Vex

I fucking hate Dominic Monaghan.

I hate how his cheeks bunch up at the sides of his mouth when he smiles, how almost perfectly white his teeth are, I hate the angle his hair spikes up to when he fixes it, I hate how his black nail polish chips off after a girly manicure and I hate how his legs bounce up and down and he can never sit still. I hate how his canines are so sharp that he makes me bleed, I hate how I love it, I hate every little half-moon on my forearms that's there the next morning from where his fingernails dug in, I hate how absolutely fucking perfect his cock feels inside me.

I fucking hate Dominic Monaghan.

But if there's one thing I simply can't stand about him, it's when he knows he's gotten enough alcohol in me to make it easy, when his tongue curls up over his top lip in that cocky bastard smile of his when he can see my hard-on starting under my trousers in the dark clubs and dim lights, how he can hardly feel the god-knows-how-many shots of whatever the hell he ordered us and I'm already as happy as pig in the shit.

He's doing that smile again.

"Drink much, Elijah?"

I giggle. Shit, how much have I had? I can't remember exactly…

He's next to me. Dancing. Dancing all too well for a boy. But he's so pretty. You know that.

Yeah, I do. Real pretty. Hips so sharp shouldn't move like that, but on him, they do. Fuck.

Come here, he mouths to me, his tongue out, his eyes glimmering in the darkness.

Did I mention I hate how much power he has over me? That I find myself pressed right up against him, our noses touching, mouths open and eyes focused down as we dance together, grinding, rubbing, his leg against my crotch feeling good, but just not good enough? That his sweat and fading cologne smell so damn good that my mouth is watering, my throat tingling? That I loathe the way he smiles when I give in and my tongue hits his long neck, sweet and salt and him?

I hate him. I really do. And I hate how right it sounds when he says we should ditch the rest of the guys and head home, I hate how damn obvious he makes it in the town car back to his apartment, with his hands under my belt and fingers kneading into my hips, with his teeth at my collarbone, with my head thrown back and swimming at every movement, every touch, every flick of his tongue and exhalation of his breath -

And I hate how he still smells like the club we were in when I can barely stand up straight for more than a minute without wavering at his doorstep, I hate how he pulls me by the collar and drags me back in again, just like always, just like always.

I hate every little word he whispers in my ear about how beautiful I am and how turned on he is, I hate every pinprick down my spine and every bite on my skin, I hate - I hate when he pushes me down on the bed and climbs on top of me and kisses me and everything in my entire being just screams yes yes yes - when he undoes my belt with his thin fingers and I don't know how or why but I feel more sober and - and he touches me gently and kisses me and fucks me and everything is so goddamn perfect when we're finished and there is nothing but heavy breathing and the city outside and stickiness between our bellies and his hands losing their grip on my forearms and leaving little red marks behind and he kisses my eyelids and tells me that he loves me and -

Fuck.

I hate you for making me love you.



(c) Kate Finneran, 2004

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