Nemesis (Enemies-to-lovers Standalone)

by Maya Rose

  My heart rattles. It’s a lot to take in. Not to mention there’s an intensity to his expression that I can’t disambiguate, and it’s doing a number on me.

  “That’s not new--men have always wanted to fuck me.” I joke weakly, because I do get the gravity of what he’s saying. My life has changed. Nothing’s simple anymore. More shit will unfold. But do I have to start worrying about it right away? Right now?

  Nostrils flaring, his jaw sets in a hard line, and eyes steel. “Like I said, think before you open your fucking mouth.” He grinds out.

  It pinches. The way he says it. Chastising. It reminds me of that day with Warren when he said those things about me. “I’m not a child, Mr King.”

  “No, you’re fucking not.” His fist slugs on the table in a heavy pound, startling me, my fork dropping in the plate with a clang. “And yet you insist on calling me Mr King like I’m your goddamn boss or teacher.”

  Is he kidding me? He doesn’t know why I won’t call him Eli? “That’s...that’s...different. You know that’s different.” I seethe.

  “What I know is that you’re focusing on the wrong goddamn things, Ms Walton.” His voice mounts towards the end.

  Ugh. “And what should I be focusing on?”

  His lips curve upward in a snarl, his eyes turbulent. “Warren wants to host a reception. Or a ball or something. For the press, board members, senior execs from across the globe, some key partners we work with. He thinks that way you can meet everyone in one go in a controlled environment.”

  What is he getting at? “And what do you think?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think.” He fires thickly. “It matters if you think you’re ready.”

  Is there any point denying it? It matters to me what he thinks of me. And it’s clearly not much. I want to punch him and then kiss it all better. “So you don’t think I’m ready.”

  “You’re still flinching when I call you Ms Walton.”

  Damn it. “I just need a little more--”

  “And you’re turned on if I call you anything else.” He continues coolly.

  What the hell? “Hey! Not anything--”

  “And now you’re blushing just thinking about it.”

  His calmed down voice cutting me off does it. My body is swimming with this amalgam of irrational desire and flaming bloodlust. “I’m not turned on just because of what you’re saying!!” I yell at him. “It’s because it’s you that’s saying it!! Because you’re so hot and big and impossibly sexy that all I’m thinking about is how good your freaking tongue felt in my pussy! And how much I need you to throw me down on this table right now and fuck my brains out hard and rough! You think I like feeling like this? That I’m thrilled I can’t freaking stop touching myself because you won’t?! That I can’t focus because I’m craving the damn weight of your body on me?!”

  By the time I’m done, he’s gone into some kind of an inanimate trance, eyes fastened on my face.

  Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit…I drop the knife and scuttle from the table, uncaring how graceless I must look. After that monologue, do I even have any grace or dignity left? I’m going to close the door this time and just--

  His fingers lace cruelly over my forearm right outside the door of my room. He swings me around and packs me against the hallway wall, his free palm slamming on the concrete, caging me from the other side.

  “You don’t run from me. You don’t ever fucking run from me--you hear me?” Pupils dilated and irises pitch dark, his breath comes in ragged surges on my face, like it’s taking effort for him to inhale and exhale.

  His wild look on me and that earthy unshowered scent, clog all the blood vessels to my brain until every thought that remains is infected by him. Why--God, why can’t I have him just once? And if I can’t, what else can I do but run?

  “Why not? Why the hell not?!” I demand.

  “Because it un-fucking-hinges me!!” He roars with a fury that both makes me hot and calms me down. “So get in my face all you want and say what you want to say and I will listen! But I’m not going anywhere and neither will you--is that clear?”

  I might have lost all my motor functions. I’m half sagging against the wall, half against him, unable to get past the turmoil and fidelity in his words and in his expression. I stay there like that, tongueless, legless, just looking at him.

  “Nod!” He demands.

  And I do. Because I unhinge him. And because he unravels me and puts me back in a safe cocoon over and over.

  His breathing stabilizes, and he draws in a deep breath. “Now--how wet are you?”

