There is a dance here, a fine balance between her desire and her fury, and both of them are sweetly intoxicating. Her vitriol is every bit as satisfying as her lusty moans, and he laughs low in his throat as her long nails claw against his hand.

"I can afford it," he assures her, and the smirk is as clear in his tone as it is on his face; a joke with himself, a smug reassurance of how little he need care about such petty things. She drags his hand higher, and he can feel in the slick, smooth heat of her cunt just how little she actually minds this frustration. He can be kind, too, he decides, and takes her clear demand, pressing manicured fingers against her entrance and seeking out, with the pad of his thumb, the hood of her clit. His mouth wanders down again, teeth scraping the hollow of her collarbone, his fingers kneading roughly against the soft weight of her breast.