Tristian is startlingly ungentle when he pushes Rath and me under the spray of his shower, stepping in behind us. “What the fuck…” he keeps muttering through gnashed teeth, palms frantically scrubbing the blood from my skin. My flesh is raw, pink from the abrasive sponge he lathered with soap. At least the water is warm. “Fucking diseased, toxic, hepatitis-ridden, Baron-bleeding bullshit.”
“Glad to see you’re not overreacting or anything,” Rath says from the other side of the shower, naked and loose-looking. At some point, he reclaimed his bottle of whiskey and didn’t look willing to let it go, even when he stripped off his clothes. He tips it up to his mouth as Tristian lathers up the sponge for a second time.
He was waiting for us in the garage, standing in the dark, worried and annoyed. He’d forced us to strip there, grumbling about trailing blood across the house and Ms. Crane. The mention of her was why I’d agreed immediately to strip down completely. I didn’t want to experience her wrath.
Tristian led us to his shower, turning on the showerheads and ordering us inside. Rath took one side, and I took the other. Tristian stripped down and stepped inside with us, armed with top end bath products, including brushes that look like torture devices.
“I can’t believe you’d be so fucking reckless and—” Pausing, Tristian’s jaw hardens. “Actually, I can believe that. But you.” The look Tristian gives me makes me turn away, unwilling to deal with it. He responds by fisting my hair and scrubbing the sponge down my side. “You should have woken me up. Called me. Done something. You don’t just fucking go off into the night like—”
“Like she did with you?” Rath asks, watching lazily as Tristian washes the blood away.
“That was different,” Tristian argues, spinning me roughly around. His glare follows the motions of the sponge, eyes pinched tight at the corners. “I wasn’t drunk and pissed off. I did it the right way.”
“You hadn’t just had your entire future sabotaged in front of the gatekeepers of an industry!” The rage swells under his skin. “And I wouldn’t count Daniel catching you on tape as ‘doing it the right way’.”
“He what?” I ask. It’s the first time I’ve heard of this. “He knew we were there?”
“It’s resolved,” Tristian says. He removes one of the two shower heads and directs the spray across my backside.
“Whatever.” Rath pushes a long ‘pssssh’ through his teeth. “She was fine. Weren’t you fine, little Cherry? Didn’t big daddy Rath get you home in one piece?” I don’t like the way he says it, all biting and caustic.
Tristian cuts him off. “Things were different then. There weren’t people trying to…” He trails off, pushing me under the water. Pinkish blood washes down my belly and pools at our feet. He sneers, “This is revolting. Covering yourselves in someone else’s blood, god only fucking knows who or what.”
The bottle of whiskey sloshes as Rath raises it in a clumsy gesture. “It’s some kind of cattle blood, you fucking lunatic. There’s no hepatitis.”
I stand obediently as Tristian lathers up my hair—fingers catching in the knots a little too pointedly—because this is what it means to be a Lady. Breaking into a frat house. Coming when called. Letting Tristian fuss over me like his wily dog. But the truth is, there’s a cold, detached edge to his gaze and motions that makes my stomach flip anxiously.
My eyes catch Rath’s and he’s watching me, head lolled back onto the tile. The jut of his chin looks altogether indolent and defiant.
So does the jut of his cock.
Autumn said it. These men are thugs. They get off on this lifestyle. Revenge, chaos, pain, and torture. For once we’re on the same side of it, and I won’t deny it ignites something under my own skin. I’m staring at his arousal when it really hits me that I’m in a shower with two men. I don’t need to drop my eyes to know that Tristian’s cock is just as hard and demanding. I can feel it every time he jostles my head, fingers digging painfully into my scalp. The tip of his dick keeps grazing my hip like a silent threat.
“Head back,” he commands, voice low and full of warning. I know better than to fight, letting him wash the shampoo from my hair. “Remember that talk we had about you calling us out on our bullshit sometimes?” He flings a hand at Rath, stressing, “This is that bullshit. Something like that happens again, you wake me or Killian! Do you understand?”
Rath snorts. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“I’m a drama queen?” Tristian whirls on him, eyes flashing. “I’m not the one who snuck out at two in the morning to decorate a nursery in cow’s blood! No one’s a bigger drama queen than you, Rath.”
