I’m not sure where she got the dress, but it’s perfect. The fabric is a pale floral print. No leather or sequins, straps or denim. The hem brushes against her knees and the top shows just a hint of her ample tits. It doesn’t even matter that she’s wearing those calf-high boots Verity gave her on Friday. She still looks… appropriate. Modest. It’s exactly the kind of dress you’d wear to meet the parents.
The wave rolls over me—irritation. Anger. How dare she present herself to be anything so virtuous? A couple nights ago, she was swallowing Remy’s load in front of an entire DKS victory party, and now she’s crouching down in her pretty Sunday best to kiss that little white rat on its forehead.
“Be good while we’re gone,” she tells it, nudging his food bowl closer.
I’d taken Remy with me yesterday afternoon to a crummy pet store in South Side to get the creature the bare essentials, but the trip was more about checking where Remy’s head was than anything else. Nick’s no stranger to wet work, and to me, anatomy is just science. Clinically, bodies—gore, blood, muscle and bone—don’t bother me. But Remy is unpredictable and can be swept off course by the smallest shit. I guess I shouldn’t have worried. A dozen different shades of yellow will set him off, but dismembering a body?
I mostly had to stop him from cutting it up more than necessary. He was so excited to see what overly specific parts of someone’s insides looked like. “Are all spinal cords this translucent?” he’d said, oohing and ahhing as he dug around in Felix like a candy dish. “Wicked, just wicked.”
So the trip to the pet store was more about making sure Remy wasn’t turning into a goddamn Baron or something, but it did result in this:
Lavinia Lucia, in the middle of my living room, shaking a toy mouse for our murder victim’s cat.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “Let’s fucking go!”
I round them all up and try not to think so hard about her looking like a Sunday school teacher. I asked her to do this. To pretend. To act like she isn’t a cocksucker who has my brother pussy-whipped enough that he’s burying bullets into motherfuckers.
At least he takes shotgun for once, leaving Remy to slide into the backseat with her. I wrap my hands around the steering wheel of the SUV and ignore her presence.
Of course, she makes it impossible. “Anyone want to clue me in on what to expect?”
Nick has been pretty blasé about what went down with Felix and it makes me look at him in a skewed light. If what he says is true about defecting to South Side out of some misplaced attempt to investigate Tate’s suicide, then I’m not sure the explanation particularly matters. He’s changed into someone I only halfway know—a guy who can lift a gun and pull the trigger without giving me the smallest indication of what he plans to do.
He answers, “If I had to guess? Mom will cook both meat and something vegetarian, continuing her life’s goal of pushing us to a plant-based diet.” He twists to throw her a smirk. “She’s convinced our inclination to trouble is due to inflammation from red meat.” Turning back, he continues, “Dad will drink one scotch too many, pull us aside and regale us with stories from the ‘good old days’, and Pops will hound the three of us about our future plans, with a hard focus on ‘outside of West End’.”
Remy snorts. “He’s wallpapering over the reality. You’re in for a real show, Vinny. This is years of family drama coming to a head.” I watch from the rearview as he leans his head toward hers. “Their mother—who is an absolute fucking MILF, by the way—”
“Watch it!” I snap.
Remy goes on, “She’s going to tear Nicky here a new one for becoming a Duke. Some of that will bleed over to Sy, but Nick’s her precious little baby. Their dads are going to get really weird about it, because they’ll know Saul is the boss of us, and they’re all possessive of their kids, for some reason.” He and Lavinia share a baffled look. I guess Nick and I aren’t allowed in the ‘emotionally neglected children,’ club.
Lavinia doesn’t look comforted by any of this. Everyone with the slightest interest in psychology knows about ‘Daddy Issues’ and there’s no question Lionel Lucia did a number on this one. Even if I didn’t know he’d sold her, it’s obvious in other ways. One is her hypersexuality—how she pretends she’s not a whore, but the negotiations with my brother? Everything is a transaction, especially her pussy. Then there’s the mothering: the tending to Remy’s psychosis, the way she snapped so quickly into stitching up my eyebrow after the fight, her insistence on keeping that mangy feline. Lionel had her taking care of his soldiers from a young age. I’m not sure if she’s realized it yet, but she was doing a Queen’s job—the role of a Royal wife—while apparently fighting with her sister about who could do it best.
