Yours
It always starts out like this:
You're slamming her against the wall, breathing hard, hearts pounding in your chests, and you're so close to her, so fucking close, and she's looking up at you with those black-rimmed eyes, all wide and serious.
"Don't fuck with me, B," she whispers through glossed lips, teeth shining white against wine red lipstick. "Don't..."
You laugh, just a little, pressing into her harder, angrier, breasts pressed against breasts, your arm wedged tightly against her collarbone, ever-so-lightly resting against her neck. You could kill her like this, you could press down and hold her down and cut off her air with nothing more than a little pressure and she'd buck and gasp and look up at you as you smiled and killed her, just like that.
It makes you laugh just a little louder, and you push your leg between hers, trap her left leg between yours, grinding up against her thigh. It's what she'd do, if you were against the wall, if her arm was against your throat, and she gasps up at you in shock and recognition.
You want to fuck her up. You want to make her gasp and groan and whimper against your body. You want her to moan and scream and just give it up to you.
You push against her just a bit more, you slam yourself against her, and her eyes are huge, frightened, and it turns you on even more than anything else she could do, more than her flirting, her smiles, her fighting back. When she's scared, it almost makes you come, just watching her look up at you with those big frightened eyes.
You've got her now. You've got her just as you want her. And as you bend down to smear her lipstick with a biting kiss, smashing your teeth against hers in fury, you know she's yours.