Rath rolls his eyes, reaching out to spin a finger in Tristian’s direction. “Don’t point your boner at me.”
The sponge Tristian throws smacks Rath right in the middle of his chest. “Wash yourself!”
The shower is big, but not big enough that our shoulders don’t touch when Rath moves beneath the spray. I go where Tristian leads me, almost slipping as he wrenches me to the side. His hand clamps hard on my waist to steady me, but something thick and worried lodges itself in my throat. I can’t handle Tristian when he’s like this.
Or can I?
Swallowing, I reach down and wrap my fingers around his hardness, staring up into his fiery glare. “I’m sorry,” I assure him, giving him a long, wet stroke. The knot in the back of his jaw ticks and I strain up to press my lips to it, lying, “We were careful.”
For a long moment, he’s unresponsive, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips. Then suddenly he has me slammed up against the tiled wall of the shower, his mouth crushed to mine. It’s a deep, demanding kiss, his breath hissing frantically from his nose as he bucks into me. He reaches down to grab my thigh, jerking it upward to hook around his hip, and it’s like I’m right back against that blood-stained wall, buzzing with anticipation. It’s just a different man meeting my needs.
He grabs my ass and roughly hefts me up, grunting with the effort. Unthinkingly, I wind my legs around him and prepare myself for what I know is coming.
He enters me in a hard thrust, swallowing my cry.
Beside us, Rath’s still under the spray. He waves the bottle of whiskey and says, “Oh, don’t mind me. I know that nut of yours couldn’t wait the twenty steps to your bed.”
I doubt Tristian even hears him. He’s too busy fucking into me, his teeth grazing my shoulder as his hips shove me against the wall, over and over. I wind my fingers into the back of his hair and hold on, aware there’s nothing I need to do here—I’m just along for the ride. I lock my ankles together and throw my head back with wild, gasping breaths. The steam is thick in my lungs, filling it with Tristian’s myriad of scents, and I might be powerless, but it doesn’t feel like it.
I doubt even Genevieve could have reduced Tristian to such a mindless, vicious mess of punching hips and nipping teeth.
My mouth is falling agape on a gasp when my eyes open and catch Rath looking back at me. He’s leaning against the wall beside me, body a long line of pale skin and corded muscle. The mouth of the bottle hangs precariously from two fingers, but that’s not what has my attention. The wiry tendons in his forearm shift and pull as he strokes his cock, his abs taut and sharp. He looks almost as hot and evil as he had when he was covered in blood, his wet locks of hair plastered to his face as he watches his friend fuck me.
I used to watch my mom sometimes when she was with her men—the way she’d touch them, look at them, smile at them. It was all fake, that much I knew. But I also knew it worked. I well remember calling it up in my sugar baby days, trying so hard to conjure up a sultry presence that didn’t suit me at all. Those men didn’t want sultry, anyway. They wanted shy, naïve, stupid girls who didn’t realize the value of what they were giving up. Vultures circling overhead, hungry to scavenge the last remains of our youth.
I press my head to the wall and give Rath a look. It’s neither sultry nor shy, because these men don’t want either of those things. I know that now. They want to feel that I’m desperate for them—so desperate that I can’t bring myself to fight back. They don’t scavenge. They conquer.
In a blink, he’s pushed off the wall, and we meet over the distance, straining, our tongues curling together like old friends. Tristian drives himself deep inside of me, jostling my body, but Rath follows gracefully with the jolts that are tearing whimpers from my throat, his arm bobbing in a more pointed rhythm.
It’s nothing like I expected it to be. There’s no greed here among them. When Tristian lifts his head, Rath lets me go so Tristian can take my mouth. When Tristian tears away, he buries his face in my throat and sends me back to Rath’s waiting tongue. It’s sweltering and slippery and too crowded, and I can barely breathe with the way they’re passing my gasps back and forth. It’s almost too much to feel—to give—to take.
My orgasm disagrees.
I don’t even realize I’ve let go of Tristian and latched one arm around Rath’s neck until the stars fade from my vision. He’s panting these short, whiskey-scented breaths into my mouth, his shoulder jumping as he strips his cock, and I don’t even know which of them comes first. I just know that Tristian is slamming me hard into the wall, cock surging hot and thick inside of me, and then Rath is exhaling choppily, the motions of his shoulder going suddenly still.