But the thing that I notice the most, probably because it’s the most familiar, is the rage. It’s deep and disruptive. Would she really turn on her father if given the chance, or would she fall right back into the position she’s been trained for her whole life?
All I know is I don’t trust this bitch for a second.
The bungalow comes into view, the big windows filled with warm light. I park in the driveway, and she peers at the house.
“This is where you grew up?” she asks.
Nick raises an eyebrow. “Are these fifteen-hundred square-feet of paradise not the sprawling estate you’d imagined?”
She looks taken aback. “I hadn’t really thought of it at all, to be honest.”
We all file out of the car, but I’m the one to open Lavinia’s door. Child lock. Nick’s idea. An irritated look crosses over her face as she slides off the leather seat, giving me a flash of her white panties in the process. Fuck me.
I inhale and exhale deeply, then adjust myself. It’s going to be a long fucking night.
Grabbing her arm, I quietly remind her, “Remember our deal. Best behavior.”
She narrows her eyes, tugging away from my grip. “I’ve programmed myself to perfect Duchess mode. Don’t worry.”
But even Nick looks uneasy. I doubt she notices, but I can see it in the way he keeps his eyes down as we march toward the door. This talk has been a long time coming, and his being a Duke is bad enough without the added unpleasantness of Lavinia being his illicit and unwilling South Side spoils.
Nick and I lead them to the side door out of habit, filtering into the mudroom with enough tension between us that it feels like an electric buzz. The feeling snaps when my mom meets us there, arms crossed, as she blocks our entry into the rest of the house.
“Simon,” she greets me, turning her blue eyes to my brother. “Nicholas.”
Nick and I share a quick glance.
Full names today.
That can’t be good.
My mother is a short, slender woman with curly auburn hair. Nick and I both share her distinctive, azure eyes, plus a little of her facial structure. These are the only things that really unite us, physically. I have Mom’s curls and Dad’s sepia complexion and broad stature. Nick has her fuller lips and Pops’ straight hair and fair skin, and lean physique. When we were younger, people used to think one of us was adopted. That would have been an easier explanation than the truth, but having two fathers was all we ever knew. We used to talk sometimes about how weird it was that everyone else only had one, and some of them—like Remy’s—weren’t even good fathers.
Mom looks between us—her two miscreant Duke sons, despite her every effort. “You know the rules, boys. You’re not coming in here until you unload.” She points to the gun safe, which has been conveniently left open for us.
Guiltily, I reach for my piece, and Nick and Remy do the same, all of us placing our guns inside, one by one.
Remy clears his throat. “Knives, too, Sarah?” Mom dips her chin, giving him a significant look, and he grimaces, pulling his knife out and placing it beside his pistol.
Lavinia, who’s been standing by the door and making herself as invisible as possible, shuffles forward, shooting me a wary look before she bends down and slides two fingers into her boot.
She emerges with a knife.
Cagily, she edges around us, avoiding our stunned stares as she gently places it in the safe. Nick and Remy look at each other, then at me, and the question is written on all our faces. Where the fuck did this bitch get a knife?
“Sorry.” Lavinia looks up at my mom and gives her a rueful grin. “Just never know where these three are taking me.”
Only one thing can penetrate the fury throbbing at my temples, and it’s the sunny smile my mom bestows her with. “You must be the Duchess.” Lavinia nods, hands linked behind her back, the picture of propriety. Mom stares at her for a long moment, lips quirking. “I used to carry a bat.”
Lavinia blinks. “Really?”
She places a hand on Lavinia’s shoulder, leading her through the door. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. Blunt force is far less messy.”
Nick sends me a sidelong look. “Remind me to thank the Lady for the dress.”
Ah, that’s where it came from. Sighing, I stomp the dirt from my feet before entering. “We can send her a weapon to show our gratitude.”
Remy agrees, “Bitches love weapons.”
Nick called it, I think, wrinkling my nose at the plate of Brussels sprouts sitting on the counter. Mom is still on the vegetarian kick. This is a full dinner of zucchini in the shape of noodles and a variety of other vegetables.
We’re going to have to stop on the way home for a burger.
