The fight had been over nothing. A snide comment, a roll of her eyes, and suddenly you were pacing across her room, voice sharp, pulse pounding.
“You drive me insane! I swear, Mikha, I can’t stand you anymore!”
Your words echoed, your chest heaving—but Mikha only sat there, lounging in her chair like a queen who knew the throne was hers no matter how much you raged. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned back, arm slung across the backrest, and spread her legs wide.
That cocky smirk curved her mouth. “Then sit.”
The words hit like a slap, silencing you. Your anger didn’t evaporate—it curdled, twisted, melting into something far more dangerous.
“You’re ridiculous,” you spat, though your voice had thinned, shaky under the weight of her gaze.
Her chin tilted up, sharp and commanding. “And you’re still standing there, trembling like you already want me.” Her hand dropped to her thigh, patting it once in invitation. “Don’t waste my time.”
Your throat went dry. “You think I’d actually—”
“Don’t think.” Her voice cut like a blade, low and rough. “Do. Now.”
Every inch of you screamed at you to keep your pride intact, to turn around and storm off. But your body betrayed you—the heat pooling between your thighs, the way your legs carried you forward until you were right in front of her, trapped between her knees.
Her eyes darkened as she looked up at you, lips twitching into that dangerous grin. “That’s it. I can practically feel you shaking.”
“Shut up,” you hissed, trying to keep the bite in your voice.
“Make me.”
The words shredded your restraint. With a frustrated growl, you swung a leg over and dropped onto her lap, straddling her thighs.
Mikha’s laugh rumbled low, satisfied, her hands sliding to your waist like they’d been waiting there all night. “There she is,” she purred. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”
Her grip tightened, pulling you flush against her. You gasped as her thigh shifted beneath you, pressing hard, deliberate. The friction lit your nerves on fire, stealing the breath from your lungs.
“You hate me, huh?” she whispered, lips brushing your jaw but not kissing yet, teasing. “So why are you grinding on me like you need it?”
Your fingers clenched into her shirt, desperate for balance as she shifted you again, dragging your core against the firm muscle of her thigh. A helpless whimper slipped out before you could stop it.
“God,” she groaned, smirk deepening, “you sound so good when you break.”
Her lips finally touched skin—hot, slow kisses along your throat, sharp nips that made you shiver. One hand slid up your back, the other gripping your hip, guiding your movements until you were rocking against her, the friction maddening.
“You’re dripping pride and still begging without saying a word,” Mikha muttered against your neck, her voice wrecked and low. “Say it. Say you can’t stand me.”
You whimpered, torn between defiance and surrender. “I—I can’t stand you.”
Her teeth grazed your pulse, biting just enough to make you moan. “Mm. Liar. You can’t stand not having me.”
Her thigh flexed under you, grinding you harder against her. Your head tipped back, a strangled sound spilling from your throat as heat coiled tight in your belly.
Mikha’s lips brushed your ear, her smirk practically audible. “Every fight ends the same way—you giving in, falling apart on me.”
Her hand slipped beneath your shirt, palm flat against your bare skin, searing heat spreading everywhere she touched. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”