The Hate Vow by Nicole French

Nine

Despite his taste for the finer things in life, Eric had lived modestly when I knew him before. Student housing through law school, and then a tiny two-bedroom a few blocks from here that he actually shared briefly with Skylar before she and Brandon got married. I had no idea where he lived between then and now, but it couldn’t have been this place.

Then again, what did I know? Maybe he had owned it the entire time.

“This is where you live?”

I wandered into the apartment with wide eyes, honestly unsure of where I should even set my purse. The Lucite entry console? The sleek silver counters? Maybe the white leather armchair positioned by a single bookshelf. Everything was sterile and utterly charmless.

I turned around to where Eric was placing his keys in an empty glass bowl by the door. “You really are a Petri dish. This is basically a laboratory.”

The entire apartment was white, silver, and glass. It wasn’t huge—these places in the North End never were. But what it lacked in space, it made up with perfection. The stainless-steel counters in the kitchen were spotless under rows of bright white cabinets, the four-person dining table with steel legs and blonde wood looked like no one had ever eaten there, and the row of Harper’s magazines on the glass and steel coffee table in the lounge were neatly fanned in front of an immaculate white, mid-century modern sofa. It was the opposite of my former homely studio, my parents’ messy house in Evanston, or the plastic-covered chaos of my mother’s condo. He had obviously paid someone a lot of money to create this ice palace.

Eric untied his half-Windsor knot as he strode into the kitchen, his black boots clipping across gleaming parquet floors. The Boston skyline twinkled against the clear night sky through picture windows.

He fixed himself another finger of vodka, then turned to where I stood, somewhat nervously, in the middle of the room, much to conscious of the fact that I was the only drop of color in it.

“Like one?” he asked, holding up his glass. Both strands of his tie hung down his chest, waiting to be tugged.

My head felt fuzzy, but the PBR was wearing off. Beer before liquor…I thought hazily.

“No,” I said, to my surprise. I couldn’t stop staring at his tie. Thinking of all the things he could do with it. Then I looked straight at him. “You know what I want.” No use beating around the bush.

Eric’s eyes didn’t leave mine as he sipped on his vodka. His expression was blank, and again, the urge to shatter that smug demeanor coursed through me. Why did he always have to look like that? Like nothing ever bothered him? Especially since the whole world seemed to bother me?

“I have to leave on Monday,” he said. “That’s when I told her I’d be there. Or, I suppose, that’s when she said I have to start.”

I blinked. That was not what I was expecting. “She?”

He took another long drink. “Grandmother.”

I frowned. “You know, I really didn’t come up here to chat about dear old Granny and her maniacal marriage plot.”

Eric emptied his drink, then set the glass in the sink with unnecessary force. “No, but we’re going to have to.” When he looked up, his eyes had lost all humor. “I gave you a week, Jane. You’ve had time.” His head tipped to one side. “Tell me, and I’ll give you what you want.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding. You’re going to hold out on me now, VD? After all that damn foreplay? Two minutes ago, you had your hands all over my ass, and now you want to play hard to get?”

His mouth twisted into a smirk that was half delicious, half infuriating. “That’s right.”

I watched irritably as he rounded the kitchen island to where I stood, taking one measured step at a time.

He tipped my chin up, forcing me to look at him. “I need an answer, Jane.”

I swallowed. Monday was in two days. “Don’t give a girl much time, do you?”

The hand on my chin didn’t move. “I don’t have much time, Jane.” For a second those deep gray eyes shuttered. “Such is life, I suppose.”

I swallowed. “Well, then. I’d better decide, hadn’t I?”

He stared at me, hard, and then his hand dropped. “Jane. Cut the bullshit. Yes or no?”

I kept my chin where it was—lifted and defiant. His hands flexed by his sides. I could only guess what he wanted to do with them. It was too easy to imagine.

* * *

“Turn around, pretty girl.”

I did. I had defied him enough tonight, and my ass was a bright shade of pink to show for it.

