She wrinkles her nose and declares, “I am not a bunny!”

My response? I shove her back against the bed.

I’m on top of her in an instant, prying arms apart over her head. Pinning her crushed under my weight. I want her. Want her singularly.

She crosses her legs in an iron-tight grip. Denied. All this does is increase my want. Fanning the flames of a smoldering fire. Creating a raging inferno of need. I bare my fangs.

And so, it begins.

There was a look almost akin to disappointment when I originally told her I wasn’t a dom. I explained that over the years I’d discovered that I liked to take charge, but rules and rituals weren’t really my thing. I understood the nuances of power exchange. The give and take and negotiation of denizens of a civilized society.

No. Not at all.

Shoving her against the mattress she struggles to push me off. Her thrashing only lasts a moment, I’m almost twice her weight, and all she’s accomplishing is tiring herself out.

I lean down to steal a kiss, rough and uninvited. She snaps her teeth at me almost biting my lip. My laugh is heartfelt. Fuck, that would have hurt. I wait for her head to sink back into the cushion and then strike. Crushing my lips to her. She tries to bite again and I’m out, reared back looking for targets of opportunity. Like her neck. I go in. This part is always tricky. I don’t want to leave marks, but the blood in both our bodies is boiling, when the heat is all-consuming… it gets difficult to keep things in check. I want to bite her hard, suck her life essence out through that skin. But seriously, who wants hickeys as an adult?

Back long ago during our conversation, the disappointing one where I confessed to not being a dom. I told her that I’d discovered after years of trial and error, that primal was my thing. Her inquisitive look said it all, so I explained. I want to lose control. I want to want so heatedly that I slip the bonds of civilized society off. A well-worn and comfortable dinner jacket that restrains no more. I want to feel Hyde taking control, slipping out of that mental cage I have him locked inside.

“I am not a bunny.”

And that’s where my smile deepens and becomes feral. I don’t want a bunny either. I want someone that entices. An object of desire who kindles the most lurid passions. Someone as strong, who will struggle and fight back. And in fighting will relish just exactly how much I want her. How much I need her to thrash and snarl and scratch. I don’t want a bunny at all.

I want prey as animalistic as me. Fires and fierceness and heat and passion.

Not a bunny.