Tristian doesn’t let me go, even when my feet hit the floor, which is a good thing. I’m not convinced my legs would hold me. He gives me to Rath instead, wraps my arms around his neck and lets my cheek rest heavy and weary against Rath’s slick chest. Then Tristian turns me to the spray and cleans his spunk from my thighs, fingers dipping between my legs to rub it away into the hot water. I make a sound into Rath’s neck when Tristian’s fingers push inside me, and Rath responds by cupping the back of my head in his wide palm.
“Don’t want to drip all night, do you?” Rath asks, adding, “Seems like a good plan.”
I give my head a weak shake, spreading my feet for Tristian, letting him wash away the physical evidence of what we’d just done. But no matter how hot the shower is, how hard they scrub, what I did to Rath today is scorched into my bones.
And what I’ve got planned for tomorrow will burn down the whole damn house.
The weekly pregame party is in full swing. LDZ members have been rolling in with sorority girls on their arms for the last hour, and the bar is already packed. Killian is across the room, surrounded by his blondes, each of them hoping to be the one he picks tonight. I suppose the word hasn’t gotten around yet that my stepbrother has a new target for his pregame ritual.
These parties are getting old—same people, same booze, same tired games. The only things missing are Rath and his music.
Tristian stands by the sound system, trying to figure out how to get everything hooked up. “This thing is so complicated,” he mutters, looking annoyed. “I have no idea how to even get it synced to my phone.”
“He may still be up in his room.” I skim the crowd, even though I know I won’t find Rath. He hasn’t made an appearance since disappearing through his door after our shower. “Do you want me to go get him?”
“Unless someone wants me to smash this with a hammer,” he says with a serene grin, “I think that’s a good idea.”
I squeeze his fingers. “Got it. No smashing until I get back, okay?”
We’re all tired and frayed, but I know without having to be told that appearances should be kept up. I’m not sure if it’s gotten out yet, what we did to the Princes and their Princess, but I can still feel a strange building energy all around us.
The storm is coming.
I swing by the kitchen first to grab a drink for Killian—the special lager I know he likes. Like always, I’ve set aside drinks just for the guys, hidden inside the fridge. I’d set it up special earlier in the afternoon. Weaving between the guests, I approach him and his little playmates. “I’m going to look for Rath,” I tell him, strategically positioning myself in front of a blonde, “but I thought you may need another drink.”
He takes it from me, his dark eyes boring into mine. “Thank you, Lady.” I try to act normal as he takes a sip, licking his lip after he swallows. “Are you going to meet me later, or do I need to come find you?”
Instinctively, I realize it’s less of a threat than it sounds coming from his wet lips. He’s wondering if I’d like to fight, or if I’m down to honor what I’d said in the truck the other day. That I belong to him. Wholly.
I edge in closer, putting my hand on his taut stomach as I ask, “Ten o’clock?” Surprise flickers in his eyes, which descend to my cleavage. I’d worn something loose and provocative, and the valley between my tits is on perfect display for him. He undoubtedly thought I’d try to get out of it.
He hooks a finger into my cleavage, his knuckle grazing the skin. “My room.”
“Aw.” One of the blonde girls attaches herself to his side, putting on a fake pout. “Didn’t you want to join me and Heather in the hot tub?”
Killer shoots her an irate look, and I almost have to admire her ambition.
Almost.
But not quite.
“Killian won’t be joining you in the hot tub,” I inform her, and even though I’m smiling, I can tell from the way her face tenses that she understands I’m not playing around. Although, just to be sure… “And maybe the next time you see a Lord with his Lady, you should know your fucking place.”
The energy around us snaps, the blonde pushing away from Killian. I know how it works around here with the LDZ guys. They wouldn’t dare to even look at me unless one of the Lords sanctioned it. The girls, though? I don’t know the policy, and frankly, I don’t care. I’m not scared of starting shit with them.
She clearly isn’t up to the task. “My mistake,” she says, not sparing Killian another look as she leaves. “Enjoy your night, Lady.” The other girls look like they want to follow her, but they wouldn’t dream of leaving Killian alone at his own pregame party. Nevertheless, I can tell from their expressions that they understand the rule of law I’m putting down.
Flirt all you want, but he’s ending the night with me.
Turning back to my stepbrother, I promise, “I’ll see you then.” Killian’s still got the bottle frozen halfway to his mouth, so I give it a little tap. “Drink up.”