  Oh God. Oh dear God. “I...I--”

  “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. It’ll last an hour and I want you to sit in with me--it’s best you and I start giving Warren what he wants. So I’ll ask again. You need to come right now or you can wait another 75 minutes?”

  The air in my lungs stilts. Is he asking what I think he’s asking? My heart speeds up and I make my tongue move. “Are...are you going to--”

  “Fuck you? No.” He answers, sliding his hand through his hair and stepping back, leaving me propped against the wall. “But I am going to get you off. So what’s it going to be? Now or in--”

  “Now.” It rips from me. Because I’m horny and he’s telling me plainly that it’s okay to be. And that he’ll take care of me.

  “Good. Same rules--if you want out, you can ask me to fuck off any time and I will. With me?” His gaze is cocksure. But it’s also warm as hell. I’ve never met anyone like him. Is there anyone like him?

  “Yeah.” I say. At least I think I say it.

  I must have, because he swoops in, hooks his thumbs inside the edges of my leggings and peels them down my legs along with my panties in one smooth motion, leaving them pooled around my feet.

  Cold air hits me waist down and I prod the wall with my palms to keep standing.

  “Goddamn, Ariel.” He says, breathing labored. “You’re fucking breathtaking.” His words are incensed, eyes racing hysterically over my bare skin, before reeling up to my face. “Touch yourself. Like you do when you’re alone.”

  I’m hyperventilating. Wait wait wait, shit, what? I glance around and swallow. The room is right there. Why are we doing this in the hallway? “Here?”

  “Yes. Here. I haven’t changed my mind about not fucking you. And if we go inside, I will want to fuck you. And you won’t stop me.” Then I watch, and I watch, as he unbuttons and unzips his own pants, pulls them down, then his boxers, and I’m staring at a rock hard slab of taut skin. Long and thick, head plump and purple crimson. And wet at the tip. Big dollops of moisture oozing as I look on, my tongue tingling at the thought of a taste, my pupils widening--maybe permanently.

  “Okay if I do this with you?” His hoarse voice asks me, while he’s dragging his coiled fist up and down the smooth length.

  Do what with me? Is he trying to kill me? I’ve never freaking seen a cock before in real life. Or thighs these incredible that I want to run my tongue all over them. And now he’s just going to...what--jerk off in front of me?

  I’m close to stroking out. “Eli...” I squeak.

  He releases his cock, and darts forward with a curse, his hands building a makeshift prison around me on the wall, his inflated cock bobbing between us. “For fuck’s sake baby girl, stick your fingers inside that tight pussy and put me out of my misery.”

  Sweet freaking Jesus. If he keeps talking that way, I won’t need my fingers to come. Why isn’t he touching me? I lift my hands to pull his face towards my lips, but he seizes my wrists and holds them up, suspended in mid-air. Then I feel his iron-like length push itself right above my mound, only inches above my clit and my head rolls back against the wall. My eyes shut tight and I push my hips harder into that contact. Moving shamelessly so that my pussy can feel the beginning of his swollen hardness inside it.

  But he’s pulling my hand there instead, and before I can understand his intention, he’s placing my palm over my sopping wet entrance.<
br />
  “Inside. Now.” He commands savagely.

  I do it because I’m hurting. I do it because he seems to be hurting too. His hand stays on my wrist, but lightens its hold, giving my fingers room to move. And I use the freedom he’s giving me. My fingers slip inside my folds, moving upward, not stopping till I’m fingering my clit and it’s like a freaking gooey oven in there.

  “Ahhh...Eli…” I moan.

  “You’re doing great, beautiful.” He rumbles in my ear in satisfaction. “Are you fingering your clit--that fucking nub of silk?”

  Beautiful. He called me beautiful. Almost lovingly. “Yes...shit…” My fingers move faster, adding pressure, rubbing circles around it, and it’s so good but still not enough.

  “Curl your fingers higher to the left.” Then he loosens my other wrist. “Pinch your nipple.”

  I swear I have some sort of learning disability right now. I hear him, but I’m having trouble following instructions. And his penis swabbing against my mound is adding to my utter brain freeze. “I...I’m not--”

  His hand guides mine over my breast. “Press that round tit. Pinch the nipple. It’s hard already, isn’t it?” He whispers, low and coarse. “Make it hurt more.”

