I’ve been hiding a half-chub since I saw that Princess taking it from behind against that tree.
Fuck.
Who am I kidding?
I’ve been half hard since I saw Lavinia in that sheer dress.
I know there’s a reason—a really fucking good one, too—I should knock this bitch right off my lap into the dirt. But it’s hard to think with her tongue in my mouth and her body pressed up against mine. It’s impossible to process anything but how she tastes like liquor, that her lips are both soft and firm. Intense. Deliberately teasing. I barely register anything other than the sharp scrape of her nails grazing down my chin. And for a hot moment, I don’t think about how slutty she is, or what people are saying as they watch her grind against me. How they’re probably laughing, mocking me. Whispering about my body as if they have a right.
It’s when she pulls back that the sharp curve of her smile jolts me back to reality. I slam into the awareness of inadequacy that follows me around like a demon clawing at my soul.
I cinch my hands around her hips, digging my thumbs into the exposed skin, and force her to stop moving. “You’re fucking laughing at me?” I hiss, looking around to see if anyone is watching my utter and absolute humiliation. They aren’t, of course. Everyone is too wound up in their own pleasure to witness my Duchess’ attempt at humbling me.
To my left, Tristian Mercer is sucking on his Lady’s tits while Rathbone punches his cock into her ass with a steady rhythm. A few feet away, Killian watches, languidly stroking himself, waiting for his turn to strike. To the right, the Princes have their Princess surrounded, two of them inside her at the same time. Her tits bounce with the force, her jaw slack, until her third Prince stands above her and shoves his cock between her open lips.
These bitches—these absolute fucking whores—just take it, filled up with dick, begging for more. They all say they want a big cock, but then when they see a real one, they shut their legs and run.
“I’m not laughing at you, dumbass,” Lavinia says quietly, leaning forward to whisper in my ear. Her pebbled nipples graze across my chest, eliciting a twinge in my balls. “I’m acting like a Duchess. Isn’t that what you keep telling me to do?”
My teeth gnash as I dig my fingers into her flesh. “Not when you’re trying to make me look like a chump.” The monster in my pants leaps, begs, throbs with want. I never had a chance to invoke even a thought of my ocean, and now the need is writhing in the pit of my balls. Sex and debauchery are a Royal’s bag, but I avoid it as much as I can. I fight. I study. I drink and hang out with my friends. I excel.
I win.
I win everywhere, except here.
When it comes to sex, I always lose.
“You know I can’t—” She kisses me again, cutting off my words. I open to her like a man who’s dying of thirst, and I hate it. God, I fucking loathe it—the desperate urge to feel her tongue against mine, slick and hot. I grab her tits and push her back. “If you’re doing this to piss off my brother—”
“This is going to make you look good.” She grinds down again and her lips part, letting out a soft sigh. “No one here needs to know what’s really happening.” She spreads the bundle of fabric that makes up the train of her skirt and gathers it around our hips like a shield. Her lips are so close to mine that I can hear her words when she whispers, “Just act like we’re fucking, and you and I will be the only ones who know the truth.”
The irony of my life slams into me all at once. The years I’ve spent suppressing the urges. Tucking my boner into the waistband of my pants, hiding all evidence with loose shirts. The non-stop workouts, the fighting, throwing myself into celibacy because it’s easier than having a female look at me like that—like I’m deficient, abnormal. What I can’t take is the rejection. It’s just another form of losing, and Simon Perilini doesn’t lose. I won the position of Duke, which led to this night, a spot at this insane pagan ritual of lust and depravity, and now Lavinia Lucia’s forked tongue is coaxing me into her warmth. That’s the biggest irony, and it cuts to the bone.
Her mouth twists wryly—bitterly. “I know you’re not used to doing this with consent, so it’ll be a little different for you. But don’t worry. I’ll walk you through it.”
I bite down on a groan at the feel of her cunt pressing into my hard-on. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”
“Then fuck me like one,” she dares, surging against me, “Just act like it. Kiss me. Touch me. Put your hands under my skirt and pretend I’m riding you.” She grinds down on me and drops her head back, arms hanging from my neck, her tits thrusting into my face. When I just sit here, rigid as a corpse, she adds, “Everyone is busy, but they’ll notice if you just sit there like you’ve got a stick up your ass.”
She’s so fucking mouthy—bossy as hell—and I know if we were somewhere alone she’d never say this kind of thing to me. She wouldn’t dare, because if I snapped, she’d be the first one to pay. Annoyingly, however, she’s right that there’s nothing to do but pretend. I can’t actually take her in the middle of this thing. Not without bringing more attention to how much of a freak I am. All I can do is sit here and act like I have a thread of control.
I’m just not sure I do.
