Page 68 of Dirty Ink

My shoulders collided with the wall. The bricks snagged the fabric of my costume. Mason’s hips pressed me tighter.

He loomed over me. Tall. Imposing. Dangerous.

“I fucking hate you.” My chin jutted up at him, defiant.

His chest crushed my lungs. My hard nipples wanted me to move, wanted friction. I stayed perfectly still, crushed beneath him.

“I hate fucking you, too,” he whispered.

His hands came to either side of me head, boxing me in. I pressed mine flat against the brick. Told myself I could still escape.

“I hate you,” I said through gritted teeth. “I hate you, I hate you, I—”

He kissed me. Hard and furious, his tongue demanding entrance at my lips.

Crack!

His face turned to the side at the force of my slap on his cheek. I sucked in a breath. I barely realised what I was doing before I did it. "Don’t kiss me."

I expected him to be angry as he turned back. But he flashed me a wicked grin. “You fucking want me as much as I want you.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what was that back there—?”

“A game. A fucking game.”

He pressed me into the wall even further. My hips tilted to meet his barely restrained cock.

“Liar,” he growled.

“I’m not—”

He shut me up with a hand up my skirt. A mutinous moan escaped my lips as his fingers edged my panties. Slipped underneath.

He let out a low chuckle when he found me wet. “You’re already soaked for me, dirty girl. Tell me again you don’t want me.”

Stretched up onto my toes and smashed my lips desperately against his. Inhaled breath from his lungs. Whispered against his teeth, “I hate you.”

But it was me I meant.

I hated myself.

Hated that I didn’t hate him at all.

Mason

If Rachel’s mouth on mine was the spark, then her teeth sinking into my lower lip, drawing blood, was the flame.

They say there’s no escaping a wildfire and whether Rachel knew it or not, there was no more chance of her escaping me. I had her pinned to the wall again and the heat that I pressed against her bucking, wild hips was all-consuming.

There was a fury to the way I tore at her hair just like there was a fury to the way she wrenched at my jacket. I’d meant what I’d said. I did hate her. I hated her with my whole fucking being. I hated her more than I hated anything else in the world. It wasn’t with kindness that I yanked at the hair at the nape of her neck till her head stretched back and exposed her neck to my tongue. It wasn’t with gentleness that I bit at her delicate skin there where the neck meets the shoulder. It wasn’t a sense of tenderness toward Rachel that made me grip the front of her costume and tear at it.

“Bastard,” she hissed, as she stared down at the costume.

Don’t let me make myself out as some kind of vengeful predator. As some asshole being too rough with a delicate, helpless woman. As a hateful monster taking it out on a defenceless fawn.

Because Rachel said it, too. Rachel said she hated me. And everything about what she was doing made me believe it. If I was rough, she was rougher. If I was brutal, she was demonic. If I bared my teeth at her, it didn’t fucking matter because her fangs were already piercing my jugular.

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