His shocked eyes follow me all the way to the stairs.
“Rath?” I call, knocking on his bedroom door. “Are you coming down? Tristian’s music has super weird vibes. Are you sure you don’t want to DJ?”
I still have my fist raised when the door swings open and a hand reaches out to snatch my wrist, stopping it in mid-air. Rath stands before me, shirtless and rumpled, and from the looks of it, still drunk. A new, half-empty bottle of whisky hangs between the fingers on his other hand. From the scent of him, I’m not sure the shower we took last night did him much good. He reeks of booze and smoke, red-eyed and too pale.
He looks like hell.
“If you bang on this door one more time, I’ll snap your wrist.”
I swallow, trying to carefully pry it away. “Sorry. I just wanted to check on you.”
He holds my wrist a moment longer—just to let me know he could hurt me if he wanted—and then drops it. “I’m the same as I was yesterday. Pathetic. Stupid. Humiliated.”
“You’re none of those things,” I tell him. “You’re an amazing pianist and musician. That’s what matters.”
He snorts. “Really? Because that’s not what everyone else is focused on.”
I’d like to assure him that’s not true, but by now, I’ve seen the video posted all over social media. Rath is right. No one cares about his music. It takes everything in me not to come back with something smart, like, “How does it feel to be humiliated in front of a crowd? To have no one help you?” But I don’t. I can’t.
“Those people are just jea—”
The look he gives me is lethal. “Don’t you fucking say everyone is jealous, Cherry, or I’ll rip your tongue out.” He walks over to a pile of papers on the desk, plucking one from the stack. “This came today. My application to the summer program with the New York Orchestra has been denied.”
Whatever rush he got from trashing the nursery or from our time in the shower is gone. I take a tentative step into the room, waving the weed smoke from my face, and reach for the letter. There’s no mention of the event but… “I’m sure it’s a coincidence,” I lie.
He snatches the letter back and tears it in half, tossing the pieces on the floor. “Whatever. Fuck it. I know who did this.” He swallows another thick throatful of whiskey, collapsing into a heap on his couch. “The Princess and The Cuntess. They screwed me over, and I’m going to make them pay.”
“You really think it was them?” Well-founded paranoia keeps me from assuming he’s not playing me right now. That’s exactly something I’d expect out of Rath. They should never be underestimated.
The curve of his bare shoulders is saggy and defeated. “Of course they did it.” His eyes are shiny and hollow when he looks up at me. “The Princess was handing out the programs, and the Cuntess is Lockwood’s TA. Rub two brain cells together, Cherry.” He takes another swig of his drink. “Until I can come up with a plan, I’m going to sit here and get fucked up.” He jerks his chin toward the door. “Go downstairs and do your job. There’s nothing you can do to fix this.”
My primary goal in coming up here is to keep up appearances—play the doting Lady—and keep him from knowing that I’m the one that turned in the false bio. Now that I’ve done that, he’s right. I have a job to do. People to meet and promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
I wait in Killian’s room, dressed in nothing but his jersey. Admittedly, it’s a bit on the nose, but I doubt he’ll see past it to wonder why. While I wait, I walk around, inspecting everything, preparing. There’s a plate on his desk he always empties his pockets onto. There’s forty-nine cents in change, sorted by coin, the keys to his truck, his wallet, and a charging cord, carefully wrapped into a neat coil. It’s all lined up, orderly and snug.
His laptop is closed, and I don’t bother trying to sift through it. Maybe I’d find a video of myself getting nailed in Tristian’s shower.
Idly, I wonder how many points that’s gotten him. Did Rath get some points, too? This whole game of Spin The Story must be getting interesting. I’m betting that Killian is in the lead, and poor little Rath has fallen so far behind…
I hear him coming long before he reaches the door, the sound of a palm sliding against the wall, footsteps heavy on the hardwood. It’s a relief. I’m not quite fluent in chemistry, so this entire plan was a calculated risk.
Honestly, though, what here isn’t?
On his dresser sits a row of seemingly random odds and ends that I know are anything but. His lucky socks. A baseball card with the same date as his birth year. A single piece of orange Chicklet gum. A scrap of worn pink ribbon, no more than five inches long. A piece of strange looking wire.
