Lords of Wrath: Chapter 6

She’s naked.

Whatever I’d been feeling with Tristian before—anger, resentment, concrete resolve—gets snatched up and tossed into oblivion at the sight of her in my bed. It doesn’t matter that it happened last night, too. This is still fresh enough that my blood turns to lava just seeing her there, all nestled into my space like a small, vulnerable animal.

For a day that started off fan-fucking-tastic, it quickly devolved, ending up in the shitter.

Story was gone when I woke, the memory of what I’d done to her during the night an ache in my balls. The thought of finally—finally—having her the way I wanted, like a rag doll in my hands, fueled me during my morning jerk in the shower. I expected some kind of backlash over breakfast. Tears, yelling, or her crying to one of the guys. But she didn’t. She was cold, but that’s nothing new to me.

I thought about her all day—about what it was like to be inside of her, to have complete control and dominion over her body. And when I got home and found out that she and Tristian had gone off somewhere…well, that was fine. I’d told her what she did before I got home was her business. And then that photo of Perez’s car came through the text. Immediately, I knew it was Tristian. Psychotic fucking firebug. He’s been setting them since we were kids. It’s probably a miracle he’s waited this long.

But looking at her, all of that annoyance melts away.

I’ve always had a penchant for tidiness. Compulsive, some might say. But nothing ever feels quite right until everything is in its place. I get this annoying, nagging fucking awareness when something is out of sorts. Can’t help it—don’t want to. Because that moment when things slot together, falling into how they ought to be, is better than sex. It slides down my spine like a warm caress, settling into the center of my bones and twining around the marrow.

That’s how I feel right now, seeing Story in my bed.

This is her place.

This is where she belongs.

Why can’t anyone else see it?

I think these last couple nights have been the only time that nagging, out-of-sorts awareness has completely left me. When she disappeared all those years ago, I teased apart the tendrils that entwined us, and it seemed easy. Her mom. My dad. Our shared bathroom. My routine of sneaking into her room to watch her. Her locker at school, always plastered on the inside with glittery stickers. Her seat at the dinner table. The laundry room…

I methodically removed her from them, mentally. She was no longer a thing that required a place. She was gone. Null. Empty space and silence. It seemed easy.

Now, I realize it never actually worked. Now, she’s in my bed, curled around my pillow, and I’m getting that settled-marrow feeling so acutely that it makes my hands tremble. Now, she’s mine, and it doesn’t matter that she doesn’t want me back.

Now, I’ve won.

I stalk silently toward my prize, watching how the glow from the window falls over her bare skin like a blanket. She’s such a fucking tease, too. Didn’t even get under the sheets. Didn’t even bother to cover herself, just wanted me to walk in and see that she followed my orders. She probably did it spitefully—bitterly—imagining that she was throwing it in my face.

Instead, it just looks obedient and alluring. A shiver of anticipation zings through my balls, but I take my time with this, walking around the bed, soaking in the sight of her. Last night, I’d been impatient and greedy, slotting right up against her ass and taking my fill. Tonight, I reach out and run a single fingertip up the smooth line of her leg. So much better than last night, with that ridiculous lingerie Tristian had picked out for her.

I wouldn’t mind sharing her with them if I thought they really appreciated her. But they’re both so goddamn intent on dressing her up like a little slut. They want to erase her softness and sweetness, and replace it with red lips and lace and artificial bullshit. Girls like that are a dime a dozen. It’s like buying a premium steak, and then cooking it well-done and squirting ketchup on it.

So wasteful.

She sighs in her sleep, nuzzling into the pillow, but doesn’t wake as my finger ascends her thigh, her hip, the dip of her waist, the tender side of her heavy, full tit. I linger there for only a moment, watching the gooseflesh spread over her skin, and then I undress.

She’s not in my bed willingly. I know that. I want her uneven and grappling for a sense of control. The fact she talked Tristian into taking her with him to burn that car proves the power she has over men, even the Lords. She’s always been like that. With the sugar daddies. With my father. She gets under people’s skin. She makes them want her. She makes us want to hurt her.

My dick’s been halfway to hard all day, my mind constantly returning to this place. How limp she’d been. That little crease between her eyes as I fucked her. The sleep-twitch of her fingers as I pinched her nipples.

