“It’s not like that. I know he’s attracted to me, but he doesn’t actually want to date me or anything, he’s just a harmless flirt. And I only want to be friends with him. I don’t even see Mark that way. He’s not my type, you know that. He’s comfortable. It’s nice to have a little comfortable when you’re with someone like you.”

“That’s the problem. I wear on people,” Mateo states, his dark gaze sliding my way. “Comfort could start looking pretty damn good after you’ve been with me for a while.”

As much as I know he deserves it, my heart hurts at the idea of him thinking I could ever want to leave him for someone else. It still feels like my heart’s beating in my stomach, and I don’t know why. “I was actually going to ask you today if I would be allowed to hang out with him sometimes. I guess that’s a no.”

“You guess correctly.”

“So, I can’t have friends now?” I ask.

“Not male ones.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“I don’t care.”

I still feel a little ill, knowing he’s mad at me. It gnaws at me, making minutes stretch on like torturous hours as I wait for him to smile at me. To do something, literally anything, to indicate he still likes me. Wanting to fuck me isn’t liking me. Possessing me isn’t liking me. I need something more, and he isn’t in a giving mood. That’s not unusual for him, but for him to take it so far as to not satisfy me sexually has me worried. During our consensual encounters, he has always made me come. Even once during our non-consensual encounters he made me come.

I don’t even want an orgasm, because I know how guilty I’ll feel afterward, but suddenly I feel like I need it. Suddenly I need that more than I need to draw my next breath, because I need the reassurance it offers. I need to know I’m not losing my importance to him, that he still cares about my pleasure. My need for him fuels my arousal, and I’m throbbing between my legs even though he’s just lying here. Even though he already finished fucking me. He left me wanting—not just sexually, because he’s so emotionally withdrawn from me, too. I have to pull closer. I have to know he still cares, that I haven’t pushed him away.

So I pull myself up his body, my heart pounding. Somehow it feels scary. Even though he’s never rejected me, I feel like he might now, and I don’t even know why. I don’t know what I did, but I need to fix it.

His skeptical gaze slides to me as I pull myself into his line of sight, his eyes narrowed, like he’s not sure what I’m going to do.

I swallow one last time, then I lower my mouth to his and I kiss him. He doesn’t kiss me back, and it drives me literally crazy. The throbbing between my legs intensifies; my desperation to get a response out of him claws away at my insides. I kiss him harder. Deeper. I climb on top of him and beg him without words, but he still won’t kiss me back. I’m so turned on, I can’t stand it. I feel like I’m going to cry.

I can’t convince him with my mouth, with my body, so I finally whisper, “Please.”

His voice is hard, unloving. “Again.”

My heart is in my throat, my need for him intensifying with every beat. “Please, Mateo. Please kiss me back.”

His dark eyes move to mine, like he’s doing me a favor. And he is. I don’t know how it’s a favor just to look at me, but it feels like one now. I feel like thanking him. I feel like worshipping him. I don’t know how he does this to me.

But then he fists my hair in his hand, yanking me violently down to the bed beside him. I gasp as he comes down on top of me, kissing me hard on the mouth. I wrap my arms around him, holding onto him like he’s a life raft and I’m shipwrecked in the middle of the ocean.

He pulls back, grabbing my hand and shoving it between my legs. “Get yourself off. Use my cum and rub your pussy until you come.”

Embarrassment and excitement move through me in equal measures, but I push a finger inside myself, just like he told me to do. I gasp, already so turned on and sensitive that this is going to be fast, but I’ve never been watched before. And he doesn’t take his eyes off me. Not my body, but my face. He watches my face, somehow owning my pleasure, bestowing it upon me even as I use my own fingers to bring myself to orgasm. When I cry out, he kisses me again, just as hard as before. I go limp and his kiss softens briefly, just a hint of softness after he’s done being rough with me.

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