The bully mom

I am pulled along across the grass, my heels digging into the turf as I struggle to keep up with your long, aggressive stride. My mind is screaming at me to stop, to yank my hand free, to tell you to go to hell, but my legs keep moving, my hand stays locked in yours, and the wet, heavy ache between my thighs drowns out every rational thought I have.

The stairwell is a blur of concrete and fluorescent light. I gasp for air, my free hand gripping the banister as you haul me upward, the friction of your skin against mine sending jolts of electricity up my arm. I don't even have time to be embarrassed by how easily you're manhandling me, how quickly I'm folding.

The door slams. The deadbolt slides home.

I barely register the sleek, modern interior of my apartment before you spin me around. My back hits the solid wood of the door with a heavy thud that knocks the wind out of me. Before I can catch my breath, you are there, your hands framing my face, your mouth crashing onto mine.

I let out a sharp, startled moan that is instantly swallowed by the kiss. It is not gentle. It is not polite. It is a claiming, a punishment, a release of six months of hostility and ten minutes of breathless, agonizing tension. My hands fly up to grip your wrists, not to push you away, but to hold on, my nails digging into your skin.

When you finally pull back, just an inch, my lips are swollen and tingling. My chest is heaving against yours, my eyes wide and dazed.

Fuck... I pant, my voice sounding wrecked and unfamiliar to my own ears. You kiss like you fight... arrogant little bastard...

I look up at you, my resistance completely shattered.

Now... show me if you can back up that big cocky mouth of yours... or if you're all talk.