Page 2 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘In your dreams, James…’

‘Imagine how hot it would be between us. If you fuck half as good as you fight, we’ll have a hell of a time.’

‘I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it,’ I lie, but I can’t help watching as he rolls up his sleeves, showing off those deliciously veined forearms. Every time he looks at me like he is now, I can’t help but wonder if it’s all a distraction technique. Some convoluted way to best me in our rivalry.

‘Liar.’

I drop my kitbag and walk over to him, pushing him back against the wall. He could resist, but he doesn’t even try. The heady scent of his aftershave fills my head as I glare at his stupid grey eyes. The colour of stormy skies. I hate that I notice.

‘So, what you want is for me to drag my skirt up and let you fuck me against this alley wall?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

God, I hate when he calls me that. And he bloody well knows it, too. It’s worse than sweetheart.

‘You’ll never get the chance,’ I whisper, my lips close enough to his that he parts them.

He puts his hands on my waist and spins us both around, hitching up my skirt and pressing his denim-covered crotch against my panties.

‘Tell me how much you don’t want this,’ James whispers against my cheek, grinding against me until I gasp.

I don’t answer. That’s not the game we’re playing.

With slow deliberation, I meet the roll of his hips with my own, smiling with satisfaction at his sharp intake of breath. His fingers tighten at my waist, fighting battle with battle.

‘You’re lucky I don’t cut that fucking thing off,’ I whisper as his tip nudges my clit through the material. Biting back a moan, I play it like I’m unaffected by the pressure.

‘Empty threat.’ His voice lowers to a hungry growl that does things I’m not proud of between my thighs.

The scoop of his hips snags my breath, and I dig my nails into his arms.

‘What’s wrong, Eliza?’ he murmurs. ‘Do you need more, Sweetheart?’

‘It’ll take more than that to break me,’ I say.

Lifting a hand, he uses his thumb to tip my chin upwards until I look into those grey eyes.

The irritating thing is that James Rutherford knows exactly what he’s doing. Each arch of his hips has pressure building as I fight to keep my breath steady. I can only imagine how good it would feel if he was inside me.

‘Not so mouthy when you’ve got a cock between your legs,’ he says with a smirk.

‘I’m sure you’d love to know just how mouthy I can be, but you’ll never get the chance.’

‘Always so fucking bristly, Eliza. So full of it until⁠—’

He stops talking for a moment when a particularly harsh drag of his hips draws a whimper from me.

‘Until you’re pressed against a wall⁠—’

‘James.’

‘—wondering what it would feel like to be stretched over me.’

He’s not wrong. This grinding, breathless, infuriating standoff is escalating, but neither of us is willing to give ground first. I roll my hips harder, and his eyes close for a breath or two.

Got you.

But then his hand skims my hip and slides down to my wet panties.