She reaches between us, grabbing my belt. “Here’s what you’re going to do, lover,” she pushes the buckle loose and unzips my pants. I shift uneasily. There are rumors about my size—a few girls have seen it, and plenty of guys at the gym, but exposing myself in front of the majority of the Royal caste? I’d rather jam hot pokers into my eyeballs. Her hair brushes against my face as she leans toward my ear, intoxicating me with the scent of honey. “You’re going to act like you want me. And—this is important—you’re going to be rough about it. I’m going to whimper and moan and let these people think you’re a motherfucking sex god.”
“And then what?” I still her hand, even though my thighs are trembling with the strain of not fucking up into something. “Why are you doing this? You don’t give a shit about what these people think.” I look around for Nick, but he’s vanished. That doesn’t mean he’s not around—watching. Fuming. I should be looking for Remy, not playing games.
“I made a deal,” she says, lips grazing over my earlobe, “and despite what your brother thinks, I keep them.”
I close my eyes, fingers flexing around her waist. “So this is about Nick.”
“Does it really matter?” she asks, looking around. Sex sounds surround us. No one else is talking, and if they are, it’s not about this. Every direction I look, I see tongues and cocks and tits. Right across the fire, I see the red puckered hole of the Countess’ ass, and fuck, I don’t even know what the Barons are doing on that altar. Wincing, I acknowledge that it looks painful.
I relent, watching Lavinia with heavy eyes as she slips her fingers into my waistband, working them over my hips. “No,” I say, dropping my head back at the feel of her warm, soft hand on my painful erection. “No, you’re right, it doesn’t matter.”
Lavinia touches my cock curiously at first. She can’t see it because it’s hidden by her skirt, but she can feel it, fingertips shyly roving the length of me. I wait for the flash of horror in her eyes. The fear. The disgust.
Instead, she lowers her warm cunt onto it.
I suck in a sharp gasp, toes curling at the heat of her. My fingers dig into her hips and I stare back at her, showing a restraint that I don’t feel. “You’re not wearing underwear!” I hiss.
She rolls her hips in a slow, agonizingly deliberate way. “Kiss my neck.” When all I can do is breathe hard into the view of her cleavage, she grabs my hair again, yanking my face up. “Fucking kiss me!”
Lost in the fire of her against my cock, I can’t think of anything to do but comply, burying my face into her neck and opening my mouth against the skin. The moan in her throat vibrates against my lips, and then her pussy stutters over the achingly sensitive head of my cock, making my teeth sink into the tendon.
Lavinia makes this shocked sound, her moan bitten off into a sharp cry. “Yeah, just like that,” she says, voice tight as her fingers clench in my hair. “The Barons are watching.” She keeps grinding against me and I keep tightening my grip on her hips, knowing that I have to be hurting her now.
If anything, it makes her hips rock with more intent.
They’re these torturous little undulations that I can feel all the way down to my marrow, and it doesn’t strike me at first that the feeling of it has changed—has grown warmer and… slicker—until my mind explodes with disquieting thoughts. Flipping her over and shoving my cock inside. Covering her mouth with my hand as I rip my way through her. Or not, even. Letting her scream reach the ears of everyone around us. Letting all of them see what my cock can do to a woman. She’d bleed and cry, and I’d come too fast, coating her insides with the enormity of me, pumping her so full and forcing it deeper.
My cum would mingle with her blood, dripping a grisly pink down her soft thighs.
“I can’t,” I say, not even recognizing the ragged sound of my own voice. “I won’t be able to stop, I’ll—”
I’ll fucking destroy you.
Her nails dig painfully into the nape of my neck. “Don’t come yet,” she says, pussy sliding over my hard shaft. I realize she thinks I’m talking about my hair-trigger. But I’m not. I’m talking about the need, so deep and primal that my muscles pulse mindlessly with the urge to thrust and take and have. “Kiss me,” she gasps, my dick slotting right between her slick folds.
My first thought is that I’d rather eat a handful of dirt, but then I’m turning my head and licking wetly into her waiting mouth. It’s not me. It’s this… thing inside of me. Craving is too weak a word for it. It’s instinct, this drive to fist my hand into her pale blue hair and conquer her mouth as she rides me. It’s an impulse so all-consuming that I don’t even realize I’m ripping away the top of her dress until my palm is already cupping her tit, squeezing.
When I break away from her mouth, there’s a flash of nervousness in her eyes that I pay zero mind to. It’s gone as fast as it arrived, however, and she clutches me closer, directing my mouth to her tits.
“Suck me,” she orders, breath hitching.
I lift the weight of her breast in my hand and open my mouth around the peak, tongue feeling the pebbled texture of her nipple. My teeth press into the soft flesh and it makes her grind down harder, a cry ripping from her throat.
