So cold, so hot. So stoic but so sexy.

Zane Rose was a brick wall I wanted to barrel through and destroy, but at the same time stop and press into for stability. A blanket I wanted to rip to shreds, but also envelop myself in for warmth.

He towered over me, a bombshell of bullshit, every word spewing out of his mouth a veiled insult or an excuse. And yet he exuded such sex appeal that it was hard to pretend our bodies weren't drawn to one another the longer we stood so close.

Too close.

I moved backwards, regretting my actions. Going to his place was stupid, reckless. I knew getting close to him was dangerous, but I hadn't listened to my hunches, only to my physical instincts that wanted another round of furious sex with him.

I despised him. How smug he was, how overconfident in his cooking skills. How he expected everyone to adore him, to praise him. He stayed in the dark and popped out from the shadows, tada, I'm the chef of Gastrognome, surprise! And assumed everyone would be awed and shocked and excited that he, Zane Rose, was the new, hot chef in town.

Not that I cared about his success—good for him, truly—but stepping all over me and others in the process wasn't right. Taking advantage of me, my show, to push his agenda? No, thank you.

My nostrils flared. I allowed one last look at him as he remained where I'd left him, feet away, eyes hardening and softening in turn, confusing me. Fuck, he knew what he was doing. Seductive, silently flirtatious, daring. He knew how much I'd enjoyed the sex—silly me for letting the truth about my pleasure slip out—and he probably anticipated he'd get me to sleep with him again.

The issue was...he was correct. I absolutely would get naked with him again. All he needed to do was ask, beg, take his shirt off—and we were on.

I watched his mouth move, ruminating over choicy words to get me riled up. Because he loved getting me riled up, I realized that now. Too late.

That night still haunted me. The more days passed, the more bits and pieces I remembered, too. Things he'd done to me, to my body, that continued to give me shivers whenever I recalled them. And that happened a lot, too much for my taste.

My desire for him was its own separate entity, in a way. Mentally, out in the open, I loathed him and everything he stood for. Demeaning me, shaming my tastes and manner of cooking, taking advantage; but physically? He was a god I wanted to worship. His body was the altar I wanted to lick until it melted on my tongue.

"Ha," he said, snapping me out of my tongue-swirling desires.

I blinked, shaking out my stupor, horrified as I realized I'd been ogling him in the crotch area. "What?"

"You're considering another round of super angry sex, aren't you?" He stroked his chin, fingertips fussing over the scruff that I was craving to touch. "Sober super angry sex, in fact. So you can remember it to better hate me later."

I was considering it. He knew that, naturally, and now needed to prey on my lust.

We were pretty drunk that night, for sure. Maybe I'd hoped that sober, the attraction wouldn't be as intense. That our tryst came from an intoxicated magnetism, something that manifested only after a few drinks.

But there we were, both sober—at least, I was, despite my quick slurp of rosé before I left home.

And...nope, the attraction was still there. It was fire in my gut, spreading to my core, tingling my breasts.

Fucking with my head.

My body, my brain, my heart all screamed at me. They throbbed for him. I wanted to smack him, but my lips were still imprinted with the aroma of his liquored tongue, and they wanted more. My waist waited for his deft hands to hold me tight as he rammed into me.

Would it be so bad for me to succumb one last time? If anything, to get him out of my head? A final round of fucking to convince myself I wasn't attracted to him, and it was all an illusion?

I'd likely exaggerated the sensation, anyway. Drunken sex was misleading; it made you think you had the time of your life when in fact you were half-asleep and imagining most of it. For all I knew, it wouldn't be so exquisite when he entered me, and he wouldn't be as skilled as I recalled.

One final fuck, and then I'd be able to wipe my hands clean of him and move on.

"So what if I am considering it?" I poked out one hip, setting my hand on it, narrowing my gaze on him. "Are you going to tell me you aren't?"

As much as he was toying with me, there was no denying the heat transferring between us. I was aroused, but so was he. He subconsciously licked his lips while allowing his gaze to wander, before flicking his eyes back up, thinking I hadn't caught him. But I did.

And when he'd gotten into my space, breathing on me, his heartbeat echoed in my ears, thrumming with need. I could have sworn I'd felt the gentlest of brushes from his cock, too, under those misleading baggy sweats.

That was something I knew I hadn't exaggerated: his penis. It was large, but not in an I-don't-know-how-the-fuck-that's-going-to-fit way. More in a I-want-that-in-me-right-now way that was betraying me and starting to dampen my underwear the more I thought about it.

He licked his lips again, but slower this time, wanting me to see, for me to focus on the moisture and the tip of his tongue. "You're not wrong." His eyelids lowered as he took one stride towards me, his arm reaching from his side, as if about to extend to me. An invitation. "I'm down if you are."

