Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

Slamming the papers down on the glass table, I take a step toward him,
jabbing his broad chest with my index finger. “How dare you try to decide
that for me. You only present me with one option, after ghosting me
completely after the recital, and that’s supposed to be my choice?”
Heat flares to life in his eyes, the brown depths darkening with rage.
Pushing to his feet, he grabs my finger, holding it to him. “You ditched me at
the fucking ballet, Elena. Nice touch, by the way, leaving that poem. I got
your message loud and clear.”
“Oh, the poem where I said I’m in love with you?” I snap, the volume of
my voice spiking with my frustration. “If that somehow translated to ‘please
file for an annulment,’ then I think you need to go back to studying poetry
again.”
“You think so?” As he steps into me, igniting that age-old song and dance
our bodies have grown accustomed to over the last few weeks, I feel my core
twist and flip at his proximity. His scent envelops me as he backs me up
against the table, leaning down to bracket me in with his forearms.
A strand of his inky hair falls over his forehead, and I resist the urge to
push it up out of his face, trying to focus on my anger before it slips away,
lost in the sea of his touch.
“Maybe you should refresh my memory,” he says, dropping to his knees,
his hands immediately skimming up the sides of my thighs.
I suck on my teeth as he begins inching up the hem of my yellow
sundress, clutching the annulment papers to my chest. Every single nerve
ending in my body is screaming, telling me to put a stop to this until we have
an actual conversation, but then his breath skates across my pussy, and I no
longer care about talking.
What’s one more bad decision in the grand scheme of things?
“Lift your ass,” he commands, and I obey without even thinking, moving
forward so he can slip the fabric of my dress up over my cheeks. He swears
under his breath, shaking his head. “Still no panties, I see. Adding adultery to
our list of sins, or were you just hoping to get lucky?”
One of his hands comes up, flattening between my breasts, urging me
down; I go without complaint, hissing as my bare butt comes into contact
with the cool glass surface, followed quickly by my shoulders as he pushes
me all the way down.
Teeth scrape across my clit, and I jolt, the sharp bite sending a flash of
delight through me. “I was hoping to get lucky,” I say, knowing that’s what