Fuck.

I could do this every night for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

She’s nice and pliant when I touch her shoulder, easing her onto her back. I never had the guts to do this back then, too afraid she’d wake to bother with stuff like posing her, opening her up for me.

Tonight, I wedge a hand between her knees and gently pry them apart. They fall open for me easily, and she barely stirs when I spread them wider, bending her knees to give me room as I climb on the bed between them.

Her skin is as ethereally pale as always, but all the best parts of her are a fervent, rosy pink. Her perky nipples. Her pretty little pussy. Her full lips. Her adorable, sweet cheeks. It’s a struggle to choose which one I want to indulge in first.

Bracing over her, I choose her lips, parted in slumber. I trace them with my tongue, feeling the warm wash of her breath as she breathes evenly. I keep my kisses shallow and slow, ghosting a palm over her side, cupping the weight of her breast in my hand. Last night, she came with Rath’s name on her lips.

Tonight, it’ll be mine.

“You know who you belong to,” I whisper into her ear, gently thumbing her nipple. “Say it.”

She breathes in and out, and says nothing.

“That’s fine,” I tell her. “I’ve got all night.”

I sweep my hand down to her belly, her muscles twitching as I drag lower, simultaneously eager to discover how slick she is and dreading the knowledge that it’ll be for Tristian.

When I dip between her legs, fingers sliding through her folds, I pause, shuddering.

Jesus Christ, she’s fucking soaked.

I press my mouth into the cave above her collarbone and exhale jaggedly, pushing a finger inside her pussy. So subtly that someone else might have missed it, her walls clench around me.

“You’re not sore, are you?” My finger pumps in and out. “You were just saving it for me. Tell me.” Dragging her earlobe through my teeth, I demand, “Say my name.”

Nothing.

She lays so still when she sleeps. Even when I’m knuckle deep inside her. Even when I’m rubbing my thumb into her swollen clit. Even when my lips are pulling at hers, soft and sucking and taking. Story lays perfectly motionless.

Even when I push my cock into her tight cunt.

I have to stop for a second to catch my breath, buried halfway inside of that wet, perfect heat. She hasn’t gotten much looser. There’s no way the stretch isn’t hurting her.

Her only response is the shallow wrinkle in her brow.

I drag my hips away just to plunge deeper, and just like the other times, I get this white-hot moment of utter chaos inside my brain. It’s the part of me that wants to fucking rip her apart. It wants to dig my fingers into her flesh and mark her with my bruises. It wants to fuck her hard and brutal, make her bleed with how badly I need to claim her. It wants to take her apart, piece by piece, until it can be covered with her.

And then it wants to put her back together again.

So, so carefully.

I know this is the part of me that scares her. Fuck, this shit scares me, too. There’s nothing worse than not being in control, guided like some mindless slave by the wild, thrashing thing that wants to hurt and stroke and own. It’s the reason she can never want me—love me—accept me. If she knew how many times I shoved it down, curled my fists and let her go, then maybe she could forgive me for the times I couldn’t.

But probably not.

That’s how I fuck her, like a man on the edge of breaking free, holding on so tightly that it’s physical ache not to give in to it. Her body barely jostles with how carefully I fuck her. This is probably how she thinks she wants it. Slow and sweet and cautious. Tristian and Rath wouldn’t fuck her like this. Rath would go hard and relentless until she was shaking and begging. Tristian would probably wrap his fingers around her neck until her face went blue. I’m the only one who can do this, holding my mouth to hers as my dick glides in and out of her.

When I push down, as deep as I can go, she finally makes a noise. More of a breath, really. She digs her head back into the pillow and gasps, and I know she’s about to say it. I can tell from the pucker in her brow, the way her thighs flex around mine, the jump in her throat, that she’s going to speak.

“Say it,” I demand, dragging my dick in and out. “Say my name.”

There’s a stuttered breath, her fingers curling, and then a low, sleepy whimper. “Tristian.”

I freeze, my pulse kicking up as I watch his name fall from her lips. My vision goes red, and suddenly that wild, thrashing thing is breaking through, reaching up to grab her jaw and wrench it toward me. “Wake the fuck up!”

