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“Let me be clear. I could give zero fucks about your money or all this shit that comes with it.”

He’s looking down at his phone swiping his fingers back and forth as if what I’m saying is just background noise to him. And without even looking up, he mumbles a slick comment thinking that I wouldn’t be able to hear him “If you say so. You weren’t saying that when I bought those Christian Louboutin shoes your wearing or that outfit.”

And it feels like he’s just spit on me. The lack of respect, the- your irrelevant, the- “Yeah yeah whatever bitch”, the- I’m just fucking you to pass time and I can get three more of you in an hour, the- I’ve heard that before, the let me know when you’re done, the- I don’t believe a word that is coming out of your mouth, that is soaking, dripping, and laced all through out those two small sentences.

His- you’re not even important enough for me to look up and acknowledge your attitude, -my phone is more important than you, -whatever mindless bullshit I’m looking at is more important than you. I see red. No, I don’t just see red. I see blood red, scarlet red, burgundy, maroon, brick, yeah I’d like to throw a brick though his window right now, purple, blue, black, if I punched him in his face and gave his ass a black eye then I’m sure I’d get his attention, indigo, plum, violet, yeah I’m feeling violent. I’m infuriated, anger seething out of my pores. I become completely enraged, like an episode of Snapped enraged.

“What the fuck did you just say?” I spew cold and even toned. He looks up with an “oh shit” and “I didn’t mean to say that” look on his face.

“If . . . you . . . say . . . so. . .” I say to him pausing in between and emphasizing each word as if I’m spitting venom and tasting bile at the same time. He knows that’s my push button. The ONE thing he knows NOT to say to me. It’s like calling Will Smith Psycho in the movie Hancock.

“Did you just say to me, “If . . . you . . . say . . .so”? I repeat with my eyes narrowed and the side of my head leaning in. He looks at me like he knows he just inadvertently crossed the line. Now all of a sudden I have his attention. Now he wants to take his eyes off his phone.

“Aaalleeeexxx, wait a minute”. Like he knows I’m gonna lose it but he wants to calm the storm BEFORE it lets loose.

I reach down lifting my foot and grab my stiletto heel off as I balance myself on one foot and hurl the shoe across the room as hard as I can aiming for his face. “IF YOU SAY SO!!” He quickly bobs to the left lifting one hand to protect his face as if he’s a boxer ducking a punch. The tip of the heel still narrowly clipping the corner of his wrist, spinning like a bottle before it hits the floor and goes sliding like it’s trying to steal home base. He looks aghast taken completely by surprise at my immediate and over the top outburst. But before he can recover I’m already switching my balance bouncing on my now barefoot to take the other heel off throwing that at his face as well. “YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THESE STUPID ASS LOUBOUTIN SHOES!!” I’m shouting at the top of my lungs. He bobs again looking like Floyd Mayweather sparring in the ring. “FUCK THESE SHOES!!” “I DON’T EVEN LIKE THOSE UGLY ASS SHOES!!”

“Alex!!!” “Calm down!” I think I see him chuckle. Oh he thinks this shit is funny does he.

“YOU KNOW WHAT!! FUCK YOU!! I continue to strip unzipping the back of my dress, shimmying out of it and then throwing that at him too.

“AND FUCK THIS OUTFIT SINCE YOU PAID FOR THAT TOO!!”

My aim is impeccable. He catches it in midair right before that can hit his face too. He’s smart enough to keep his distance at this moment.

“Will you calm down . . . and stop screaming.”

He tries to say in a calming voice as if he’s some FBI negotiator using one of his straight out of training tactics that is supposed to work in bringing an unhinged irate suspect with a homemade cellphone ticking time bomb attached to his chest. When he sees me unhooking my black satin and lace bra his eyes widen with complete confusion as to why I could be this mad and at a loss of why I’m taking it this far and how can he stop me. My eyes glare with rage. Does he think that whenever he does something for me or buys something for me that he now has cart blanch to throw it in my face as if I asked him to buy me these things. I’ll show him what it means to throw something in someone’s face.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“You like to throw shit in people’s faces right.”