The mood around the table is strained. Pops hasn’t said one word to either of us—won’t even look Nick in the eye—and Dad is sitting back, his shoulder-length black hair left to hang free as his dark eyes move between me and Nick. Neither of them looks happy, but at least Dad doesn’t look so… fucking haunted.
His eyes flick to mine.
He just looks disappointed.
“So,” Mom says, smiling across the table at Lavinia. “How’s school going for you, Duchess? You’re pre-med, I assume?”
Lavinia, who’s been halfheartedly probing her pile of fraudulent spaghetti, looks at me, and then Nick. It’s a lightning quick maneuver that’s full of dread, because we haven’t crafted a lie about this yet. Nick goes stiff beside me, and I try to convey a message to Lavinia with my tight jaw and wide eyes.
Lie through your fucking teeth.
Lavinia nods. “Yep! School’s great.”
Mom rests her elbows on the table, hands folded beneath her chin. “What’s your favorite class?”
Lavinia stabs at a tomato. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly say. I know which class is the worst, though.” She flashes me an overly conspiratorial smile. “Organic chemistry, am I right?”
I give her a surprised blink. “Yeah, the pass-fail ratio in Sheff’s class is abysmal.”
“Not for me.” She pops a cherry tomato into her mouth, explaining to Mom, “I’m doing a paper on carbonyl group modifications this week.”
No, she isn’t.
I am.
“Oh,” Mom says, attention piqued. “Any particular method?”
Nick and I glance at each other, silently panicking.
Lavinia, however, just nods. “I’ll be focusing on the mechanisms of hydrolysis thioacetals, but particularly oxidizing reagents.” I just barely stop myself from snapping back in shock. My paper isn’t even on that.
Shit.
Maybe it should be.
Mom studies her closely, and I feel sweat springing up on my forehead at the knowledge of what’s happening here. This isn’t a test. It’s a thinly veiled interrogation. “Which reagent?”
“Hypervalent iodine compounds.” Lavinia glances up, and fuck me. I’m sitting here sweating, but she looks cool as a cucumber. Butter wouldn’t melt on this bitch. “Benzine, iodoxybenzoic acid—that sort of thing.”
Nick slides me a questioning look, but I’m even more baffled than he is.
Where is she getting this?
And why is she so good at bullshitting?
Even Mom looks surprised, dropping her hands. “I don’t think—”
Pops drops his fork, the clank piercing through the air like a knife. “Are we really doing this?” he asks, gaze fixed on Nick’s ring. “Are we just going to sit here and pretend that our sons haven’t willfully violated our wishes?” He finally looks up from his plate, staring at me. “You’re one thing, Simon. I understand you need a physical outlet, and the gym has been a vital part of your therapy. I don’t like it. But I understand it. You, on the other hand…” He slides his gaze, eyes sharp through his glasses, to Nick, who’s sitting stiffly at my side. “You have the nerve to take the Bruin name—my name—back into that tower?” Pops has always been the most hot-tempered of the three of them. It flares up now, brows pinched angrily as he pitches forward, voice low and menacing. “How dare you.”
My mom touches his hand, whispering, “Davis,” but he isn’t hearing it.
“I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve spoken to me in the last two years.” Pops jerks a thumb at Dad. “Oh, you’ll talk to your dad every weekend, but me and your mother? You’ve wanted nothing to do with us. And now you’re using my name to… do what, exactly? What’s so important about being a Duke that you’d lower yourself to associating with the Bruin name again? If I can’t be your father for anything else but this, then you’d better fucking explain—”
“Stop,” Nick says, sounding tired. “Me becoming a Duke… it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
Pops’ fist comes down on the table. “It has everything to do with me!”
Lavinia flinches so hard that the glass by her elbow flies off the table, crashing to the floor. The sound of it shattering is enough to douse the table in tense silence. Remy looks down at the pieces of glass, and Dad is already standing from his seat, saying, “I’ll get the broom,” but Lavinia…
She’s gone white as a sheet, dropping to her knees to pluck up the shards. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to. I’ll pick it up myself.”
The closer Dad gets, the faster her hands move, in such a hurry to clear the debris that she’s going to slice her goddamn hand open.
