hand landed with a slap, harder than before, leaving a pink mark on her cheek, dragging a ragged whimper out of her as I slammed inside her without preamble, taking every inch.
“Fuck,” she hissed, fingers fisting the sheets, ass angling out further, begging for more.
My hands went back to her hips, using them to slam her body back against me as I thrust forward. Hard. Merciless. Completely lacking any self-control, something Wasp ate up, her whimpers becoming moans that became hushed curses as I drove her up to the edge.
“Why did you agree to come with me to Bali?” I demanded, pulling nearly all the way out of her.
“No. Damnit. Don’t stop,” she growled, trying to wiggle against me. “Fenway…”
“Answer me,” I demanded, landing another slap to her ass.
“Fuck. Fine. I thought it would be fun to play with you,” she admitted, and everything about it rang true.
I slammed back inside her, deep, feeling her walls pulsate around me wildly, milking my orgasm out of me as well, sapping all my strength, making me crash forward over her on the bed, gasping for a deep breath.
“You’re an asshole,” Wasp declared when she got her breath back, throwing her body weight, tossing me off of her onto the mattress as she sat up, glaring down at me.
“I am,” I agreed, putting an arm behind my neck, happy with my victory. And the methods by which I secured it.
“You know you just upped the stakes, right?” she asked, chin lifting, challenge making her eyes even brighter than usual.
“Oh, I am looking forward to the next battle.
“It is going to get ugly,” she promised me.
“You know what? You’re lucky you’re so pretty,” I told her, watching her brows furrow.
“Why is that?” she asked, a sliver of ice slipping into her voice.
“I—”
“Describe me,” she demanded, cutting me off.
“What?”
“Say someone asked about me. How would you describe me?” she asked, body getting tense.
“Well, you’re beautiful,” I started, knowing the second it was out of my mouth that it was exactly the wrong thing to say, that I had somehow made a point she had in her head as she went up on her knees, leaning over me.
“What a lousy way to describe me,” she snapped, poking me hard enough in the center of my chest to hurt. “I am brilliant. I am resourceful. I am enigmatic. I am fucking interesting. Don’t you dare reduce me to just ‘beautiful’ again, Fenway,” she hissed, hopping off the bed, grabbing her robe off the chair in the corner, and storming into the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to make me wince.
Well.
Alright then.
That was probably the first time I’d ever been scolded for complimenting a woman.
It was pretty impressive how things had gone from epically good to a complete shitstorm in a matter of two minutes.
I couldn’t pretend to understand why being beautiful—which she was, and she had to have known she was, and that everyone noticed that first because that was what they were looking at when they met her—was so bad, but she wasn’t wrong.
She wasn’t just beautiful.
There were plenty of just beautiful girls in the world, ones who built their entire personas around what was on the outside, the ones who chased fading beauty with Botox and filler and lipo and implants and lifts and nose jobs, knowing down to their core that all they had was what was on the outside because they hadn’t taken the time to cultivate a personality along the way.
But Wasp was right.
She wasn’t just pretty.
She was brilliant and resourceful and enigmatic and, yes, above all else, interesting.
Dare I say it? She was the most interesting woman I’d had the pleasure of meeting. And I only knew a small chip out of the iceberg.
There was so much more to uncover, so much more to become enthralled with.
I would have told her that, given the chance. But she’d cut me off before I could tell her just how amazing I thought she was, how I hadn’t met anyone like her before, how my life felt a lot brighter with her in it, that I was enjoying seeing the world through her eyes.
I would tell her all of that.
Once she cooled down.
Once she realized she hadn’t given me a chance to answer the question before she passed judgment.
“Wasp,” I said, tapping my knuckles on the bathroom door.
“Fuck off, Fenway,” she growled.
Alright then.
She wasn’t ready to talk.
“I am going to go down to the pool.”
“I don’t care,” she shot back, making my lips curl up.
I hadn’t ever been a man who enjoyed angry women. I could see the theory about hot make-up sex. But I had dealt with enough anger in my life. I didn’t want to romanticize it for the sake of a good lay.
So I pulled on my swim shorts and made my way downstairs, figuring she would be calmer after she got some time alone.
