Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from the deliciousness that is Vegeta's abs….nor from DBZ.
Hey guys! If you enjoyed this or any of my other stories, you can read my original romance The Witch's Dragon on fiction press under the pen name Tempestt.
A huge shout out to my excellent beta Gaki 0. She is phenomenal. Please go read her work.
You are drawn to the way his upper lip curls in repugnance whenever he has to deal with you. The way the corner hitches upwards from the lower lip, revealing the perfection of one single canine, sharper than any human's. It's terrifying. It's memorizing.
You aren't psychologically damaged. There are no handsy uncles in your past that have made you feel worthless as a woman. You have no particular compunction to be punished for being bad. In fact, if you were damaged it would be quite the opposite. All the autonomy your parents gave you (to the point of neglect, really) should make you seek out someone sweet. Someone who would worship the ground you walked on. Someone whose every waking moment was spent reassuring you how loved you are. However, you are not damaged. You're normal. As normal as it gets anyways….but there is something about that lip.
The thought of him thrusting inside of you, holding you apart from him with his thick muscular arms as he slides his cock in deep, titillates you to the very core. You imagine him glaring down at you with that look of repulsion. His lip curled, his black brows slashing downwards into exclamations of stark confusion at his own actions.
That's the heart of it. The act of him not wanting you but still needing you. It's not damage, its vanity. You're very feminine, strongly independent vanity. Knowing that he doesn't want to run his mouth over the column of your throat or slide his fingers up your thigh but still unable resist the allure that is you. No other will do. No, it has to be you. Only you. The thought nearly makes you cum.
You thrust your fist between your legs, your thighs clamping hard around your wrist. Your actions don't garner any notice from your parents, but he looks. He cocks his head, his chest expanding as he inhales your scent in the unconscious animalistic way of his that drives you nuts, then curls his lip at you. You drop your eyes to your plate, squeezing your thighs tighter and stab at your eggs as if they are out to attack you.
You're coming back from a work out, messy, sweaty, dressed in two piece spandex. He's dressed in one piece. He's leaving the pool and the diamond rivets of water studding his chest haven't dried. He sneers and you drop your gaze. You think he's going to let you pass unmolested, but you're wrong. Yes, please, you desperately want to be wrong with him.
He pins you to the wall with the strength of a god, but he doesn't need it. You'd strip, and spread eagle if he gave the word. There are some opportunities in this world that you just don't pass up, no matter how wrong they are. He inhales and your nipples peak because you know he's going to speak. Speak with all the condescension and repulsion bred into him from a long line of royalty.
Oh, God, yes, you practically melt into the wall. Insults wrapped in his sexy, 'I'm too elite to fuck you' voice is better than chocolate Kisses. He places a hot palm flat on your bare stomach, his fingers angling downward. You suck your stomach in, not from vanity, but from the hope that it will create the tiniest space between your skin and the waistband of your shorts for him to slide his fingers
You narrow your eyes, because he likes it when you do that. He likes to see you gird yourself for war. You know, because you're a woman used to being wanted, and you notice all the little signs of desire.
Your words are fierce, but your body language is acquiescent. You cant your hips closer to his. He smiles in a way that only accentuates that lip curl of his.
"Like a cat in heat. So desperate for cock you scent the whole house while smiling at me with that come-fuck-me mouth."
"That doesn't mean yours will do."
"Doesn't it?" He leans closer, his fingers sliding over your smooth skin, finally filling the gap between you and your shorts. His fingertips are petting your hair, and he's smirking down at you. You fight the urge to buck your hips. You don't want to seem too eager.
"Get off," you growl.
"I plan to," he chuckles.
His hand starts to recede, and you panic. What if there is another woman? You go on the defensive.
"Bastard. What about you? What's your excuse?" You poke him with a sharp, red fingernail in the center of his chest. Stunned, he freezes like you knew he would. He can touch, but he doesn't like being touched. Typical double standard.
"What is your meaning, woman?"
