Chapter 5: Hate

He kissed me back.

His hands came up into my hair, and the box of my things went over on the floor.

I did not care.

I walked him backward until his shoulders hit the wall by the door, and the picture frames rattled.

"You do not get to come here," I said against his mouth, "and say that you miss me."

"I didn't say it."

"You said it with your whole face."

He laughed, low, a sound I had not heard in a week.

I pulled his wet hoodie over his head and dropped it on the floor.

The black staff lines on his left forearm were the first thing I saw, as always.

I put my mouth on them.

He hissed through his teeth.

"Laurel."

"Shut up."

I pushed his T-shirt up and bit his stomach, hard enough to leave a mark.

His hips jerked, and his hand slammed flat against the wall.

"God," he said. "You're mad."

"I'm furious."

"Good. Be furious on me."

I got his belt open, and then the button, and then I pushed his jeans down his thighs.

He was already hard, thick and heavy in my hand, and he groaned when I closed my fingers around him.

I stroked him slowly, from the base to the head, and watched his face.

His eyes were half shut, and his lip was caught in his teeth.

For two years I had done this in the dark, quietly, because he said the neighbors could hear.

There were no neighbors tonight.

"Louder," I said.

I tightened my grip, and he gave me what I asked for, a rough, broken sound that went straight between my legs.

"You're good at being quiet," I said. "I'm tired of it."

"Then make me loud."

I dropped to my knees on the cold floorboards and took him in my mouth.

He swore, and the back of his head hit the wall.

I went down slowly, tasting salt and skin, and then pulled back and swirled my tongue under the head.

His fingers tangled in my hair, not pushing, only holding on.

I looked up at him.

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