Eternal Longing ✓

6. His Little Artist

FINLEY

Seeing her fight her instincts is a pleasure I delight in very much.

It gets my lips to tip up, my mind to focus, and undoubtedly makes my dick hard.

She's the only thing that rouses such strong emotions out of me. I feed on her frustration, feasting on it as if it is my last meal. But even then, the pleasure is nothing compared to the one I feel when she actually pushes back.

When she takes the bait and agrees to a verbal spar with me despite the respectability that has been ingrained in her. In those moments, she's even more outstanding than she already is.

Her soft, warm body is primed to fight. Her fists are bunched up adorably and a light sheen of perspiration coats her lush, dark skin.

For a moment, a voice in the back of my head tries to remind me that I'm not here to admire Jaya from close. I am not here to kiss her full lips one more time, or to caress those high cheekbones of hers.

Indeed, I am here for a purpose. One that does not include fucking Jaya against a public bathroom sink and withholding her climax until she crawls back to me on her hands and knees.

I am not here to tie, blindfold, and fuck her the way she likes, but I'm here for a reason that I've slowly found myself yearning for in the last year.

Perhaps calling it revenge would be a tad misguided. I'm not insecure enough to overwhelm a girl if she wants nothing to do with me. Granted, I don't have any experience with being rejected apart from Jaya, but the claim remains.

Revenge, more often than not, is driven by some form of insecurity mixed in with a good dose of anger. Or sometimes pain accompanied by resentment.

But I do not feel any of those emotions. I'm not hurt or insecure or even resentful. No, I'm filled with pure rage. One that I want to spread and spread until it finally leaves me.

Jaya is not aware of this, but she's infested my every thought for a whole year. I've obsessed over her for longer than that, but I didn't feel all this rage until a year ago.

So, since thoughts of her have stubbornly refused to detach themselves from my brain, I'm here to torment her as well.

"S-Someone might come in, Finley. You have to leave." She tries to flatten herself, but her chest still brushes against mine as she takes in deep breaths.

"You haven't let him touch you, have you?"

She freezes at my question, her eyes wide and alert. "What?" she squeaks out, her eyes darting to the exit for a second.

Leaning forward until my lips are pressed against her ear, I resist the urge to inhale her distinct pomegranate-scented skin.

"Because I'd hate to have to break another arm to send a point across," I whisper harshly, making sure she hears every word loud and clear.

Yes, little artist. This is a threat.

She holds her breath in for a second, her mind probably reeling at the memory of Harrison's tiny fracture. Sure, it was technically a broken arm, but he's still alive, so it truly is a tiny injury compared to what I wanted to do to him.

Compared to what I was very close to doing to my own teammate if it wasn't for the very woman standing in front of me, it was nothing at all.

"He's my friend, Finley. Please don't hurt him." She grabs my shirt and bunches the material, her large eyes pleading with me to spare him. Some other guy.

"Don't fucking defend other men in front of me," I snap, darkness clouding my view.

She nods repeatedly, an apprehensive look on her face. "O-Okay, yes. I just don't want him-" She cuts herself off and clears her throat. "It just doesn't have to get to that."