Quickly, I move to intervene, noticing how nervous she’s getting with Dad’s approach. Fucking daddy issues…
“I’ve got it,” I tell her, stilling her hand. She flashes me an anxious glare and I scowl back. “I’ve got it,” I stress, shooing her back into her seat.
Dad clears his throat, hovering over me. “Well, if we’ve reached the ‘dramatic outbursts’ phase of dinner, then I think the three of us need to excuse ourselves and talk this out in private.” He shoots Pops a disapproving look, and then one to Nick, who’s rising from his seat like he’d rather be doing anything else.
“Fine,” Nick says, dropping his napkin and following our father’s upstairs to the study.
The second they’re gone, Lavinia relaxes.
But Remy doesn’t.
He reaches up to rub at his temple, eyes tight at the corners. He’s really good at hiding his neurosis at times like these—times when he needs to. His dad never did do much for Remy, but at least he taught him that. To act normal. To pretend.
Unfortunately, nothing gets past my mother—especially when she needs a distraction from the yells currently coming from upstairs. “What is it, Remy?”
He freezes, dropping his hand into his lap. “Nothing.”
But she frowns, observing him carefully. “It’s okay if it’s something.” My mom was probably the only one who took him seriously when we were kids. She’s the one who diagnosed him, back before any of us realized Remy wasn’t just gone for large blocks of time on account of his dad being a prick. “There’s nothing that can’t be said under this roof. You remember the rules, don’t you?”
But no one knows him better than I do, and I cast my eyes around the table, searching for—
Yep, there it is.
A bouquet of wildflowers fills the vase in the centerpiece of the table. I lean over my plate and pick it up, twisting to set it on the floor behind me. “He’s sensitive to the yellow,” I explain, and Mom gives me a long look.
“I didn’t realize you were experiencing sensory issues,” she says, slipping into her head-shrink posture. “When did that begin?”
“Mom,” I warn.
Now that the yellow wildflowers are gone, Remy looks content to shovel food into his mouth, unbothered by her probing. “I don’t think it’s a sensory thing, Sarah. Yellow is just bad.”
“Bad how?”
He shrugs. “Just is. Too bright. Wrong. Smells like brimstone.”
Realizing that’s not going to go anywhere, she turns her focus to me, eyes flicking up briefly when Nick’s booming voice carries through the ceiling. “How are things going with your brother in the belfry?”
“Fine,” I reply, beginning the clean up without being asked. I dump the remains of the sprouts down the disposal and flick on the switch, hoping the grinding will drown out whatever Nick is saying up there.
“No incidents?” she asks, the instant I turn it off. “It’s been a long time since you two lived together.”
“We’re not sixteen anymore. We can co-exist.”
Mom glances over at Lavinia, who’s carrying a stack of plates from the table. “How do you think my boys are doing?”
“Me?” Lavinia asks, wobbling a little. A fork slides and I reach out and grab it before it hits the ground.
“Mom,” I interject. She should know better than to bring this shit up. “I don’t think—”
“I’d love to hear what you think, Duchess,” Mom says, ignoring my interjection.
“Oh, there’s definitely tension,” Lavinia says, pushing the stack of dirty dishes toward me. “And I think at least one fistfight…”
That she caused. I shoot her a hard look and mouth the word, ‘kitten.’
“But overall,” she adds slowly, “they seem to get along. I mean, comparatively.”
“Comparatively?” Mom tilts her head, and I suppress a groan. “Compared to what?”
Lavinia glances between us. “I just mean… well, I got into a lot of fights with my sister growing up. They’re not as bad as that.”
I watch my mom carefully, unsure if the rumors about the Lucias have penetrated this far outside of the territories. “I have a sister,” Mom says, giving her a private grin. “There’s nothing as merciless as a teenage girl whose favorite shirt has gone missing.”
Lavinia responds with a fake little laugh that tells my mother more than words or could I have. I give her a threatening look before starting some dish water.
“But brothers can be brutal in their own way,” mom says, standing to collect the glasses. “Things were complicated when Nick took off to go work for Daniel Payne. I was convinced we’d lost him for a while.” My shoulders tense as my mother rambles on. I don’t like Lavinia knowing our business, but from the somber cast in her eyes, I can see she’s lost in facing down a difficult emotion. “It wasn’t completely unexpected. Everyone was grieving, and poor Remy…”
Without really meaning to, we all turn to look at him, standing over the trashcan by the basement door. He goes still, a hunted expression frozen on his face as his arm hovers halfway over the bin.