So these are his superstitions.
All of his precious game day confidence, collected over more than a decade.
I sprawl on the bed to wait for him as if it’s my own—and I suppose, in a way, that’s true. Killian enjoys seeing me in his bed. If it were up to him, I’d probably always be like this, sleepy and pliant, wrapped in his jersey, cheek pressed to his pillow, ready to be taken in whatever way strikes him at that particular moment.
It takes him three tries to open the door.
I watch the knob jiggle and jostle, and when he finally pushes it open, he stumbles through, head shaking. “Fuck,” he mutters, clumsily closing the door behind him.
Then he stares at me.
His eyes give a series of heavy, squinting blinks. “You came.”
Pretending I don’t hear the slur in his voice, I give him my sweetest smile and then arrange my thighs just-so, giving him a peek of my white panties. “I said I would, didn’t I?” When he doesn’t move, I slide from the bed, approaching him coyly. “I’ve been waiting.”
His lips part when I reach for the top button of his shirt. “Me, too,” he says, watching dumbly as I push the buttons through the holes, exposing his chest, inch by inch. He sways but corrects himself, torso jerking to the side. His eyes are glazed and heavy-lidded, and I watch from my periphery as he touches a lock of my hair, bringing it up to his mouth. “…so pretty…”
“What’s that?” I ask, as if I didn’t hear his mumble.
He drops my hair, clearing his throat. “Nothing, just—didn’t think you’d be waiting.”
“Why?” I ask, head tilted curiously as I push the shirt from his shoulders. “Because I might be sick of you sexually assaulting me?”
He gives another series of slow blinks, forehead wrinkling. “What?”
I brush my hand over the bulge in his pants, effectively derailing his thoughts. “Tell me about your tattoos,” I demand, pitching forward to graze my lips against the ink on his chest.
“My tattoos,” he repeats, tongue sounding heavy and thick. “That—uh, got it two years ago. It’s a lion. King of the jungle…” He’s slurring harder now, head looking heavy on his neck. It’s a bit disappointing, actually. I’d hoped to have him a little more coherent for what comes next.
“Why did you get it?” I ask, rubbing his dick through his pants. “What does it mean?”
His answer comes in the form of three hard breaths, like he wants to speak, but keeps forgetting to. “First championship for Forsyth.”
I hum, moving to his other shoulder. “And this one?”
“Griffons guard treasures,” he answers, swaying into me. I reach out to steady him, but his nose remains planted into my hair, inhaling. Mumbling, he adds, “And they mate for life.”
That makes my eyebrow arch. “Do you think that’s who you are, big brother? Someone who mates for life?”
A deep rumble comes from his chest, one of his hands grasping my hip. “I like when you call me that.” It comes out rough but hungry. A confession he’d probably regret if he could remember it tomorrow.
“Big brother?” I ask, pushing him toward the bed. “I guess you would like that, wouldn’t you? A sweet little sister, sleeping right next door. I bet you think that’s sexy, huh?”
He groans, pushing his hardness into me. “Fuck yes.” When his knees hit the bed, he tumbles back, shirtless and startled-looking. The surprised, confused look slips right off his face when I get to my knees, unbuttoning his pants. I tug them off, revealing his hard dick and tight balls. He goes easily when I push him back, arranging him with the press of my smaller body.
“You know what I think would be sexy?” His hips flex into me when I drag his earlobe through my teeth.
“…fuck your tits…” he mumbles, eyes still on the prize, even this far out of it.
I tangle our fingers together, resting them above his head. “No,” I sigh, reaching for the cords I’d prepared earlier. “Tying you up.”
“Whuh?”
If my heart weren’t hammering with the possibility of being caught, I might think to laugh at the purity of his response, so full of distaste and confusion. Oh yes, Killer Payne doesn’t get tied up by anyone or anything. He’s the king of the fucking jungle, guarding all the treasures.
He’d be so embarrassed to know how easy it is to bind his wrists.
His bicep shifts with a small, ineffectual tug. “The fuck?” I leave him there, fingers twitching, shoulders squirming, as I descend the bed to bind his feet. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t you like it, big brother?” I wrap the cord around his left ankle, securing the knot tightly. “I know how much you’re into the freaky, kinky stuff.” His eyes follow me like they’re lagged behind, catching me a second too late. “Sneaking into my room,” I muse, securing his other ankle. “Sliding into my bed. Making me eat your come.” I cinch the cord in a sharp, vicious motion. “Forcing your dick into me while I’m sleeping.”