Eric smirked as I placed my hands neatly on his counter, pushing myself out slightly for his viewing pleasure.

“That’s a very nice view,” he remarked, circling halfway around me and back again. Though I couldn’t see his face, his gaze seared my skin.

Soft lips grazed the back of my thighs, drifting across the delicate skin like feathers.

“So beautiful,” he murmured as he slipped a hand between them. “So…fucking…beautiful.”

I arched into his touch as one finger breached my entrance.

“You like that?” he asked from below. “You want more?”

* * *

“Jane?”

I blinked. “What?”

His brows knit together in irritation. “Yes. Or. No?”

I exhaled and walked toward the windows. Below, Hanover still bustled in spite of the late hour. Boston was a city full of young, virile bodies trapped on its historic grounds. I watched as one pair toppled into a dark corner. The spot between my legs throbbed.

“Jane.”

God, he was annoying. Stubborn, really, like a dog with a bone.

I turned, leaned back against the window, and crossed one ankle over the other. Eric approached, placing one hand on the glass over my shoulder so he could loom over me, a dark Adonis lit only by the sparkling lights of the city below.

I glanced up at his hand. “Sure you want to leave a print like that?”

His face didn’t move. “Your answer, Jane.”

“What do you think…Petri?”

A second later, I was whirled around, my wrists cuffed behind my back by one of Eric’s large hands while the other wrapped around my chin, forcing me to look out the picture window.

“I think,” he said, staring at our reflections with an intensity that I couldn’t believe I had forgotten. “You need to stop fucking around.”

“Let go of me,” I said, struggling, but not. Just enough to make him fight a little. Give him something to control.

Which he did. The grip on my wrists turned iron, while his other hand flicked open my jeans, then slid down the front with a harsh shove that had me gasping already.

“Is this what you want?” he demanded as he tugged the material roughly to my ankles, suddenly baring my legs to the cold of the glass, the harsh chill of the room, and the warmth of his body behind me.

“You know what I want. And it’s not to be held hostage by your arrogant ass.”

His hand found my ass with a loud crack, and I jumped as he pushed me against the glass. My breathing came up short, and it wasn’t because I was scared. It was because I was turned on. So fucking turned on.

“Say that again,” he said as his palm now soothed the flaming skin.

“That again.”

Smack. I jerked, wanting to punch him and beg him for more at the same time.

Again, another soft caress. “You really want this, don’t you?”

I twisted to look over my shoulder. “Don’t I?”

He was finding it harder to mask his frustration. I only found it more erotic, and if the long, hard bulge pressed against me was any indicator, so did he.

He jerked me back against him, his teeth grazing my earlobe. “You are playing with fucking fire here, Jane. Don’t toy with me. Or have you forgotten what I’m capable of?”

In my experience, most men treated the clitoris like a light switch or El Dorado—it was either too common to treat nicely, or they acted like it was a mythical land no one could find, their fingers dancing around in itinerant, drunk circles until the girl faked it or took care of herself.

Eric, however, knew exactly what to do. Slip his fingers under the cotton edge of my underwear. Dip his fingertips into the sensitive, damp folds. Toy lightly, tickle until my breath came short. Explore, little by little, not with the tips, but with the pads of his fingers one at a time, and then, when he found the right spot, move two fingertips in a firm, insistent rhythm that quickly drove all rational thoughts out of my mind. This was just one of Eric’s many gifts.

I groaned, smashing my entire face against the window when he dropped my wrists. It was all I could do to remain upright—I needed the brace of his body behind me to keep me standing. One of Eric’s hands slipped around my hips and down, past the flimsy material and into the warmth that awaited him. He found my clit with practiced skill—like it had only been five days, not five years—and began to rub in those slow, delicious circles I had craved for so long.

“That’s it, isn’t it, pretty girl? God, you’re shaking.” His mouth hovered next to my ear, his breath hot, his lips grazing my earlobe. “I’d never forget this pussy. I’d never forget you.”

