“Please, schatz?” His whiney german accent booming in your ears as he grinned down at you. He lifted you up, placing you on the counter.

“Just tell me…” He smirked, his hands on the side of the counter, just near your thighs. “Tell me you hate me, please.”

Was he enjoying this? Maybe he liked your fire, he liked having to work for what he wanted. He just needed you to say it, tell him that he makes you sick to your stomach.

Say it.