There was anger etched into every line of his body. The stiff shoulders, the clenched teeth, the lines around his eyes, the muscle jumping in his temple—it came off him in waves. He was practically huffing and puffing in my ear, an impatient bull digging its cracked hooves on the sand—eyes fixed on the waving target of the single red flag that would make its temper rise with every gust of wind.
He simply needed to lower his head, viciously pointed horns aimed, and take a swing at it.
Though, at this time, I found his anger more like the volatile temper of an old Billy goat than the vicious beast many thought of him as. He knew better than to charge. Knew better than to let his anger take hold of him by the teeth. He would seethe and wait for the perfect moment to strike almost at random.
So I walked with my back straight and the snorting goat at my ear. His moist breath at the back of my head almost made me smile—a little snuffling goat eager to be free of its rope.
He said something, too low for me to catch—Russian? Whatever the case, the string of words wandered off and ceased completely almost as soon as I began. Behind me, he stiffened briefly. I could almost see him—a dark scowl appearing over his brows, eyes narrowed, flitting wildly from side to side, before he would relax. The slip back to disgruntled body guard.
Finally, I chose to bite. “It can’t be bothering you that much.”
He snorted. No other answer. Just the snort not unlike that of a furious bovine. I turned to look behind me, but he simply ushered me ahead, the vehicle already mere footsteps in front of us.
He held open the door without a thought. Eyes already flitting wildly, searching, scanning. Maybe my Billy goat was automatized, search and destroy. Snort and growl.
As soon as I was within, he shuffled inside. A barked, “Drive!” was thrown at the driver, and I was taken aback by his sudden viciousness. When I looked up to search for my answer in the lines of his body, it was only to be surprised by his hands on my waist. His mouth quickly found the crook between my neck and shoulder, and his hips pressed and grinded against me. Surprisingly quite aroused for what must have been a matter of seconds.
My eyes moved to find the front view mirror—doubt written over the light blue eyes of the driver. The question was clear there, should he move, should he stay.
His arms tugged at my hips, his crotch ground against my eyes, and his teeth found brief purchase on the skin of my throat.
“Drive,” I hissed, tuning out the concerned eyes in favor of the hungry ones.
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