“I’ll tell you what I don’t want,” he says, the fragrance of his skin and musky vanilla scent of his cologne flooding my nose and violating my desire. “I don’t want to deal with your sudden streak of confidence at five in the fucking morning.” He presses me up against the closed door with his chest. “I fuck you when I want, how I want. I own you. Period. Don’t pretend like you have any sort of say in this. Don’t convince yourself that you can play mind games with me, because you will lose. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.”