His legs pull inward feebly, but it’s too late. I’ve got him spread out on his bed, naked and incapacitated. It should be enough, but the truth is that it isn’t.
That’s why I reach under the bed and slide out the gun.
His head jerks up at the sound of the hammer cocking. Just the way he taught me. “What the hell?” He tries to squirm up the bed, eyes looking a little more coherent. Good. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Shrugging, I say, “Just having a little fun,” and walk around the bed, dragging the barrel of the gun up his bare leg. “Seeing what all the fuss is about. I’ve been wondering what it’s like, you know? Having someone all defenseless and compliant to use like a cheap toy. Someone I can hurt.” I give him a wicked grin, walking closer. “I could kill you, big brother. So easily, I could kill you. I could blame it on the Counts, or one of your daddy’s lackeys, like that Ugly Nick, or someone else who wants revenge. I’m sure you have quite the list of enemies.”
His eyes follow the barrel of the gun, but I can tell he’s still fighting the fog of the drugs. “Put that gun away or you’ll regret it.” The attempt at being stern is ruined by the way words come out, lazy and thick-tongued.
“Will I?” I ask, dragging the gun over that sharp cut of muscle beside his hip. “I drugged you, you fucking psycho. I’ve got you all tied up.” I toss a glance at his bookshelf. “I even turned off your cameras.” At his expression, eyebrows knitted together, I add, “Yeah, I know all about those. And apparently, I’m not the only one. You’ve got really shit security for a guy who claims to be security.”
His nostrils flare, and he gives the cords another tug. “Story,” he says, trying so obviously to inject some firmness into his voice. “If you untie me right fucking now, I won’t hurt you.”
I pause, watching him, and then I throw my head back and laugh. “You really aren’t getting it.” To prove my point, I jump on the bed, straddling his hips. I point the gun at his forehead, right between his eyes. “I’ve got the power right now. I know this is new for you, so let me give you a little rundown of how it works.” Swallowing, I adjust my grip on the gun, enjoying the way his gaze never leaves it. “You spend every minute wondering if you’re doing something wrong. Something bad. You learn to become flexible and agreeable. You start thinking maybe you’re crazy, because you can see yourself getting close to this person—this person who hurts you—but every time you try, you’re reminded of what you are to them. A thing. A possession. A toy.” Jaw clenching, I fight down the wave of emotion, struggling to remain just as passive as Killian always is. “And even when things feel good, you can’t enjoy them. Not really. You’re too busy hating yourself for it.”
“I don’t,” he tries, throat bobbing with a hard swallow. “I didn’t—”
“Yes, you fucking did.”
I can practically tell how difficult it is for him to peel his gaze away from the barrel of the gun, but he does it, eyes finally meeting mine. “Yeah, I did.” He’s still now—the prey frozen beneath the gaze of the predator. “But I can’t help it.”
My grip tightens. “Bullshit.”
His head lolls side to side. “I can’t. I can’t stop. I knew you were mine since the first time I saw you. I tried to let it go. That night I saw you with him…” I watch from the corner of my vision as his fingers strain toward the cord. “…sitting in his lap, letting him touch you like you were another one of his cheap whores. It should have made it easy…fucking disgusting…you trying to fuck my own goddamn dad…”
My blood runs cold. “What?”
But he just keeps babbling. “…wanted to let it go. Even tried giving you to Tristian. Thought seeing you like that would make it go away, but it didn’t…just made it worse.”
“You think I wanted him?” The anger rises again. “You saw your father molesting me and thought I was seducing him? What is wrong with you?!”
I think he tries to flinch at my hissed sneer, but all he manages is a weak little twitch. “I wondered for a while…then the sugar baby bullshit…knew you wanted him.”
“You were wrong!” I lower the gun, placing it on the nightstand, safety on. “You know what your problem is, Killian? You’ve never had someone take from you. You’ve never been beneath them, helpless and afraid and confused because you’re feeling all these new, horrible things.” Grabbing a thick fistful of his hair, I wrench his head up, growling into his face. “But you’re about to.”
