"I hate everything that comes out of your mouth," she tells him between heated kisses. Her nails scrape down his back, and he cringes, but there's a look of desire in his eyes, and she just wants to do it again, harder. She wants him to feel the pain.
"I hate your fucking attitude," he hisses in her ear as he tears at her clothes. The buttons from her blouse scatter across the floor. (She'll have a new reason to hate him in the morning when she has to wear one of his shirts home.)
They make it to the bed, clothes scattered across the room, and he pushes her down roughly. She hates that about him. Everything is rough and quick and passionate. She hates the way he makes her feel.
"I'm not coming back," she whispers in his ear, and he thrusts harder, faster.
His lips find hers and he smirks into the kiss. "You say that every time," he tells her. "Yet here you are."
Yet, here she is. Her eyes are cold as she flips them around. She wants to be in control, but he won't allow it, not fully anyway. His hands grasp hers tightly above her head. She has to lean against him as she eases herself onto his length.
She hates his need to be in control, to be one step ahead.
(Later, she'll grab his favorite shirt from the closet. He'll watch from the bed, face blank. "I won't care," he says clearly. She'll turn to face him, a question in her eyes. "If you don't come back," he will clarify, eyes dancing with gleeful malice as he finishes the quip, "I won't care."
She fucking hates him.)