Her eyes fly open and then she’s looking at me, and goddamn it, this isn’t what I wanted. Why can’t anything ever go the way I fucking want? I squeeze, fingers digging into her jaw, and then slam my dick into her, watching her teeth clench in a hissed breath.

“Why,” I growl, fucking into her, “do you have to be such a fucking bitch?”

Her brows crouch low, eyes flashing with a malice that I doubt she’s even capable of. “Fuck you,” she growls back, clamping onto my biceps, nails digging hard into the muscle.

My balls pull up tight, but I stave it off, ratcheting up the power of my thrusts until my headboard is slamming against the wall. With every sharp ‘bang’, that divot between her eyes gets a little sharper, a little deeper, until her face screws up, eyes sliding shut.

“Open your eyes!” I snap. “I want you to see who’s fucking you.”

The second she does, I regret asking. The anger and hatred are probably still there, buried under the surface, but eclipsing it is something nervous and pinched.

I’m hurting her.

I freeze, panting through gnashing teeth as I look down into her pained grimace. She came in here wet, open, and ready. Probably wouldn’t have even taken much to push her over the edge. Now, she’s all coiled up and closed off, pushing me away.

“Goddamn it!” I jerk away, dick slipping out of her, and the second I’ve got one foot on the floor, her knees are snapping shut. I take a moment to drive this pissed off, violent thing away, because it wants to keep fucking her like that. It wants to tell her this is her fault. If she would have just been thinking of me one fucking time, I could have kept it under lock and key. I could have fucked her gently, could have made it good for her.

She’s looking at me now. I can sense the weight of it on my neck as I tug at my hair, jaw clicking with the grind of my teeth. I take a long breath, trying to work the tension from my shoulders. This is what I get for waking her up. Hard as nails and nowhere to put my dick.

When I look back at her, she’s watching me warily, slowly dragging the blanket over her.

Fuck that.

I shove the blanket away and return between her legs, wrenching her thighs apart. She makes a startled sound, muscles seizing, but I shoot her a look.

“Just fucking relax.”

She doesn’t, digging her heels into the mattress.

It doesn’t stop me from bending down and licking a hot stripe up her slit. She goes rigid beneath the hands I’ve got planted on each thigh, prying her open for me. But it doesn’t last long. As soon as my tongue reaches her clit, the tendons under my palms go pliant and slack. I look up to watch her, blinking wide-eyed at the ceiling as I lick her cunt. I can tell she’s fisting the sheets, can feel her toes curling against my side, can see her chest rise and fall on a greedy inhale.

I spend a few minutes there, working her back to where she’d been before. I wonder what she’d say if she knew she’s one of only two girls I’ve ever done this for. The first was merely an experiment to see if I’d like it. I didn’t, so I never did it again. Not until the night I took Story’s cherry.

It takes a while, but eventually she begins moving with my tongue, her hips twitching beneath me, seeking, restless. Despite not having liked it with that other girl, I find myself hungry for it from Story, grabbing her ass and tipping her up to me, moving down to slide my tongue into her pussy. She tastes like flesh and girl and something vaguely metallic, and when I let loose a satisfied rumble, she makes the sweetest little sound.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, letting go of the sheets just to fist those fingers into my hair instead, and yes. Fuck yes. This was what I wanted. Her writhing beneath me, nose scrunched up in pleasure, lip trapped between her teeth as she whimpers and holds my mouth to her. It’s better than her being asleep, this mindlessness, driven by her own cunt, not even caring who it is, so long as I keep making it good like this.

It’s not long before her thighs are shaking, mouth gaping open with her soft cries, hips bucking into my tongue. She’s wide open now, legs splayed without needing to be pushed apart, and I know when she’s going to come because her shoulders start curling, fingers tearing at my hair hard enough to sting.

I can feel it fluttering through her, right on the pointed tip of my tongue. Every muscle in her body clenches tight, and her chest hitches with a gasp.

It’s released in a short, sobbing exhale. “Killian.”

I lurch up, grabbing my dick and thrusting it inside. Her walls are still clenching with her release, the delicate body beneath mine shuddering as I force my dick into it. It takes everything I have to keep it shallow and quick, but she’s so wet again—wet for me—that it barely takes a dozen pumps before I’m stiffening, coating her insides with long, shuddering surges of my come.