The wildflowers are in his hand.
I fling my arms out haplessly. “Dude.”
Mom flicks a hand. “Oh, go ahead, Remy. I picked them this morning during a patient outing at the river. They’re nothing special.”
Looking relieved, he dumps them into the trashcan, closing it with a decisive slam. I knew I shouldn’t have let him take all those stimulants from Cash the night before last. “Downstairs,” I say, pointing a finger to the basement door. “Work it off on the pool table,” and before he opens the door, “Don’t mess with the yellow balls!”
“Grieving about Tate?” Lavinia asks, leaning her hip against the counter. The name brings me up short, which is why I’ve forgotten the discussion they were having before Remy decided to dispose of the floral arrangement.
“What?” I ask, voice sharp enough to make her visibly bristle.
She gestures to my mom. “She said everyone was grieving.”
“That’s right.” Mom looks at me and back at Lav. “It was a difficult time for everyone, especially the boys. Suicide loss survivors internalize so much more guilt—”
“Okay,” I say, dropping the fork I’d been cleaning in the soapy water, “that’s enough.”
My mother sighs. “How many times have I told you it’s not okay to bottle everything up? You need to talk about her.” She lifts the lid on a pot and stirs whatever is inside. “You should know this about my boys, Lavinia. They’re like their fathers. It’s easier for them to use their fists than to deal with their emotions. Lashing out is more fun.”
My eyes meet Lavinia’s and we hold contact for a moment. I don’t know how she’ll respond, but I don’t expect her to ease up to my side and tuck herself under my arm.
“I don’t know, Sarah. Simon has all kinds of ways he likes to express himself.” She looks up at me, fluttering her eyelashes, “Isn’t that right, babe?”
Every muscle in my body tenses. Not just from her touch, but her scent and the fact she’s playing this game so well—a game I talked her into.
I swallow. “I’m working on it.”
Mom’s eyes light up. “I’m so glad to hear that. I knew one day you’d find the right woman to channel all that energy into.” Mom leans toward Lavinia, winking. “It took me a few years, but now my husbands are also as good in bed as they were in the ring.”
“That’s it,” I say, tightening my grip on Lavinia and pulling her from the room. When we’re out of earshot, I mutter, “Jesus Christ.”
“Nothing’s off limits with that one, huh?” she says, and despite the heavy topics and clumsy subterfuge, there’s a strange mirth in her eyes. I don’t like it.
“She’s a sex therapist. You have no fucking idea.” My fingers clench around her upper arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “And I told you not to mention Tate. Ever.”
“You told me to be believable!” she hisses, trying to pull away. The movement makes her tits jiggle, and I feel the ocean inside of me churn eagerly. Fuck, I want to hold those things in my hands. “Do you really think she’d believe I wouldn’t ask?”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” I say, not realizing how hard I’m squeezing her arm until she winces, a pained sound escaping her throat. “I think you’re getting a little too comfortable. Things were a lot easier when you were just some slut Nick kept ferreting away.” Now she’s in my home—my real home—with her tits and legs and plush, red lips, asking all these fucking questions.
She shoots a pointed look at where I’m grabbing her arm. “You think this is comfortable?! Why don’t you just be honest with yourself for three seconds, Sy? Why are you actually so worked up?” She stares at me with a malevolent glint in her eye. “I did what you asked. I charmed your mother’s pants off in there. You’re mad,” she steps closer, tits brushing my chest, “because of this.”
Without warning, her hand cups my half-hard dick.
In a blink, I have her pressed into the couch, her wrist trapped in my hand. “Don’t,” I warn, my skin feeling spread too tight. “Do not fucking push me.” It takes everything—every single morsel of my self-control—to not bend her over this couch, wrench her panties aside, and shove my cock into the nearest and able hole.
Her lip curls. “I’ll stop pushing you when you face up to your own issues instead of taking them out on me.”
I have a lot more to say, but we’re interrupted by the footsteps on the stairs. Nick, Pops, and Dad descend, and I jerk away from Lavinia as if her skin is made of fire. I shove my hands into my pockets, hoping it hides the half-chub I’m packing as they enter the den. It looks like everyone’s done being pissed off, even though Pops looks wrung out.
