A/N: Inspired by the AskACN RP on Tumblr.

Y'all are terrible influences.

There were so many little things she absolutely loathed about Jim Harper, and after careful consideration she narrowed it down to ten specific things.

First it was his insufferably nagging personality. The minute he first stepped on her press bus, he refused to shut up with his stupid questions. He must have sensed it, too. She was certain, because he wouldn't stop.

Second, it was his pretentious attitude. There he sat, a senior producer in a bus full of stringers, like some king of the misfits. Like he owned the bus, owned everyone on it. Like he knew better when he had never been a campaign reporter a day in his life. Yet his first day on the job, he sat there acting like he'd been doing it for years. Acting like he knew what her job entailed with greater depth than she did.

Most of the time it just made her want to rip that smirk off his face with her ragged fingernails.

Oh, that was probably the third thing. His smirk. The way he tucked the corner of his lips in and pulled. The way his dimples deepened when they did. The way his eyes sparkled with that infuriating, mischievous glint. Just thinking about it made her blood boil.

Then there was the way those same damnable lips moved over hers. The way he used them like a finely tuned instrument to draw out every single sigh, every single groan he could from her throat. The way he used his lips to trace the sensitive skin down her throat and up into her ears. The way those same lips formed her name.

"Taylor…"

Ugh, the way he said her name. It unlocked something in her, something primal and frightening. Without thinking, her hands slid down into the elastic of his boxers and grasped the firm cock they hid from her reaching grasp. God she hated her name on his lips, and she took her fury out on him. With little warning, she pulled her fist around his member and pushed it back down again.

He jerked at the touch, and it was enough to make Taylor give a smirk herself.

Not one to be outdone, he threw her down on the bed and pushed her dress all the way up her legs, just until he reached her hips. Then he ripped her panties off and plunged his tongue into her wet depths with no remorse.

His mouth, his lips, she hazily decided as she writhed under his ministrations. That counted as two things.

When she had toppled over the edge of the cliff (twice), she finally couldn't take it anymore. She pushed his face away from between her legs and found the buttons of his god-awful shirt. His sense of style was horrific—his wrinkled shirts, his mussed up hair, his tie askew. She pulled his tie off and ripped the buttons off his shirt before flinging it off his shoulders.

He brought those insufferable lips back to hers, and she drank in her own scent as his tongue fought hers. When he pulled away, he brought his lips to her ears and whispered, "What do you want, Taylor?"

Ugh.

"You know what I want," she growled. What an asinine, terrible, awful question.

Without hesitation, he grabbed her by the legs until she was straddling his lap, her pussy hovering just centimeters over his.

"Is it this?" he whispered.

God, his fucking questions!

"Jim!" she screamed in frustration. She could feel his tip barely kissing her opening, and it was all she could do not to slam herself down on top of him, but he held her fast, his arms wrapped around the small of her back.

"Tell me, Taylor."

Number eight. She hated how he tortured her.

"I want it," she rasped, her desperation taking what little resolve she had left to hold out against him. "I want you."

Immediately, he slammed into her.

Jim was surprisingly thick. He filled her entirely and her back arched away from him as her mind sunk deeper into the haze of lust that surrounded them.

"Say it again," he panted as he rose to meet her. Each thrust brought her closer to the edge and she could feel him slowing down—on purpose, no doubt.

She brought her eyes down to his, a lusty scowl written all over her face. "I want you," she groaned. "Oh, God, Jim! Oh, fuck me!"

He already knew it. He knew what she wanted, how she needed him to keep going. He just wanted to rub it in every moment he could. He needed something to lord over her. It was some sick, twisted power play, and she hated how good he was at it.

She could sense he was about to cum as his impossibly thick cock started to swell even larger, so he slid his hand in between them and started rubbing her clit with his thumb.

"OH FUCK!" she screamed.

They came at the same time, her walls clenching over his throbbing cock as they both rode out the end of the wave.

When it was finished, she pulled away and collapsed onto the pile of sheets underneath her.

"God, Jim," she breathed.

He smirked at her and it was all she could do not to reach up and smack it off his face. Or kiss him—it was difficult to choose.

"You're welcome, Taylor."

That was number ten, she finally decided.

She hated how good he was at what he did.