He's furious, I can practically taste his anger. For a moment I'm almost afraid, fearing that I have misjudged him, that my death warrant has been signed. Then he makes the mistake of touching me, clarity slices through the fog. I know his deep, dark secret. He still wants me, he's painfully aroused. He's getting off on this, even with his blinding fury.

I arch into him, not holding back the moan that emerges when his fingers thrust deep inside me. It is good, satisfying that ache momentarily but I can't pretend that it's enough. I've had all of him before and his hand is a poor substitute for the real thing.

My head turns, tongue swiping against the sandpapered flesh of his jawbone, wetting it before I bite down hard. I won't satisfy him verbally, letting him hear the words he wants me to say. My body is answering enough as it is, my inner muscles clenching around the fingers he has inside.

The violence of the foreplay is setting my soul on fire, I know that I feeding directly off of him, but it's never been like this before. It's addictive, I want more.

My hand reaches back, fisting his cock, stroking him, my thumb nail scraping ever so slightly on the sensitive underside. "Why don't I?" I ask, my hand moving down, cupping him fully. "Because I'm not nice."