As we all go downstairs, I do what I always do; pretend everything is fine, that it’s all under control, that Nick coming back hasn’t both helped and hindered my life. That Remy’s not teetering on the edge of a sharp knife and that Lavinia… I shoot her a dark look as she rests an elbow on Pop’s prized bar he had installed right after I graduated.
Nick was still in high school then, finishing out his senior year, and I remember being jealous that he got a whole year with it. When I lived here, there wasn’t anything in the basement but spider webs, a half-functional and possibly cursed chest freezer, and musty Christmas decorations.
Now, it’s a total fucking pad.
I know the hatchet is buried when Nick and Pops begin a quiet game of pool. Whatever words were said up there, they seem to have eased some of the tension between them. Briefly, I wonder if Nick told him the same thing he told me and Remy about defecting to South Side to investigate Tate’s death. We’ve talked about it a little bit over the last few days. The topic is usually brought up in the middle of doing something else, a conversation we keep picking up and putting down, like it’s something none of us are confident enough to look in the eye.
Dad and Remy are sprawled out on the couch, watching the football game on the TV. Remy’s flipping that marker through his fingers, eyes tracking the players on the field.
“How about I get everyone a drink?” Lavinia says, walking around the back of the bar. The ease in which she slips into playing the part of the doting Duchess is shocking.
I don’t even understand why it pisses me off so much. It’s a performance she’s been ordered to do, but it’s still a performance. Fake. God, I hate it when bitches are fake. And why do her tits have to look like that? All fucking grabbable. I keep tucking the hot feeling inside my chest away into the ocean, but it’s hard to visualize my serenity when she’s standing there in that dress.
All it’d take is one finger to lower a strap and expose her breast.
I resist the urge when she brings me a beer. Instead, I grab it and take an aggressive swallow.
My brother’s eyes keep wandering to her, like a master who’s eager for his puppy’s affection. But he doesn’t ask—doesn’t manhandle her where he wants her. Not here, in front of our fathers, and especially not after having found a tentative peace.
During one of these overly intense stares, she finally strides right over to him, winding an arm around his waist. Nick looks shocked for a second, and then his mouth curves into this wicked little grin. “There’s my Little Bird.” I know what’s coming before he even tips his face down to kiss her.
Sucking face.
Disgusting.
Ocean, ocean, ocean.
She accepts his kiss with minimal fuss, even going so far as to fist his shirt fabric, but the second his mouth releases her, her eyes flick to me.
Whore.
“Who’s winning?” she asks, resting her hand on his stomach. Remy glances over, eyebrow raised. The Duchess’ game must be more interesting than the one on TV.
“Pops is a shark,” Nick says, sliding his hand down her ass and giving it a little squeeze. No way my brother isn’t going to take advantage of this situation. “He’ll take all your money if you don’t watch out.”
“I hope none of you bet on this game,” Dad says from the armchair, cigar pinched between his fingers. “It’s going to be a tough year for Forsyth without Payne playing.” None of us care much about football, but Killian was a legend on the field. His decision to quit and focus on being King after his father was murdered was surprising—well, to anyone that didn’t understand what was at stake. “But obligation to family is tough. We’ve tried our hardest not to put that kind of pressure on you boys.”
Here we go. Nick and I share a resigned look. He might have already had his dressing down, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to support us being Dukes. I sit back in the recliner, fully prepared for a lecture about the pitfalls of West End.
It never comes.
But Lavinia does.
She steps back from Nick as he lines up his next shot and crosses in front of me, walking toward the empty seat next to Remy. Or I think she is, but suddenly she drops in my lap.
It feels like I suck in every bit of air in the room, pressing myself into the chair as if I could get away from her.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asks, batting those blonde eyelashes at me.
Through clenched teeth, I answer, “No.”
“Alright, then.” She doesn’t remove herself, instead grinding down on my crotch with her ass. “I guess I’ll stay here.”
I grit my teeth, willing my boner to settle down. She slides her hand behind my neck and tugs at the hair at the nape of my neck. A shiver runs through me. Keeping my voice a low rumble, I ask, “What are you doing?”