That easy, huh?

I took a deep breath, giving this one last intelligent thought before I got lost to lust.

It was stupid. He was stupid. An immature asshole who cared for nothing aside from money. I could tell better now, standing in his apartment for ten minutes surrounded by all the tiny tidbits he likely thought made him look wealthy. Pop-art on the walls, vivid lamps with red and blue tinted shades, fake flowers in artsy vases on every table, stacks of colorful books he'd never read. Except for mine, of course.

He inched forward, his fingertips within reach of mine. He didn't touch them, but in the act of him being close, I felt them anyway. "Blow off some steam so we can have another round of yelling afterwards?"

I squinted at him, then let my hip drop back into place. "Fine." I did my hardest to sound uncaring, but I knew how thick the arousal already was in my voice. "Fuck me, Zane, so I can forget how much I hate you."

He hesitated, but I grabbed his hand and placed it on my breast, making him squeeze it. His eyes lit up, and he scooched closer to me, taking control as he gripped my ass and pulled me into him.

Oh, yeah, there it was—his massive erection pulsating into me. I wondered how long he'd had it, when it started. Was it upon seeing me at his doorstep? After I insulted him? Or was he already thinking of me before I got there, on the verge of angrily masturbating at the thought of how much I turned him on?

He nearly ripped my sweater off me as he tugged it down, exposing my bra. He slid that down, too, revealing my hardened peaks, willing and waiting for him. But he teased, first; he rubbed his thumb over them, leaning close to let his lips graze mine, taunt me.

"Asshole," I breathed, flicking my tongue over his lips before pulling away to haul my sweater off and unfasten my bra. "Take your fucking clothes off."

"Bossy," he said, studying me as my bra straps slid down my arms.

There I was, my entire upper half on display for him; and he didn't remove his gaze from it as he hefted his t-shirt up and off him.

Fuck, he was delicious. His abs were like a goddamn chocolate bar, and his pecs were firm and so perfect I wondered if he'd been sculpted out of clay.

"Yeah?" He smirked at me as he flexed his arms, showcasing the bulges of muscle. "Like what you see, don't you?"

"I like," I slithered up to him and pulled him closer by the hem of his sweats, "when you shut up and get naked."

He chuckled, then raised his arms as I fondled his ass, getting in a good squeeze before yanking down his sweatpants.

"Hm," I said, surprised to find he wore no boxers. "You were prepared."

He shivered as I passed my hand over his throbbing, upright cock. "I sleep naked whether or not I have company. And it was almost bedtime."

"Aw," I made a mocking face, "would you rather go to sleep? Or would you," I took hold of his dick in my hands, kneading it, "rather me stroke you until you can't take it anymore?"

He shuddered as I began to do exactly as I said. I slid my palm up and down his length in languorous motions, watching his face, heeding his breaths to understand how his body would react.

"I'd rather fuck you until you can't take it anymore." He didn't stop my stroking, but instead snuck his hand under the hem of my leggings, and straight into my underwear. He didn't tiptoe around trying to turn me on; I was already there, and he knew it. When his fingers met my wetness, he moaned. "Fuck, Béatrice, I think you need me now."

"I think you need to shut up and kiss me," I said, breathless with yearning, barely hanging on as he caressed between my folds.

Seconds later, he smashed his mouth to mine, and not another word was said.

He hefted me up, my legs around his, my leggings still on as his cock pulsated against my covered entrance. He didn't even break a sweat as he held me up, rubbing me to him, titillating me to the point of begging him for more, begging him to let me come.

But I wanted to let loose all over him, not in my underwear.

"Down," I said, tapping his arm as I removed myself from our deep, luscious tongue-fucking kiss. "I want to feel you under me when I explode."

I expected him to protest, but instead he let me down, and remained standing, massaging his dick as I discarded my leggings and panties.

"Did you mean for this to happen?" he asked as I gestured at him to sit on the big, fluffy red chair against which I'd stood earlier. "Your matching lacy shit tells me you wanted them to be seen."

"Maybe," I said, gliding myself on top of him, but not letting him pass my entrance. "Maybe not. You'll never know."

He opened his mouth to speak, but the instant his cock came into contact with my aroused center, he shut it and his eyes widened. I rubbed his tip to my moisture, slowly at first, relishing in every second; then increasing the speed, tickling at my clit, bringing tingles to shatter up and down my spine.

He sat back, holding my hips to help me balance as I sped up the rhythm, angling myself for better pressure. Fast, faster, and within a few minutes, I unleashed a low groan as I came, glistening all over his penis.