He’s only half hard beneath me, his cock pressing into my center, but all it takes is a couple rocks against it before it begins stiffening. His eyes are heavier now, going unfocused, so I give his hair another rough pull.
“Let’s see how you like someone using you,” I say, shimmying my panties down my thighs. I keep the jersey on. No tits for him tonight. “Because here’s the truth, big brother: I like it when you fuck me. It feels good, even when it hurts. Even when I’m hating you for it, there’s always that little spark inside of me that hopes you’ll do it again.”
It’s a confession made more to myself than him. Last night when Rath came into my room, I’d been anticipating something that never happened. In those scant seconds before he’d made himself known, I’d built it up in my head. The way Killian would touch me. How he’d feel sliding inside of me. His lips brushing my skin. The odd tenderness of the way he’d fuck me.
I’d been, however briefly, disappointed.
Now, he feels hard and ready beneath me, my slickness covering him as I work him against his cock, sliding it between my folds. Killian blinks up at me, and it’s a different look from before—lost, as if he’s forgotten the plot of this whole thing.
The second I begin sinking down onto his cock, he lets out a soft groan, head rolling to the side. I watch his mouth go slack in time with my own, my body taking him in the way I want for once. He feels just as good like this, all soft and pliable, and the long drag of his cock as I lift and drop is enough to make me shudder.
“That’s the injustice of it, you know.” Gasping, I plant a palm into the center of his chest, rocking into him. “All of you feel so good. You’ve got these perfect fucking bodies, and you know just how to work mine. It’s so unfair.”
I can feel him trying to thrust up into me, these mindless little twitches of his hips, but he can’t do anything except swell and contract with his deep, sluggish breaths.
“Are you listening to me, big brother?” I grab his chin, nails digging into his jaw, and wrench his face forward. Teeth gnashed, I give him the same steely order he’d given me once. “Look at me while I’m fucking you.”
His dark eyes fix on mine, but I’m not sure they’re connecting.
Not until he murmurs, “God, I love you.”
My hips stutter, fingers sliding from his face. Disbelief surges inside of me, and then an anger so fierce that I can perfectly see myself using that gun. “You don’t know how to love,” I spit, riding him in earnest now. I came here to take, and that’s exactly what I plan to do. I lay both palms on his chest and roll my hips, keeping him deep inside. It doesn’t take long to figure out what feels good here—the right way to move, the best way to rock—without someone directing and using me.
He’s hard and hot inside of me, but I’m not so sure Killian even understands what’s happening anymore. His eyelids keep rising and falling in time with the buck of my hips, gaze unfocused as his body jostles. I close my own eyes to really lose myself in the feel of him beneath me. Like this, I can almost understand the appeal. There’s no shame here. No sense of fear or judgment. When I grind down, a low sound ripping from my chest, I don’t have to worry about giving someone the wrong message.
I don’t have to worry about them knowing how much I like it.
I ride and rock and take, and when I feel the pressure building so close to the surface that I swear I can taste him on the back of my tongue, I allow myself to open my eyes and look at him. This person who’s been nothing but a threat to me. This boy I could have belonged to willingly, if only he wasn’t so intent on hurting me. This man who claims he’d kill for me.
This man who claims to love me.
My orgasm shatters me into pieces, right on top of him. I throw my head back and bask in it, trembling and breathless as I come apart so sweetly. I dig my nails into his chest and let myself fall away. It’s the oddest sensation when I resurface, to still feel like myself in my own skin. It’s as if those pieces came back together with shards I’d long ago lost, clicking back into place as tidy as the row on Killian’s dresser. I can feel his cock swelling as I clench around it, the telltale stiffness that I know all too well.
“I don’t think so,” I puff, luxuriating in the slow slide of his dick as I lift myself from it. It slaps onto his belly, slick and flushed and angry looking.
But Killian himself is asleep.
I acknowledge the backwardness of this as I pull my panties back up my thighs, admiring the sight of him. I reach under the bed for the container I’d put there earlier, prying the lid off. The red surface shines back at me, reminding me of last night. But this isn’t blood—just paint. I climb on the bed, straddling him one last time. Dipping a forefinger into the paint, I trace a jagged-looking crown onto the middle of his chest.
“There,” I say, tilting my head as I inspect it critically. Sliding to my feet, I cap the paint and leave it by the door.
Just one more thing left to do before I go.
