✰ JOHNNY ORLANDO ✰
She smelt like flowers. It was intoxicating, her scent. It made me drunk, drunk on the idea of her, drunk on what we were about to do, drunk with desire, drunk with want, drunk with need. I couldn't get enough.
She was slow. Agonizingly slow, just like she said she liked. And she did like it. She liked to tease. Bring me to the brink of the cliff and then deliberately not jump off.
She had moves my exes could only dream of. She'd kiss down my neck, and then my collarbone, leave the lightest hickey, the slightest bruise, and then proceed to whisper the dirtiest sentences I'd ever heard. Sentences that made me want to have her, to be rough with her, to know her in the way that I didn't yet.
When she pushed me too far, I bunched the fabric of her dress in my hands and it ripped. I cursed under my breath.
"Shit, baby, you liked that?" She'd muttered, looking up at me with innocent hazel eyes. I looked down at her with a mixture of distaste and admiration. I'd had enough of her teasing.
I tore the inseam of her dress from the hem to the armpit. It made a loud ripping sound, and for once, she was quiet. We stood staring at each other.
"Get it off." Was all I said. Obediently, she pulled it off over her head, chucking it in the corner and never breaking eye contact.
Her dress was the first to go. My shirt was the next. Then my shoes. In between kisses on her bed, her bra was after. Then my jeans, our socks, and finally, her panties and my boxers.
It was slow. It was rough. It was loud– just the way we both liked it. When we lay on her bed afterwards, struggling to catch a breath with sides touching, our naked bodies sweaty, I decided it was the best sex I'd ever had. With anyone. Ever.
There was something about the equal mixture of love and hate that really lit me up from within; something that made me go harder, try harder, be harder. Because although I was drunk on her, we couldn't be together, and I knew that deep down in my bones. She was far too good for me, and I shouldn't ever indulge into any fantasies of us living a happy ever after.
I reminded myself not to care about her. To be the asshole everyone believed I was. The asshole that she hated. We needed hate to balance us out if we were ever going to work. This couldn't fail.
So while we lay there, my heart still pounding and my mind still reeling from the pleasure her body had given me, I insulted her. "I still really fucking hate you."
She laughed bitterly, turning on her side to face me, eyes blazing. I kept my eyes trained on her face and didn't let myself look down at her body. "This relationship is more than dysfunctional." She said.
"This isn't a relationship." I replied automatically, my tone of voice flat.
"Oh, so we should leave this here then? Pretend it never happened, right?" She was furious already. I wonder whether I should be flattered that only I could get under her skin like this.
"Wrong." I replied, rolling out of her bed and trying to locate my clothes where they had been discarded around her room.
"Excuse me?" Her voice was shrill. Shocked.
"You should dump Isaak." I pulled on my boxers and turned to face her.
"Why?" She laughed mirthlessly, pulling her covers to her chest. "So you can come into my room and night and fuck me without feeling guilty?"
"No. Because you haven't had good sex in a long time, I could tell."
She grabbed one of her pillows and threw it at me, hard. "Are you insulting me?" Her voice always seemed to get three octaves higher when she was mad.
