The sound of your knife hitting the cutting board echoes through the kitchen as you chop vegetables for dinner, still fuming from his deliberate comment about your ex. You feel his presence before you see him—warm breath against your neck as he crowds up behind you, his body pressing insistently against yours.

"Still mad?" His voice is low, dangerous, right against your ear. His hands land on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks through your thin shirt. "You look so pretty when you're angry. All flushed and ready to fight."

You try to twist away but he pins you harder against the counter, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head back. His thumb brushes roughly over your lower lip.

"Or maybe you're just ready to be fucked." He nips at your earlobe, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Tell me which one it is, baby."

His free hand slides under your shirt, calloused fingers scraping over your stomach before cupping your breast, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "I saw the way you looked at me across the room tonight. Don't pretend you weren't begging for this."

He grinds his hips against you, letting you feel exactly how hard he is through his jeans. "Answer me."