Plant New Seeds | H.S.| AU

Chapter Thirty-Four - Hate

H A R R Y

If this was what being hated by Nia Janet Cole was like, I was horrified to find out what it felt like to be loved by her. The intensity of her hate-filled stare from across the room only made me think of how the beam of love would differ. Would it be just as strong or was it only reserved for pain, not pride?

Being hated by Nia Janet Cole meant watching her stand up at my command of round two, the anger-coated weariness lingering in her eyes before she turned her back to me. She was (still) just as turned on as I was.

But her arousal was completely against her will, only based on simple biology and absolutely nothing to do with passion beyond the physical realm. Her will was stolen by hate and honored by lust.

Being hated by Nia Janet Cole entailed not being able to see her gorgeous orgasmic-derived face as I fucked her relentlessly during our second round of angry sex. Her half-naked body hung over the armrest as I stood behind her, thrusting and pulling her hips against mine over-and-over again to free myself of a stubborn erection.

Despite the briefness of our sex life, it already felt wrong to not look her in the eyes while we fucked. How else would I be able to let her know that every single movement I made inside her was full of all the unimaginable things I felt for her? Things that I've never felt for anyone else, not even Bethany.

That was the point, I supposed.

Being hated by Nia Janet Cole meant following her orders and fucking her like I didn't care. I was willing to bet that her arms were sore from the way I pinned them behind her back, just as weak as her trembling knees buckling against mine that struggled to stay still.

After the intense orgasm I'd given her only ten minutes prior, her pussy was probably just as sensitive as our emotions.

But I pretended not to care and feigned the same hate in her heart she had for me.

I was so focused on winning the battle, shutting her the fuck up so she could listen, that I had little concern for her comfortability. Even if my white cushions had to suffer the consequences of her brown makeup. And if it meant pretending like I loved treating and talking to her like shit.

I hated it.

But she hated me.

So—being hated by Nia Janet Cole was all about making each other suffer, holding back all our usually-beautiful sounds of sheer ecstasy. It meant having to fuck in uncomfortable silence for the majority of the time alloted in our second round. Sans the occasional-rebellious moan or two slipping out every now-and-then.

No matter how amazing our bodies felt, the parts that mattered most—our heads—were a bottomless shit-pit. Deranged sex and untouched truths were a deadly combination, doused in a danger I ignored when I jumped on her and started it all.

Being hated by Nia Janet Cole included being robbed of a celebratory kiss to muffle our screams as I granted her a second—though less intense—orgasm. Her lips kissed the pillow it was buried into instead, her back heaving up and down from her heavy breathing as she gave into the feeling.

Physically, not really mentally.

Pretending to hate Nia Janet Cole meant that I still didn't come inside of her the way I desperately wanted to. Privileges like that were reserved for the love of her life, not the person she wished she never met. I released all over her plump ass instead like tomorrow didn't exist.

The harsh reality of it all was that our tomorrow probably didn't exist anymore, a tomorrow filled with opportunities to right my wrongs.

And that was how we wound up ruining my expensive, white chaise sofa from angry sex and all the stains that came along with it. Makeup, body fluids, and the biggest stain of them all: a fucked up memory we would be reminded of whenever we saw the sofa again.