She responds by pushing my hair off my forehead with her other hand. “Behaving. Isn’t this what you wanted? A little Barbie doll that does whatever you want? A sweet little uncomplicated Verity?”
But she’s not being sweet. She’s wiggling her tight little ass against my cock. Intentionally. I dig my fingers into her hips in an attempt to force her to still, but it just crushes her closer. “You need to stop.”
“Do I?”
Clack!
The cue hits the ball and I look over at my brother. One ball sinks in the pocket while the white ball bounces off the side. You’d think he’d be pissed about his pet flirting with me, but he just looks up at me through his lashes, lips curving into a dark smirk. He’s enjoying my discomfort.
In the quietest, calmest voice I can muster, I say in her ear, “I know you think this is funny, but my cock is on a hair-trigger. I need you to stop. That’s an order.”
She stills, and I can almost breathe. It’s taking every ounce of restraint to not buck up into her ass. If I can just count to ten like I normally do, I can get it under control. But this bitch, this fucking cock-tease, just can’t leave well enough alone. She wiggles her ass discreetly, grinding down on me until white flashes in front of my eyes. I clamp my fingers down on her hips, but it’s too late. I’m fully, painfully erect.
Suddenly, she stands and looks down at me with a grin that’s sharp and full of venom. “I think I’ll go see if your mother needs any help.”
“Damn it,” Nick shouts, focused on the board. Pops cackles, setting up his last shot. Remy and Dad are still absorbed in the football game, which gives me a chance to make a break for it. I grimace through the pain of standing, the friction of my pants, and head to the bathroom, balls aching. It won’t be the first time I’ve jerked off down here.
I push open the door, my hand already on my fly, but as soon as I enter, I freeze.
Lavinia is bent over the sink, palms pressed to the counter as she peers into the mirror. Every shred of self-control vanishes and I step in, shutting and locking the door behind me.
“Jesus Christ!” She jumps. “What did I say about that bell, Lurker?”
I shove the flat of my palm into the center of her back and slam her down over the counter, vision going red. “You think you can do that?” I growl, frantically clawing at my pants’ buttons. “You think you can fuck with me and just walk away?!”
I push my hips into her ass, seeking relief in that feral, mindless way I hate. Nick can make all the jokes he wants about me being a robot, but sometimes desperate appeals to my own inner logic are the only thing that keeps me from exploding like a goddamn H-bomb. It’s never easy to force the urges back inside, but I can. It takes strength. Will. Determination.
So when I make the decision not to bother, it’s done very deliberately.
Lavinia is the Duchess.
The Duchess exists to be used.
She shoots a hand out, struggling against my hold as I reach beneath her dress and wrench her panties down her thighs. Her eyes flash with panic and she presses her thighs together, gasping, “No, Sy—wait! Stop!”
I clamp over her mouth with my hand, curling over her back to hiss, “Shut up. Shut the fuck up!” I make sure she’s looking at me in the reflection before I add, “If you don’t, I’m going to shove my cock into your hole.”
She goes quiet. Still.
“Did you like that?” I ask, seething. “Embarrassing me in front of my family? I specifically told you not to act like a whore, but you couldn’t stop yourself, could you?” I shimmy my pants down to free my cock, not once taking my eyes off of hers in the mirror. “You don’t get to rile me up like that, get me fucking hard and desperate, and just…”
I thrust against her ass, knowing that I can fuck her, tear her up, and ruin her for any other man. Ruin her for Nick, who gets her kisses and attention and fucking deference, while the rest of us get jack shit. I know my girth would do it, but then I’d have to look at the disgust on her face, hear her call me a monster.
Maybe I just want her to be humiliated, the same way she did to me.
“So you’re going to stand here and take it, just like I did out there. You’re not going to make a fucking sound.” But I don’t move my hand away until she nods, and if I thought her wriggling in my lap was the most arousing thing I’ve seen today, then I’m proven wrong at the sight of her eyes, bright with unshed tears.
I remove my hand from her mouth, hoping the tears spill over. My hands are shaking at the thought of it—seeing her cry. Seeing her sob. Seeing tears spring from those eyes as her face contorted with agony…
My cock is blistering hot, and I pull on it with a long, furious stroke. I flip the skirt of her dress up, getting a look at her smooth, bare ass. Her cheeks are clenched, and I let go of my cock long enough to force them apart, revealing the most hidden parts of her. I stare at the puckered hole, pristine. No one’s taken her there yet. It could be mine. It’d be so easy to cave just this once and let go, let loose. I could do it. She has no choice but to let me.
