I had felt it again, racing through my blood like a fever. It's a feeling of rage, or carnal lust and anger so strong it almost chokes me. The need to lash out was overwhelming, irresistable. That's how our fight had started.
It had been a long frustrating day at work; impatient customers, everybody wanting it NOW, complaints, problems, the phone never stopping its incessant ringing. I just wanted to go home.
But home was no picnic either lately. It seemed all we did was snip and pick at each other. Both of us overworked, tired, and restless. I couldn't remember the last time we had made love. I knew in my heart that this was not what either of us had dreamed of.
I came into the house and he was already home. I could hear music blaring in the basement. God, not again. He always did this when he was mad about something. He'd put on some hard classic rock, and practically barricaed himself in the family room.
Something inside of me snapped. It seemed the final straw in a week from hell. I shrugged out of my jacket, threw my shoes across the room, and went crashing down the stairs. I flung the door open so hard it hit the wall behind it.
I saw him jerk his head around, dropping the stack of CD's he had in his hand. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped.
I had heard about being angry and seeing red, but never felt it until now. A primal urge to throttle him burst in my head, and I knew he could see it in my eyes. As we stared at each other, I could feel something happening between us. Something frightening, urgent, something so raw there was no name for it.
His hand curled into fists at his sides, and he whispered, "Try it."
His challenging words were like fire on a flame. All the frustration and anger of the past few weeks seemed to bubble up from deep inside me, and I had no choice but to respond. I crossed the room, a low growl in my throat, and tried to slap him.
His strong hand gripped my wrist before it reached his face, and with his eyes blazing into mine, he said just one word, "Don't."
I was past feeling anything but blind anger. I struggled to get my wrist free, trying to peel his fingers off me. I scratched him with my long nails, and it seemed to push him over the edge.
With a fierce sound he grabbed my other hand and pushed me to the sofa. He shoved me down on it, and my skirt slid up my legs. "Stay," he growled.
I was too shocked to say anything. But I felt something, a feeling I had never had before. It was a kind of wild excitement shimmering under the anger. I started to get up, and then he was in front of me. In his hand was a ping pong paddle.
"Get up," he said quietly. Something in his tone made me obey, and I stood on shaky legs. He sat down on the couch, and quickly gripped my wrist again, jerking me down across his lap. The breath rushed out of me as I landed on his firm thighs.