“Jesus,” I moaned against the glass, my breath clouding it next to my face. The man was a genius. That was all there was to it.

His other hand slid up my thigh from behind, taking a minute to massage one ass cheek, then the other. He pulled it away, and for a second, I braced myself for a quick slap.

“No, not this time, pretty girl.” His deep voice vibrated against my neck. “But you want it, don’t you? You always did.”

“D-don’t get ahead of yourself,” I said, but my retort was weak. I was too busy melting. He was completely correct. I did want it. This was exactly what I needed. The shadow of grief that had been shading me like a veil for the last nine months was finally being chased away. Here in the dark, the world was bright again. Here, with Eric’s slow, careful movements, I could finally—

Smack!

I jumped with a squeak, as pain and, yes, desire shot through my body.

Eric rubbed his hand over my ass again. “That was for your smart mouth,” he said. “Don’t forget who’s in control here.” The fingers on my clit continued their steady drive while his other hand slipped between my thighs, up, up, farther and farther until finally his thumb tickled my soaking wet entrance.

“You want it, don’t you?” he growled as he toyed with me. “My finger? Or do you want my dick instead?”

“Ummmmm.”

The man was literally driving the words from my mouth. I, mouthy Jane Lefferts, could no longer speak in complete sentences. Fucking Eric. Fucking delicious, finger voodoo, god of sex Eric.

“Tell me,” he said as two of said digits slipped just inside. His other hand moved slightly faster, harder over that tight bud. I emitted a long, low moan.

“What do you want, Jane?”

I exhaled through my teeth, gritting them tight as he drew me toward the edge and pulled me away again just by adjusting his fingers’ cadence. Slower. Faster. Then slow again. “I want…Jesus Christ, Eric…”

There was a low chuckle behind my ear, and then I felt the wet of his tongue as he traced its edge, then dipped inside there too. He was penetrating me, just slightly, in two different places, but not enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

“Your dick,” I blurted, jerking my hips back toward him. “Fucking hell, Eric. I need your cock. Like, right fucking now.”

The chuckle returned as his fingers pressed harder, even faster now, and the fingers at my pussy slipped all the way in, forcefully enough that I jumped.

“I want you to come first,” he said. “I want to watch you fall apart in my hands before I split you in two, pretty girl.”

His hand drove now, pumping mercilessly while his other absorbed the pressure outside, coaxing my ecstasy forward. I rocked against them, urging him to fuck me harder with his hands. Higher…higher…oh, God, here it came…

“I’m going to come,” I moaned as I felt myself starting to topple over.

“Are you?”

‘Y-yesssss,” I breathed, feeling that imminent ledge approach. It had been so long…

And then—his hands disappeared.

My body throbbed. It ached. But his body, his hands, his long, solid length pressed against my thigh—All of it evaporated. And I was left plastered against his fishbowl windows with my pants down to my ankles while his footsteps receded.

I twisted around to find Eric walking down the far hall, adjusting himself as he went.

“Hey!”

He didn’t answer—just kept striding toward his bedroom.

“Hey!”

When he still didn’t answer, I shimmied after him like an awkward penguin, managed to get my pants back up, and then jogged across the apartment to catch him at the end of the hall.

“Eric!”

When he still didn’t turn around, I kicked him. Right in the stupid, irritatingly round, perfectly placed tush. With my boot. Really, fucking hard.

Then the bastard whirled around. “What the fuck, Jane? Did you just kick me?”

“Right in the ass, yep! I literally just kicked your ass. Because who the fuck brings a girl that close to an orgasm and leaves her high and dry?”

Eric shook his head, like he couldn’t believe it. “Like you’re going to do to me? You just came to Boston to toy with me, didn’t you? You don’t give a shit about my problems, about this shitty situation. I ask you one fucking question, yes or no, and you’re still toying with me. Well, two can play that game, gorgeous.”

My mouth dropped. “Are you serious right now? Who’s been playing games, asshole? You flirt all charmingly, get me all hot and heavy, when really you were just trying to manipulate me into a marriage contract so you can get your precious billions. Is that what the banter was for? All the ‘you know me better than anyone’ bullshit? The kiss too?”