But we’re in my parent’s house.
Someone would have to carry her out on a stretcher.
Instead, I reach over her and pump a thick dollop of lotion out of the bottle on the counter. I spread it all over, getting her good and greasy, then slot my cock between her cheeks. It spreads her wide and I see her bite her bottom lip as my thickness stretches her apart. I’m sure it’s uncomfortable, but guess what? I’ve been in pain all day. All goddamn week. I hope she feels it. With both hands, I squeeze the fleshy sides together and rock my hips, sliding against the pressure.
“Jesus, yes.” My voice sounds like sandpaper, rough and quiet. I’ve never had a girl like this. Never had a girl at all. And the ocean inside me is frothing, with the tempest of need settling at the base of my spine. It drives my hips forward, hypnotizing me with the sight of my cock nestled between her cheeks. One of her palms is still gripping the edge of the counter, elbow raised in the air, suspended in a failed attempt at getting away.
It’s not a comfortable angle. Lavinia is too short and I have to bend my knees, but somehow, it’s still the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. I pull my shirt out of the way to watch every point of our skin connecting in hyper-detail. The slickness of the lotion, the muscles in her ass, shifting with every thrust I make into the crevice, the way the head of my cock looks, flushed dark and purple, against the paler complexion of her skin.
The last thing I want to do is go off in three strokes. It’d probably give her a false sense of her own appeal. Grabbing her thighs to pull her into the short, erratic punches of my hips, I manage to last fifteen.
Sparks explode behind my eyes and I grunt into the space between her shoulder blades, teeth gnashed as my orgasm rips through me. I watch as my cock jerks, surging cum against her lower back in thick, ropey spurts.
Lavinia remains frozen through all of it, suitably tolerant as her head hangs, blue hair veiling her face. My cock drains and then turns flaccid, dropping between my legs. I pull back to watch a large glob of my release slide down to the valley between her cheeks, spreading them to track its descent over her asshole, toward her pussy.
Still breathing heavily, an urge consumes me, and I run my finger down the sticky goo, traveling the same path, down her back to her crack, slipping lower, to between her legs. Her body betrays her, flinching when I toy with the puckered rosebud and then shuddering as I go lower, running my sticky fingers over her pussy. She jolts, hips rocking.
“God, you’re such a dirty little whore,” I tell her, feeling how slick she is. “I just dumped my cum all over you and you still want it.” I scoop as much semen onto my fingers as I can and roll it around her folds. “Your pussy is soaked for it—dying to get a taste of my cum.” I push my fingers inside, feeding her hungry cunt what it wants. My cock, exhausted and spent, twitches back to life. It’s a never-ending cycle with this one. I fuck my fingers in and out, watching her in the mirror. She’s too stubborn to look away, but I see the way her jaw relaxes and how her teeth fall away from her bottom lip. I bend over to whisper in her ear, “You’re a filthy, horny little slut. You like feeling my cum in your pussy, don’t you? You want to feel owned, like a bitch in heat.”
Her walls clench around me and short bursts of air punch from her lungs. She curls around herself, knees wobbly and elbows collapsing. Her cries are soft, a contrast to the way her body reacts violently, the orgasm wracking through her. I hold her up as she falls apart and only remove my fingers when her cunt loosens.
There’s no mistaking the smug feeling in my chest.
“Fuck with me again, Little Whore,” I say, watching the emotions wash over her face. Anger, humiliation, want. “And I won’t just come on your back. I’ll tear your cunt apart, got it?”
She nods, and bites down on her bottom lip like she’s forcing herself to stay quiet. Good.
I turn behind me and open a cabinet, pulling out two washcloths. I toss one at her while using the other to wipe off my dick. “Clean up,” I tell her. “I’ll tell them you have cramps, and we need to leave.”
I exit the bathroom, leaving her there to clean up the mess. There’s no mistaking the smug feeling in my chest. I may not be able to satisfy a woman the traditional way, but there’s no doubt I gave Lavinia exactly what she wanted.