I move instantly to the other, so eager to consume every inch of this soft, writhing body that I don’t even notice all the eyes on us.
Lavinia does, though.
She ducks down, breath hot against the crown of my head, to whisper, “Everyone is looking, Sy. They all think you’re inside of me.”
I thought I’d reach the pinnacle of hatred when Lavinia became our Duchess. She was everything I despised about women. Entitled. Fake. Manipulative. Weak. But now I discover a well of loathing so deep that it makes my stomach roil. It’s a black, wretched, ugly thing, because her words bring me such satisfaction that I growl around her breast. It’s the knowledge that everyone here is accepting the lie, and I like it. The thought that, for these few brief moments beneath the void of night, people think I’m normal.
I’m winning.
I might hate my lizard-brain reaction to it, but I don’t deny it. This is why I lift my mouth from her breast to pant against her mouth. “Faster.”
Lavinia obeys, her hips working against me in a rhythm that makes my balls clench excitedly. I’ve been so focused on the heat of her against my dick that I’m only now noticing how heavy her eyes have become, her plush lips parted with her short breaths. Her cheeks are pink, but the tips of her ears burn a vivid red, and it jolts through me like a lightning bolt that she’s enjoying this.
This tiny little crevice forms between her eyebrows, and she breathes. “Nipples. Play with my nipples.” Instantly, I reach down to pluck one between my fingers, fascinated by the clench of her thighs around my hips. “Oh, fuck,” she breathes, as if this is news to her as much as me.
I find my tongue licking out to taste the sigh that spills from her lips. I’m used to my dick eliciting gasps of shock. I’ve known girls who have gone stiff at the sight of it—the feel of it. I’m familiar with the wary looks and the whispers.
I’ve never had a girl moan like Lavinia does right then.
Her face pinches up, like she’s angry or hurting, and when she buries her face into my shoulder, letting loose a soft, desperate-sounding cry, I know she has to be faking it. The way her body seizes, the rush of wetness against my sensitive shaft, the shudder that rocks her shoulders, the quiver in her thighs…
It’s pure performance.
It has to be.
She goes limp, but my cock hasn’t gotten the message that this act is over. I grab a handful of her ass, plant my feet, and buck into her senselessly, chasing the lure of my release. She’s wet—fuck, so goddamn wet—and I’ve never had that before. A woman’s slickness covering my cock. It’s intoxicating, and I don’t even notice the eyes on us, as if the only thing that exists is between our bodies.
I clutch her to me tightly, and she begins making these breathless, pained sounds as I punch my hips up, teeth clenched against the need to feel her velvety insides around my cock. I’ve been obsessed with the thought of it since I forced my fingers into her cunt at dinner the other night. It’d feel so tight and warm—constricting and soft. It isn’t until I glance up into the eyes of a shocked Sutton, that I wonder how I must look, face contorted as I fuck up into my Duchess.
That’s what she is, my brain reminds me. Mine by rights. Mine to fuck. Mine to claim. Mine to mark and fill and use.
As if hearing the path my thoughts have taken, Lavinia turns her head to speak coolly into my ear. “You can come now. That’s what you want isn’t it? It’s what your body needs.” Lips brushing against my earlobe, she breathes, “Show them all who I belong to. Make me your bitch, Sy.”
A growl tears from my chest as I fist a handful of her hair, shoving her down into my thrust with a violence that makes her yelp. It could be the performance again. No one could possibly believe I’d fuck into her this hard without a few tears springing up in her eyes. But fuck, she’s convincing.
So convincing that my brain doesn’t care to note the difference between act and reality. It thinks of her crying out like that—baleful and plaintive—and it surges with pride at the thought of bringing her pain.
I come with a grunt into her hair, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache. I feel it gush into her folds, and then against my belly, warm and sticky as my thighs burn with the effort of my mindlessly bucking hips. Until this very second, my best orgasm was had at three in the morning, half asleep in my bed as the woman below me lay paralyzed.
This one takes the top spot by fucking miles.
And Lavinia was both of them.
It’s so good that I can feel it vibrating through my legs, my ears ringing from the force of it. But then I realize it’s not the orgasm at all.
My phone’s going off in my back pocket.
Lavinia makes a surprised sound when I lift her up enough to drag my pants back over my hips, grimacing as I tuck my dick back inside. My phone rings and rings, buzzing urgently, and I fumble to get it out of my pocket, only needing to see the flash of Remy’s name before I’m dumping her out of my lap and answering.
“Remy?” His name comes out in a breathless bark. I glance over at Lavinia. She’s sprawled against the chair, skirt still hiked against her hips, red-cheeked and with my sticky cum between her legs. “Remy?” I say again. “Where the fuck are you?”