I ball up my bra hoping to give it a little more weight and aim for his face once again. I reach for my matching black lace thong putting my thumbs inside where my hips are. I stand bare breasted, bare footed and to add insult to injury I turn around and with one swift movement I bend over and yank my underwear down giving him full view of my entire ass. I want to be as disrespectful to him as I felt his comment was to me.

I step out gracefully, akyurt escort stand, turn around, and boldly walk up to him so we are standing face to face with only a foot or two between us as if I’m ready to square off. I want to make sure he can get a good view of me from head to toe. And I know he’s not afraid of me but right now he looks more afraid of the fact that he doesn’t know what to make of me. I don’t think he can remember the last person who challenged him.

He seems completely caught off guard, unprepared for my wrath. He braces himself not knowing what I’m going to do. I take the G-string, ball that up too and toss it forcefully in his face as if they were something as simple as a handkerchief. He closes his eyes as the underwear hit him square in the face. He doesn’t try to stop me from throwing them nor does he attempt to block them either. As they cascade down his face he catches them under his chin. He opens his eyes with a look and a heavy breath that says he knows he was wrong.

I stand before him completely naked with my hands on my hips as if I’m posing at the end of my runway catwalk. Melons round and perky, nipples erect, my entire body waxed clean like a baby’s behind and my skin glowing and glistening from the beads of sweat that have formed from my adrenaline rush and heated performance. I’m looking him square in his eyes. I see his eyes travel up and down my body. He has the nerve to look eerily impressed. And with the most controlled and calm voice that I can find I say to him with as much defiance and gravity as I can muster, “I came here wanting nothing, I will EEEEASILY leave here taking nothing.”

He says nothing. He just stands there laying in the wake of my wrath. And I don’t know if maybe he thinks it is better NOT to say anything at all. I know he is completely shocked for what he thought was going to be just a small storm that he had under control that quickly turned into a category F5 tornado that he was completely unprepared for. He’s trying to assess his plan of damage control but he’s distracted looking at my naked body. He has the nerve to look slightly turned on. I walk away head high, ass swerving, completely composed as if I’m fully clothed heading toward the bedroom slamming the door behind me.

I am pissed! Who does he think he is? Does he really think that I care about any of this shit? I go to open the draw in my dresser which is almost as tall as I am and find another thong to put on. I find a white tank top and pull it over my head without stopping to put on a bra. I grab MYYYY Louis Vuitton gym bag and slam it on the bed. I unzip it and push it open. I start grabbing shirts and jeans and sneakers to put in the bag. He’s the one always trying to make me want all this stuff. How am I ever supposed to feel comfortable accepting another gift from him ever again? How am I supposed to trust that when he’s doing something for me that it’s coming from his heart and not from some subconscious form of manipulation that he’s programmed to do? Somewhere along the way his money, power and being surrounded by valueless people have taught him that this is how you treat people. How can I make him see that this is wrong? On one hand he can be so sweet and kind and thoughtful and romantic and the next he’s this insensitive, selfish sarcastic ASSHOLE. I don’t think I can deal with this. I don’t HAVE to deal with this. Fuck this bullshit. I’m outta here.

I can hear him at the door now. I guess he calls himself giving me a few seconds to calm down. Well guess what. I’m not calm!! “If you say so”, I replay in my head. I got his “If you say so” right here.

“Alex . . . Alex”.

His voice sounds muffled and anxious through the barrier of the door. He pauses a second waiting for me to respond but I don’t. I can hear the door knob turning slowly. He slowly peaks his head around the door to make sure nothing else is going to get thrown at him. He sees the open gym bag on the bed with clothes half thrown in it. He steps inside and leans against the wall next to the open door way.

“Going somewhere?” he says as he watches me storm back and forth grabbing whatever I can put my hands on. I don’t answer him nor do I acknowledge him. He pushes his back off of the wall and goes to take a few steps towards me but I stop my movements and glare at him as if to say don’t you dare come any closer. He reads my body language and comes to a halt. He puts his hands in the air as if it’s a stick up, and backs up. He looks behind him and sees the dresser. He strategically backs up into the dresser and leans against it instead of the wall. He crosses his arms as he continues to watch me storm back and forth.

“Can I say something please?” he asks.