Eric stormed toward me, forceful enough that I wanted to back down, but my pride wouldn’t let me. Because fuck him.

“No,” he growled. “That was because I couldn’t fucking not.”

He whipped my arms around my back and walked me backwards toward another window, this one looking out onto a quieter street at the end of the hall. My knees buckled as my ass slammed into the edge of a wood console. A few seconds later, my boots were hurled over his shoulder, and my pants were yanked completely off. I was hoisted bodily onto the sleek wood surface.

“You really haven’t changed, you know that, Lefferts? Always want to fight.”

He kissed me again, and this time it was hard, not soft; fast, not slow. His hands cuffed my wrists on either side as he yanked me into him, attacking me with his tongue, his body, everything he had.

“Is that what you want?” he demanded, breathless and chilly before he devoured me again. “A quick fuck? Someone who’ll use you and put you out of your misery?” His breathing hitched, and his low voice was growing uneven. He was angry. Just like me. “Or is it the fight you want? Well, like it or not, Lefferts, no one loves to fight you like I do.”

“Can’t quite keep your cool anymore, can you, Petri?” I jabbed back before nipping his lip.

Eric yelped, but delivered each kiss, bite for bite, bruise for bruise. His hands flew everywhere. “You’re a pain in the fucking ass, Jane.”

“You look like the dad from Full House.”

Another growl. “You look like a Powerpuff Girl fucked a Betty Boop impersonator.”

I yanked on his tie. “Cartoons? Really? Come up with something better than that, you polo-wearing twat.”

The hand in my hair twisted. “Please. You have ten different colors in your hair. You look like Rainbow Brite on acid.”

“Better than being a poster child for the Gestapo!” My hand slid roughly into his pants and took hold of him—anger, it seemed, turned Eric the fuck on. Well, that made two of us.

“Fuck!” Eric shouted, and then, in about four seconds, kicked his shoes away, ripped his pants down, applied a condom from his pocket, and shoved into me with another animal cry.

“You bastard!” I yelped as I clawed at his shoulder. “Take what you want, is it? Is this how marriage is going to be too? Fuck the foreplay, and use the girl?”

It was all for show. He knew it. I knew it. My cries were the only vestiges of control I had, since the simple shape of Eric’s long, slightly curved cock was doing its work better than I remembered.

“You’re so full of shit, Jane,” he said as he found his punishing rhythm—one that included my head banging against the glass behind me, and a screech of the console legs on the floors. “You love every fucking second of this. My dick. Your pussy. Stretching you. Punishing you. You love that my fingers are going to leave bruises all over your ass in the morning, and your neck will be covered with bite marks. My marks.”

His teeth sank into my neck, just under my ear, hard enough that I yelped.

He thrust even harder.

“Fuck. You,” I gritted out, even as I snaked a hand around his neck to hold him in place. If he stopped, I really would kick his ass.

“You are,” he retorted as he continued to split me in half. Just as promised.

And then it hit me. One, two, three more harsh thrusts. My body, which had already been brought to the brink before he’d walked away so cruelly, couldn’t fight the tidal wave that crashed through me.

It was always like this with him. It was why, even when I couldn’t stand him, I could never forget him.

I didn’t just come with Eric. I fucking hurtled.

“GoddammitmotherfuckerholySHIT!” I shouted loud enough that my throat hurt as my head slammed against the window behind me. Profanities spilled out of me one after another, again and again as Eric rattled through me.

He came with a shout, his iron grip on my body tight enough that there would be fingerprints, just as he promised. Both our tensed, angry bodies shook until every inch of animosity escaped, one violent shake at a time. It was like the glass walls didn’t exist, and all the energy, the anxiety, the hate we both felt was free to fly out to the city, disintegrate into the atmosphere.

And all that was left, shared skin on skin, lips on lips, was satiety. Contentment. Bliss.

Eric.