  It’s already hurting too much than I can take, I want to tell him. But I’m suddenly consumed by this need to do a good job listening to him. Even in something as silly as this, I want him to be proud of me. Because it’s him. The only man I want to please. And whatever he’s doing, it’s working. I’m paddling at the edge of bliss and release. So I squeeze my areola hard and pull my nipple. The stab is so good I never want to stop and my moans fill the air.

  Then his words. “Now--curl your fingers like I said. Up and left.”

  God, he’s dumbing down directions for me. And it’s helping. I shift my fingers and inch higher, not knowing what I’m going to find, anticipation building regardless that it’s going to be--

  Oh. Oh. Oh my.

  I can feel my lips curve in a big drunken smile. I’ve always only played with my clit, and Eli King has now initiated me into a whole new realm of possibilities. “Eli...this is...that’s…”

  “That’s your g-spot, sweetness.” His voice is a chuckle and purr. “Now massage it. Slow and steady. But hard. Show me that you really fucking want to come.”

  I rub that spot, steady and constant like he said, and I pinch my nipple harder till little tremors of exquisite pain run down to the tips of my toes. His hands don’t leave my wrists the whole time, staying, offering support, but letting me control the pace and pressure and rhythm while my fingers grind deeper and faster. His cock is nestled between us, scraping against my naked skin with every move I make, coaxing my climax to the surface.

  This time I feel it. When I’m at the brink. And I have to tell him. I want to tell this man everything. “Eli...I’m going to--”

  “Yeah you are.” He croons. “Come, princess.”

  And I do that too. All over my own hand. Jolts of pleasure shoot down my body as it bursts, harder than any orgasm I’ve ever had on my own. He presses hot kisses on my jaw and collarbone while I make noises like a porn star, squirming and twisting with pain and rapture between the wall and him, his thickset cock lending constant electrifying friction.

  When the shocks subside, I look up at him. I realize that I’ve been holding my breath when it all comes out in a giant exhale on his jawbone. God, the wicked look on his pleased face.

  “My turn?” He lifts one eyebrow and asks, and...umm...what now?

  He draws my hand out of my pussy, and without a pause places it on his cock, his other hand letting go of mine to rest on my hip. “Need lube.” He says it like he’s saying he needs his stupid unhealthy soda or something, and then steers my hand along his stiff length. From root to head. Once. Twice. Till it’s slick and smooth and shiny, slathered with my cum.

  Then he’s stroking that beautiful fat cock. No, I am. No, we are. He makes my fingers twist harder on that hot, wet steel as our hands jerk him off together, stopping only for a second to rub his thumb over his leaking head.

  Huffing through his nose, he makes our hands go faster, and when he looks up to bait my eyes, the brilliance of that rough, lusty glaze has me tussling to keep my own lungs working. Gripping my hand over his cock tighter, he aims it over my slit. “Can I come on your pussy?”

  Stick a damn fork in me. “Please.” I beg breathlessly.

  “Fucking hell.” He erupts. “Goddamn. Fucking. Hell.” His large body convulses against me in a weighty thrust, our hands still pumping him. I use my other hand to pull him closer with a jerk, just when long, heavy bursts of cream start coating my hand and lower belly and pussy and thighs. Warm. Viscous. His fingers brand me with a tight grip, and his groans are like the sweetest melody, interspersed with a litany of curses. I can’t remove my eyes from where we are linked. Our palms layered on his still semi-hard cock that grinds over my flesh. His cum, mine. So much of it that all I can smell is sex.

  I feel empty when he relaxes, frantic that he’s going to cleave contact. But he drags his chest back leisurely, like he’s in no hurry to go anywhere. It reminds me. “Was that more than 15 minutes? Are you late for the meeting?”

  His eyes sketch my face like they’re looking for a hidden map, tongue darting out to wet his lips, while I wait for an answer that never comes. Instead, he pulls my fingers up from his cock and shoves them in my mouth. “Taste.”

