Page 52 of Petrichor

I try to pull him off the guy to no avail. He’s much bigger than me, like a damn unmovable tank. I hook my legs more steadily on his hips and cover his eyes with my hand.

“Stop!” I scream.

“The fuck—?” Marco hisses. He finally lets the guy go; one hand falls on my thigh, the other starts tugging at my fingers. I tilt my head to the right to tell the surfer to scram. He whimpers and stumbles away. When he disappears out of the alley, I slide down Marco’s body, ready to unleash the fire of hell on him.

“Explain yourself!” I yell.

My feet have just touched the ground when I’m airborne again. My back hits the wall with a hard thud, forcing all the air out of my lungs. My bare ass scratches against the rough wall as his knee pushes between my legs, propping me up. One hand is in my hair, pulling on the ponytail, and the other on my thigh lifting it up and around his waist.

“What were you doing?” he growls in my face. His warm chest is pushing against me, pinning me hard. I can smell tobacco and alcohol on his breath.

I pant, trying to suck some air in my lungs for an entirely different reason than before. His knee is pushing right against my tingling balls, making me squirm. I still want to punch him, though.

“What do you think I was doing? I was about to get fucked after a long week of nothing but blow jobs!” I say through my gritted teeth. I loved giving him BJs, but I do need more. “You went and had fun with someone else. Now it’s my turn!” I snap my teeth at him. He grunts and tugs hard at my hair.

“The fuck it is!”

“You can’t stop me,” I retort. “If you don’t want to watch me get fucked, I suggest you leave.”

“Nobody touches you,” he whispers menacingly.

I can feel his cock stiffening against mine. I almost smirk proudlyat myself as I feel him getting rock hard so fast for me. It’s a bittersweet revenge. I let out a hollow laugh. I just realized something.

Marco’sbodywants me. It’s him who fighting against it.

“You want to get fucked?” He suddenly drops me, and I lose my balance, forehead bumping his chest. I push myself back, hands on his wide chest, and I see him tugging at his pants.

“What are you doing?” I ask, taking a step back.

“Hands on the wall,” he commands in a cold tone.

“Marco—”

“Are you fucking deaf, bitch?” He grabs my arm, and I slap him right in the face.

He snatches my hand as I hiss, “Don’t you dare call me that, you bastard!”

“I call it how I see it.”

I send a glower at him filled with murderous intent. “Did you call her bitch when you fucked her last night?” The jealousy that I’ve tried so hard to contain unfurls in my throat. It’s ugly and vicious.

“No.” His reply feels like a knife in my chest. And I slap him again. And again. My palm hurts like hell, but I don’t care.

“Enough!” He takes hold of my hand once again, curling his lips over his teeth. “I’m still going to fuck you against this wall,” he grunts as he grinds his hips against mine.

“Go to hell,” I snarl.

“Hands. On. The wall.”

Egomaniacal prick! I spit in his face and then dig my dull nails into his neck, cheek, over his shirt-clad chest, wherever I can.

“Ma che cazzo!” He seizes both my hands and holds them against the wall over my head. His body crushes me against the hard surface again, caging me. He lowers his head, and I feel a sharp pain on my neck. He fucking bit me!

“Let me go, you maniac!” I try to headbutt him, but he’s too tall.

He wipes my spit from his face and strokes it on his cockhead before giving it a slow, erotic pump with his hand. His eyes darken. My gasp makes him smirk again, and he grabs my chin in a painful grip. My renewed anger gives me a boost of energy. My legs are trapped between his, so I pull at my restrained wrists and twist and writhe my torso, only managing to rub my cock against his with every jerk. God, but it feels so damn amazing.

He presses his lower body against mine to halt my movements making me almost moan with disappointment. He’s all power and hotness. I hate him.

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