Love Letters From Hell

18 | choke me like you hate me

I hear the jangle of keys and the click of doors unlocking, the flash of the lights.

We pull apart, his hands gone, the kiss broken. Well, almost. I open my eyes, lashes fluttering, to find his staring right back. We're eye to eye and I've caught his lower lip gently between my teeth, yet to let go.

The devil has to get her due too, after all.

Our gazes dance over one another. It's the heat of his that makes me let go.

Still flush against me, Aryan gives me a single shake of his head, licking his lower lip accusingly.

He presses his palms to the glass on either side of my head, then tilts his chin back and stares at the sky for a quick second like he's pleading with the universe or something. I wonder what for.

But then he looks back down, eyes like pitch, and kisses me again, a rush of a kiss. He pulls away sooner than I want, lips falling to my ear. His hand on the glass lowers, thumb brushing a strand of hair away from my ear as he talks to me like I'm the universe now, telling me sweetly, "You're such a fucking brat."

Why was that hot? My legs clutch his sides harder and my heart scrambles to do a marathon in my chest. He's so sweet, so full of nice words. Just like fucking honey.

It's my turn to talk to the universe now. I tilt my head back against the window and tell the moon all the things I would do to this man, this man who's more gasoline than honey, who makes me feel like I'm on fire every time he looks at me.

And when I decide once again that the moon has nothing on Aryan fucking Shankar, I look back down, feeling his gaze on me. I slide a hand down from his hair to the line of his jaw. I lean forward and mimic him, lips at his ear.

Shamelessly, I whisper back, honeyed, poisoned, "Fuck it out of me then."

Aryan doesn't falter one bit. His heart might've picked up against mine. Or maybe that was mine.

But his reply comes quick, "Why do you think I unlocked the car door, Zahed?"

I grin and let him go. We reach for the door handle at the same time, his hand curling over mine. Aryan returns my grin, eyes like sparking coals, and yanks it open.

I tumble right past the door, leather seats kissing my legs as I land. I barely have time to shift backwards along the seat, back hitting the upholstered opposite door, legs splayed across the leather, eyes noting on the logo emblazoned onto the tan headrests above me, before Aryan slides into the car, the door shutting behind him. The Porsche logo stares at me but I've quickly forgotten it, eyes flying to Aryan.

He tosses the keys onto the front seat of Charles Ross' Porsche and neatly curls his fingers around my left ankle, tugging me down.

Straight to hell, I guess.

My elbows hit the seats and Aryan's eyes spark at me across the car interior, the overhead light pale gold on his cheeks, the moonlight silver in his hair. I can only watch, heart hammering, as he hoists my leg right onto his shoulder. He doesn't loosen his hold of my ankle, eyes flickering from me to my shoe dangling off his shoulder. His other hand reaches up and tugs down the little gold zipper. He taps my ankle before pulling off my heel. "You don't need these, do you?"