  It doesn’t even occur to me to refuse or think for a damn second about what he’s asking me to do, the authority of his intense blue gaze absolute. I suck without inhibition, like they’re my favorite popsicle, licking and swallowing our combined release. It tastes better than anything I’ve ever made. Just because his flavor is mixed into it.

  I’m grasping at straws, licking even though I’ve pretty much cleaned my fingers off, when his hands cup my ass and lift me up.

  I gasp, involuntarily taking my fingers out of my mouth, my palms sliding up his chest and settling on his shoulders. He bends sideways, keeping his hold on me, and picks up my discarded clothes. Wordlessly, without breaking eye contact, he carries me to the guest bathroom again, placing me down on the same counter again. He takes the drying cloth that hangs next to the sink and runs warm water over it for several seconds. My eyes pop as he uses one hand to spread my legs, and starts wiping me with the other. My belly, the inside of my thighs, the area around my pussy. Slowly, so damn gently, thoroughly, a trough forming between his brows as he gives it his hundred percent. My eyes feel weird. But it’s only when he takes a dry cloth from the cabinet and pats me dry with it, is when I have this dire mortifying impulse to sob. He carries on, blind to the storm within me, checking to make sure I’m clean and dry before putting my panties back on. Then my leggings. While he’s himself naked and messy waist down.

  My eyes fly up when he’s done, and his are waiting for them. Locks of his hair drape over his forehead, and I suddenly want to set them proper like they usually are. I raise my arm, but he follows my mind, gently lowering my hand before I can do anything.

  “Let it be.” He says with quiet firmness, still not rushing to his meeting. And he doesn’t let go of my hand. Keeps it in his, on my knee.

  Why? I want to scream and demand. Why? For everything. I’ve tampered with so much. Disordered his clothes, his hair, his work, his days, possibly his meeting...maybe his whole life plan. And he’s sticking around with a swag that’s making me realize just what I was always missing in my life. Living but never alive. Needed but never truly desired. Provided for but never taken care of. Lusted after but never wanted. Why is he doing that?

  “Eli?” I venture, unsure what I want to say to him. Just needing to hear the way his name feels on my tongue.

  “Yeah?” His gaze is questioning, but sated, the lean lines of his face seeming softer.

  What is this twitch in my heart that won’t work itself out? I already trust him. I might actually like him. What’s next? I won’t be mom. I won’t be
mom. I won’t. But I’m drowning, and I want to do nothing to stay afloat. “You’re really never going to fuck me?”

  That wasn’t what I wanted to say at all. I’m acting like this stupid randy kid who thinks of nothing else. But what I want him to do right now, is what he does every time. Shoot me down. Tell me that this is as far as he and I can get. Remind me of the ways in which this doesn’t end well for me. That whatever this is, it’s the heat of the moment, and I can blame the adrenaline for this maniacal connection I feel with him in a matter of days.

  “No, I’m really not going to fuck you.” He says, obdurate and pragmatic as ever, holding my gaze.

  It’s what I wanted to hear. And yet it wrecks me harder than I expected. I’ll never know what it is like to be filled with him. But at least now I don’t have to wonder or live with some false sense of hope. This is...good. Now I can move past this. I have to.

  Then he adds, “And I’m not letting any other fucker touch you either.”

  My heart jangles at an unhealthy tempo. “Excuse me? You can’t--”

  “I can. And I fucking will.” He declares with an unshakable expression, stepping back, entirely unselfconscious of the thick fully erect giant muscle flapping down heavily with its own weight.

  Why is it that he’s half nude and I’m the one feeling fully naked? I imagine the timer on the explosive inside my ribcage counting down. And it’s pretty freaking close to zero. “Why? What’s it to you?”

  Say it’s for Warren. For the hotels. For the money. Throw me any excuse and I will accept--

  “Because I won’t let you want anyone more than you want me.”

  It should piss me off. This selfish, gnarly form of ownership should really seriously piss me off, and not dull my defenses. But that’s exactly what it does. Because somewhere behind the dominion in his words, is the incontestable fact that he isn’t ready to give me up.