I continue to ignore him as I enter the bathroom to grab my tooth brush. He’s looking at my butt as the bottom of my wife beater bunches at the top of my curves. I come back out and drop my toothbrush ayaş escort on the heap of mismatch clothes thrown in the bag. I walk over to the dresser to take out some under wear and he stands blocking my path, still leaned against it. He’s so big and broad, his shoulders blocking damn near the whole width of the dresser. With his arms still crossed he doesn’t move. He must have taken off his dress shirt because he’s wearing the wife beater he had on beneath. He knows I like it when he wears his A- shirts. His chest looks like he has two square plates inside of it. His chest is so big and well defined that the top of it protrudes through the neckline of the shirt. I can see the bubbles from his six pack showing through the white barrier. I can even see the V at the end of his abs leading to a point as if it’s an arrow directing my eyes to his loins. I know what he’s doing.

“I take it your still mad at me.”

I stand in front of him looking up in the air like a kid sister waiting for her bully of a brother to move. He doesn’t budge, playing the role of the pain in the ass big brother who gets off on being able to torture his baby sister. I shift my weight now letting my eyes glare directly into his as if to say I’m waiting.

He goes to reach forward and I flinch backwards. Not out of fear but because I don’t want him to touch me. He pauses midstream arresting me with his eyes and then continues once he’s seen that I’ve stopped. He has such a commanding presence. All it takes is a look from him and he can still control me. He grabs a lock of my hair without touching me and adoringly lifts it to his face. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. My stomach flutters with butterflies.

He opens his eyes slowly staring down at me lovingly and says “You smell good” in a tender voice. And as if he has complete control over my body; my nipples harden and I begin to moisten.

“Oh no you don’t,” I think to myself.

“WOLF!” I yell. “Would you please move!”

“Oh, so you’re talking to me now.” He says sarcastically.

He makes me wait a few more seconds staring back into my eyes following my head wherever it goes trying to make me look at him once again, but when I don’t concede he finally slides to the corner of the dresser so he can continue to lean against it without blocking my access. I go to pull open the dresser draw but it sticks. It only does this when I’m not taking my time and yanking at it like it’s the cause of everything wrong in my life. He tries to stifle a chuckle as he watches me in my fit of rage.

I pause from pulling at the dresser draw and roll my eyes at him. As I return to my second attempt I grumble the word “Asshole” knowing that he’s laughing at me. This is not funny I think to myself. He’s looking at my face. Then he looks down at my tank top noticing that I’m not wearing a bra. The shirt is thin and tight, pressing into my breasts, hugging my waist, accentuating my curves making it even more see-through than it already is. He looks back up at my face. He’s watching me like he’s enamored with me, like I’m both his source of entertainment and his eye candy.

“You know . . . you’re very sexy when you’re mad.”

I grab my underwear and slam the dresser draw ignoring his last comment. So I’m sexy to him right now huh. Well maybe he can think about this sexy ass when he’s sleeping in his bed by himself tonight. Who gets turned on by someone throwing every stitch of everything they are wearing at them anyway. I walk over to the bed to put my underwear in the bag.

I get down on all fours to lift the bottom of the duvet so I can reach under the bed. My behind aimed intentionally at him as if to say kiss my ass. With my G-string on it looks like I’m wearing nothing at all except for the thin hint of white between my legs. I pretend to look for something but I can see him through the opening between my arm and my mid- section. And although he can’t see my eyes because my hanging hair is blocking his view of my face, I can see him clearly. He’s silently chuckling again this time knowing exactly what I’m saying to him by bending over the way that I did.

He unfolds one of his arms hinging at the elbow to bring his hand up to his chin shaking his head as he drags his index finger horizontally back and forth across his goat tee. He brings the side of his finger up to his mouth while his chin stays perched on his thumb. He licks and bites his lower lip as he shakes his head. And I can’t tell if the look on his face says he wants to whip my ass or fuck my ass. His hand leaves his face and heads south to grab his groin. Well, now I know which one he’s thinking, or maybe there was a little of both in there. He squeezes where the bulge starts to form. He looks tortured and amused at the same time. I flip my hair back as I straighten up before standing to my feet. He straightens up also and adjusts himself to hide his erection.

I reach for ankara escort a pair of jeans out of the bag and before I can put them on he says, “Where are you planning on going tonight?”

