He hates how she knows how to push his buttons, like he does hers; he hates that she twists it to her advantage. He hates that he can't push her away, say no, take back the control. He hates not being able to push her away. He hates that even when she's against the wall, making those god damned precious moans, he can't stop himself. The taste of alcohol on her lips is good, though. He hates how good it feels to be inside her, how good her lipstick looks smudged along her cheek. He hates that he craves another taste of those lips when they're done. But really, he hates those feelings he doesn't understand.
She hates his scars and the roughness of his hands. She hates that he doesn't take care of himself. She hates how he acts a bastard and hides the real him behind alcohol and insults. She hates that even though he doesn't pay her a compliment, those grey eyes draw her in. She hates the way he tastes; so alcoholic and bitter. She hates how she cares for him. She hates that she craves those rough hands on her and how he can pick her up like a doll. She hates that he's strong enough to hold his weight and theirs against the wall. But she has the control and that's good. She hates her fingers getting tangled in her hair, his breath at her neck, every thrust that she doesn't stop. Most of all she hates not hating him.