Attracted to Arrogance

The coffee shop is too hot, the coffee is too bitter, and he is too arrogant for his own good. He leans back in his chair, arms behind his head, one ankle resting casually on his knee, and his gaze sweeping over me with a clinical sharpness that makes me feel like I’m being evaluated for an open job position.

“Did you really order an oat milk latte?” He grins with that critical smile I’ve come to detest. “It’s basically a dessert.”

“And you drink your coffee so strong it tastes like motor oil. So what? Do you think that makes you superior?”

“It does,” he says matter-of-factly, then takes a sip of his thick brew.

Every word that comes out of his mouth is like a live wire, setting my nerves on edge. He is full of little annoying quirks and mannerisms that should make me get up and leave. I can’t stand men like him: arrogant, judgmental, always ready to sort the world into categories of good or bad, winner or loser. But as his shirt slides up, I can’t help but notice the trail of fur leading down into his jeans where he has that fat cock I don’t know how to resist.

“You’re the most annoying...”

“...conceited asshole you’ve ever met?” He raises an eyebrow.

I swear he enjoys aggravating me. But the heat rising in my chest isn’t just anger; it’s lust. His arrogance only intensifies it. I imagine myself ripping open the buttons on his shirt, kissing my way down his chest, and popping the top button on his jeans. The thought should repel me, but it’s not his pleasant personality that interests me.

His smile tells me he sees the attraction beneath my irritation.

“You hate me,” he says. “But you want me.”

I swallow hard; my throat is dry, and my pulse is pounding in my temples. He’s right, and he knows it. Every irritating word makes me want to fall to my knees and bask in the smug confidence that radiates from him.

“Shut up, or I’ll shut you up.”

His smile doesn’t waver. On the contrary, it widens.

“I dare you.”

I stand up so fast that the chair legs protest against the tiles, and heads at nearby tables turn. He doesn’t even blink. His eyes sparkle like he’s already won.

I grab his wrist. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t even seem surprised as I drag him down the narrow hallway, past the restrooms. The door clicks shut behind us. The space is barely wide enough for the two of us and smells of soap and bleach, but I don’t care. I push him hard against the wall.

“You think you know everything,” I hiss, jabbing my finger into his chest.

“I do,” he mumbles, and that smile… God, I want to wipe that self-centered grin off his face.

Instead, I drop to my knees on the cold, unforgiving tiles. I clumsily undo his belt and pull down his zipper. He’s already half-hard, his smugness only growing with his erection. I hate him for it and I want him for it.

He strokes the side of my face, as if he knew this would happen the moment I sat down across from him.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Prove me right.”