“Why the fuck do you care”, I say inwardly. Has he forgotten that I do have my own apartment? I guess we’ve both forgotten with me spending so much time here at his place. And why is he so fucking calm about this? As a matter of fact. He’s too calm. Normally he would have gone after my gym bag and hurled it across the room or taken my clothes and thrown them back into the closet as I was trying to pull them out, but he’s done absolutely nothing at all. Why hasn’t he done anything I say sneakily to myself? Hold up. He’s done something. I stop all movement. I turn my face toward him.

“What have you done”?

He smiles smugly, “What are you talking about”?

“Greeeysoonnn” I say dragging out his full name looking at him like he’s the cat and I want him to spit out the canary.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my car keys. He looks waaay too pleased with himself.

FUCK!! I knew it. I knew he was too fucking calm. Why did I not see that one coming? Hell I invented it. I know why. I was too busy doing my rendition of angry strip poker with a Naomi Campbell strut for emphasis at the end. I make a face that lets him know I just said fuck in my head.

“You didn’t actually think I was going to let you leave did you?”

“DO WITH ME AS YOU PLEASE”

I stand, still facing the bed, with my eyes clenched shut in anger trying to think of a counter move. I could call Uber, I could call Lissa and tell her to come and get me, I could take the train, I could walk!! My mind is reeling going a million miles an hour trying to think of anything I can do just so that he doesn’t think that he has gotten the best of me. What if I take one of his five thousand cars? No, I don’t want to take ANYTHING of his especially after that comment. But that would be the ultimate chest move. I can just picture his expression now as he watches me peel out down the street in HIS BMW I8. His precious baby. Although I may as well keep going and never return because he would kill me.

And then I feel it. Interrupting my mental playground. The electricity, the heat behind me radiating from his body. I don’t have to see him. He doesn’t have to touch me. I can just somehow always feel him when he’s near. The skin on my neck, my back, my arms, feels as though electric currents are being redirected through it.

He leans down and says softly into my neck without touching me “I fucked up”.

I can feel his warm breath massaging my neck. Our only contact is the front of his pants lightly brushing against my behind. And even though he’s barley touching me I can feel his size against me. I’m so glad I’m not facing him right now so he could see that he’s breaking me down just that fast, although I’m almost certain judging by the fact that I’m not moving or throwing anything else at him he already knows it.

“I shouldn’t have said those things. I know you don’t care about that stuff and . . . I of all people know better than to say. . . If you say so. . . to you.”

And when I hear him say those exact words it’s like it brings back the intensity of the emotion and I get angry all over again. I can feel and hear everything I wanted to say to him that I didn’t get a chance to, flooding in like a dam breaking inside of me. I go to spin around but he stops me before I can, his hot rough smooth hands grasping the corners of my shoulders ever so gently but firmly squeezing them. It doesn’t take much to stop me, I’m so small compared to him.

He presses his nose into the back of my head smelling my hair again and simply says “Please” as softly as he can attempt. This time I can feel the hardness of his chest against my back. And like giving a wild beast a tranquilizer dart he is both the source of my pain and my narcotic. I instantly still, but I’m still mad.

“I know I fucked up. I’m trying. I’m used to being able to say whatever I want to anyone I want, ESPECIALLY females. Females are so easy. You just flash some money or buy them something and I have a pass to say and do whatever I want.” And as if he could feel me opening my mouth getting ready to tell him that I’m not just any female, he beats me to the punch.

“I know . . . you are not those other females . . . much less ANY female. I will never make the mistake of saying that to you again or treating you like that again. You deserve far more respect than what I showed you tonight” And he squeezes my arms being careful not to make any grand movements still trying to read me with my back to him.

“You hurt me” I say with my voice cracking unveiling my frailty.

“I know. And it will NEVER happen again.” He emphasizes the word never.

“You still mad at me?”

“I feel like pulling a Left Eye or Angela Basset from Waiting to Exhale and taking everything you’ve ever bought me, putting it in a big ass pile in the middle of the room and setting that shit on fire while I smoke some weed and watch it burn.”

I can feel his stomach and chest tighten behind me as he tries to stifle a laugh not wanting to set me off again.

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