You advance, and his hand still beneath the waistband of your shorts slides deeper. Your heels leave the floor, and his middle finger slides between your wet lips and rests against your clit. Arrogance restored, he asserts dominance and pushes you into the wall, settling himself so his hand is cupping you fully. Your breath hitches, and you can't help the shiver of pleasure that rolls up your body. Your back arches, the tips of your sensitive breasts brushing against him as you loll your head to the side giving up the underside of your jaw to him. He takes the bait and nuzzles your ear.
The bastard can never leave anything alone. "Your meaning?" he breaths. Hot air coils around your ear, and you are almost certain you feel the flick of his tongue on your lobe.
"You call me an animal in rut while you're practically fucking me in the hall?"
He pulls away. Your body weeps.
"I have control." His canine flashes, and your hips buck until his finger sinks inside you.
"Control? Is that what this is?" Your clever hands snag his waistband, dragging it over his distended cock. He doesn't stop you. He flexes his finger, and you knees nearly buckle. You wrap your hand around his penis, your fingers unable to close the gap. It's one long silken slide from base to tip and back down again. He groans, and easily works a second finger in. You're riding his hand and you can barely think, but he's a bastard, just like you said.
"A biological imperative. I smell a woman in heat, and my body wants to service her. Nothing more."
You hand tightens on the fleshy head of his cock, your thumb playing with the heart-shaped crease beneath. Your breath quickens, and you know you are about to come. You reminded yourself that self-denial and sacrifice equals greatness.
"If that's true, then any woman will do." You shove at the wall of his chest, and when his fingers slide away you have to bite your lips against the soul-shattering urge to cry. You drop to your knees in worship to the full-fledged cock he's sporting. It's red, and hungry, and weeping at the tip for its biological imperative. You take it in hand, reminding yourself that you really don't have a psychological need to punish yourself, and slide him into your mouth until he touches the back of your throat.
His entire body shudders. You can feel his chest-deep groan in the base of his cock. He has to brace himself with both hands on the wall behind you. You flick your tongue, and plaster dusts your hair from the boreholes his fingers are making in the walls. Your vanity is restored.
You tilt your head and look up. He's staring down at you. His face is red. His eyes are black. You smile around his cock, allowing your tongue to slide flat and full up the underside of it as you withdraw.
"If any woman will do, then you had better go find her. And while you're fucking her, think of me and my come-fuck-me mouth."
You may not be a warrior, but you're quick. You hop up like a bunny and bolt down the hall to your bedroom. You make it inside, but the door doesn't shut. You hit your pink princess bedspread face first, your shorts dragged down your thighs.
"I'm going to fuck you. Say yes." His voice is thick and guttural, and filled with disgust.
Self-punishment it is. Perhaps you are repressing something from your childhood.
He plunges a fist into your thick hair, turning your head so he can see your profile. You close your eyes so he can't see your weakness. His other hand caresses your thigh in a gentle dichotomy that has you reeling. Of their own volition your legs part, and his fingertips feather over your swollen lips.
"Say it," he demands.
"Is this a biological imperative?"
He growls, dipping his head so his breath tickles your spine. There is silence in the room, and only your harsh breathing echoes in your ears.
You melt, and your thighs spread further apart. He cups you now, his fingers sliding forward.
"Say yes," he cajoles.
"Who will do?"
"You humans repulse me."
"Answer the question." Your determination knows no end. Your vanity no bounds.
He pauses. His fingers slip away, and your heart clenches. His hand rests on your buttock, before sliding around to encircle the top of your thigh in a possessive grip. You can feel his cock nudging at your lips.
"Only you," he whispers into your hair.
He lowers himself onto you, his weight pressing the air from your body.
"Yes," you exhale.
You bear down, he surges forward. He is long and hard, and finally you are gloriously full. You cry out in tremendous relief, but your excitation is hindered. He is the stillness of a predator behind you.
"Please," you beg.
"Will any cock do?"
Though stunned you do not hesitate. Your heart has long since known the answer.
"Only you will do."
Your vanity meets his arrogance and together you sing.