"Fuck," he said, taking me off him as he marched to one of the side-tables encircling the couch, yanking a drawer open. Amidst the mess of papers and clutter, he got out a condom and opened it.

I sat on the chair, my fingers diving into the aftermath of my explosion as I watched him roll the condom on. When he turned and saw me there touching myself, his eyes burned with a rueful desire, jealous of my fingers, of my personal pleasure.

"I don't think so, chef," he said, tugging me off the chair and hefting me into his arms again. He teased my entrance briefly before cramming his large member into me, filling me up immediately. "That," he growled, "is how it's going to be. Me, inside you, and you screaming my name...since this time you actually know it."

"Fuck you," I said, gritting my teeth at the jolts of bliss barreling through me. With one thrust, he had me melting all over him. "Fuck me, God, fuck me, Zane."

I hadn't meant to do as he asked, to say his name. But in the intensity of our union, in the rush of desire, it slipped out and I hated how good it sounded coming from my mouth. In my trembling, twitchy voice, I said it again, "yes, Zane, yes!" as he delved into me, finding a cadence that pleased us both.

At one point, still holding me up—I couldn't lie and say that his chiseled arms hadn't been part of the reason I was coming so fast—he slammed me against a wall, which unhooked a painting nearby.

The artwork crashed to the floor, glass shattering all over. He side-stepped to ensure neither of us were hurt in the process.

"That cost five hundred dollars, by the way," he said, still fucking me as he checked my legs, his legs, and decided we weren't injured.

He dropped me on the couch, lifting my legs up as he kneeled before me. I tipped sideways to glower at him, trying to mask the pleasure reddening my face. "I'll send you another check, jackass."

Then he jammed into me again, and my eyes rolled to the back of my head, my consciousness faltering. I almost forgot who he was, what we were—sworn enemies—and that I wasn't supposed to be liking this in the slightest.

But I was.

A few thrusts later, he stopped. As I pushed up to investigate why he'd deprived me of his perfect cock, I felt something else at my entrance—his wet, willing tongue fiddling with my clit.

"Oh, really?" I arched my spine, half-hanging off the couch edge to allow him better access.

And oh, he accessed me. He hit all the right spots, slurping me up like a slushie on a hot day, moaning at the taste of me in his mouth.

"Shit," he said, hauling me up again, in a movement so swift that it took me a moment to understand I was once more in his arms, being held up by his swelling muscles. "You're hard to quit, Béatrice."

"Then quit talking," I said, staring into his dark, devilish eyes, "and keep fucking."

He obeyed, slamming me against a window this time, my spine and ass pressing into the cold surface. Chills shot up my back, and the hot, smoothness of his fucking mingled with the frigidity of the glass behind me made for an interesting climax that I released a near scream at.

I couldn't count how many times I'd come, how many positions we'd experienced, how many different walls and windows he'd thrown me against, before his face finally distorted and he warned me he was about to come. I couldn't feel my legs, sweat gathered all over every inch of my body, and my heart struggled to resume a normal pace.

As he released himself, collapsing beside me, I swore to myself—that was it. That was the ultimate time. Because as much as I abhorred every fiber of his being, that sex was exceptional. The best I'd ever had, hands down; with our drunken night being ranked as number two.

Being near him was perilous. We could scream at each other until our lungs hurt, but ultimately, our bodies won, and we ended up screaming once more, but in bliss, in unison, overcome with arousal and thrill.

And that couldn't happen again. No matter how delicious he tasted and how incredible he felt. Zane Rose was the bane of my existence, and had nearly ruined my life, my career.

Once we'd recovered somewhat, I didn't linger, didn't snuggle—neither of us were the type, anyway. I disentangled myself from him and got up, silent, coming back to consciousness.

I fetched my clothing, ruffled a hand through my hair, and cleared my throat.

"That was..." He was pulling on his sweats as he saw me standing there, glaring at him. He didn't glare back, though; a hint of lust remained on his features, his lips still glistening from our kisses, from my arousal all over him. If anything, he kind of looked ready for another go. How? I was exhausted, drained mentally, eager to get the hell out of there. "Fun? Wasn't it?"

"Sure. It was." I located my purse and threw its strap over my shoulder. "And I never want to see you again. Never want to hear from you again. Shut down the bad press and leave me the fuck alone."

His demeanor shifted almost as fast as mine had. "Right." He'd seemed unwilling to put anything back over his gleaming chest, but after my speech, he found his t-shirt and threw it on, frowning. "You got what you wanted, so that makes sense." He ogled me up and down, but the lust was gone. Only rage remained. "I'd say even more than what you wanted, yeah? So go," he gestured towards the door, "and kindly fuck off."

I didn't hesitate, and with a final glimpse of those obscure eyes, wondering what was really swimming in them, I left.

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