Swing, maybe not. But I won’t just stand there and take it, not from you.
It’s not the first time you’ve done something like this to me, but there’s a new look in your eye this time, something far more starved than I’ve ever seen on you, outside of battle, anyway.
Usually, when something like this happens, it comes with a tight moment in close quarters, with me clenching my teeth and glaring while you get into my space, telling you to fuck off, and you just laugh. Give me a shove, grab my jaw for a moment of tension so thick it feels like I could choke on it, before dropping me abruptly and leaving me flustered and angry.
This time, though, I try to head you off at the pass. I see it coming and I spit at you that I’m not in the mood for your games.
Your fingers twitch, strangely restless, and I wonder briefly what’s gotten you into this state, what happened to put you on the edge of the line between dog and wolf.
You sneer at me, blocking my way to the exit. “And what exactly do you plan on doing about it?”
You’re baiting me, I know it, and it makes me angry, makes me want to spite you, but I don’t know how to do that without giving you exactly what you want. I eye the doorway over your shoulder, and you track it. “Go ahead,” you smirk, “see how far you get.”
So I do, and it surprises neither of us when you grab my arm and use the hold to push me back until I hit the wall, hard enough to knock the wind from my lungs.
“Was that really the best you could do?” You laugh, and it’s cruel. “God, you’re pathetic.”
I bare my teeth at you, wishing I could growl with the same ferocity you can. “What exactly do you want from me, Thorn?”
“What do you think I could possibly want from you?”
Your hand is on my throat, firm but not quite enough to hurt yet. I know you’re saving that for when you finally snap.
“If you’re looking for someone to fight you, forget it,” I snarl. “I won’t give you the satisfaction.”
“Oh, I’ll be getting my satisfaction either way.”
I swallow hard, and you undoubtedly feel it against your palm.
“Come on,” you goad me, a bit of your smile fading, “fight back. Make my day.”
The look you’re giving me is so gleeful, so condescending, that even my pride can’t stand up to it. I struggle, desperate, angry at you for doing this, angry at me for enjoying it.
You laugh again as I fight against you, letting me exhaust myself before suddenly turning me around to press my front against the wall. “Pathetic,” you purr in my ear, “you could at least pretend you don’t want this.”
I pant, ragged breaths against the wall. “You’re one to talk,” I spit back, and in a moment of recklessness, rock my hips back to feel where you’re hard in your braies. You hiss at the sensation, one of your hands coming to my throat again.
“I’ll make you a deal,” you growl, other hand sliding from my hip around to my chest, moving slowly, teasingly. “If you really don’t want this to continue, then prove it.” Your hand starts to move down, and the pit in my stomach drops out from under me as you near my pelvis. “Prove to me that you aren’t loving this, that you don’t want me to continue to treat you like this, and I’ll let you go.” I can’t hold back a gasp when your hand finally slides to palm me over my braies, undeniably hard and already beginning to leak.
“Go ahead,” you breathe. “Convince me.”