When I open my eyes, she’s staring up at me, forehead glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. There’s a dazed sort of softness in her eyes, like she’s wondering how she got here.

I roll away before she remembers.

Slinging my arm over my eyes, I catch my breath and try to avoid her presence beside me. There’s a fan going on the other side of the room, and for a long time, that’s all I hear.

I don’t realize I’m halfway to dozing until her voice rips me away from it.

“Why do you do those things to me when I’m sleeping?” Her voice is contemplative, made up of equal parts confusion and disgust.

Why?

Because it’s hot as hell. Because it’s the only time I’ve ever felt in control with her. Because it’s the only time she won’t say no to me. Because it means she’s not looking at me with that cold, distant hatred in her eyes.

I don’t lift the arm from my eyes. “Because I fucking want to.” The room falls silent again, but I can practically hear her dissatisfaction with the answer. It goes on long enough that she probably expects nothing more. Hand clenching into a fist, I add, “It’s the only time I can do that without hurting you.”

It’s not an explanation.

It’s a warning.

There’s a long beat of silence, and then I can hear a gentle shift—her head turning. “Why?”

This time, I don’t answer, letting the air cool my overheated skin. It’s only then that I realize the sound of a muffled piano is creeping down through the ceiling. Rath. There’s no chance the two of them couldn’t hear that headboard banging against the wall. They’re probably pissy about it. Fuck if I care, seeing as how I have to haul it down to South Side tomorrow to clean up their messes.

“Can I…go now?” Story shifts, rolling like she could be out of the bed in the space of a heartbeat.

“No.”

She pauses. I don’t need to see her to know she’s covering her bare chest. “Aren’t you done?”

Finally, I lift my arm from my eyes, snapping “Go to sleep!”

She flinches back into her spot, face creased with a frown. “Can I at least go take a shower?” Take a shower. That means she wants to wash away everything I just put into her body.

“No.”

She inhales briskly, clearly annoyed. “It’s…on my thighs. It’s going to get all dry and flaky and gross.” She’s talking in this sharp, nasty tone that makes my temples throb.

Fuck’s sake, can’t a guy enjoy a little goddamn afterglow?

Biting back a snarl, I jump out of the bed, stomping to the door and wrenching it open. I slam it behind me, knowing that I don’t need to tell her to stay put. I walk to the bathroom, stark naked and far too tense for a guy who just had a really nice nut. Wetting a rag, I run it over my own junk first, glaring at my reflection in the mirror. Just had to wake her up, didn’t I? Couldn’t have simply enjoyed the moment with her limp body. Now I have to handle her.

She’s sitting up when I return, the blanket clutched to her chest, wincing as I barge through the door. I pause at the uncertainty in her eyes, the way her shoulders are drawn high and tense.

Shuttering my features, I walk to the bed, telling her, “Lay back and spread your legs.”

Something in her expression collapses at the order, but she does as she’s told, slowly lowering herself to her back, throat bobbing with a swallow as she lets her knees fall apart. Clearly, she doesn’t want it. Doesn’t like me there. Doesn’t want to be touched. Doesn’t want my eyes on her.

This, I want to say. This is why I do it when you’re asleep.

Instead, I crawl between her legs and push them apart, fixing my eyes to her pussy. It looks red and well-used, and my dick gives a feeble twitch at the sight of my spunk dripping out of her. God, how long did I dream of this? Those long nights watching her in high school, standing over her bed, lurking in a corner, feeling her lips against the head of my dick…

And now she’s so full of me, she’s dripping.

As if in a trance, I reach down to where it’s leaking out, gathering my release up with the sweep of a fingertip and pushing it back inside. She goes tense, her thighs closing, but I keep my finger there, halfway into her cunt.

I stare into her nervous, alarmed eyes, and the confession is pulled out of me like an exorcism—surly and stilted. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

She blinks at me, lips pressing into an unhappy line. “Since when?”

My face hardens, because she has no fucking idea—no goddamn clue—how much I don’t hurt her. But I’m plugging her up with my finger to keep my come inside her cunt, and I don’t think that knowledge would be welcome at this juncture.

I go through the motions of cleaning her, running the rag over the inside of her thighs, gentle as I work it over her red, inflamed center. She’s stiff but obedient, fixing her eyes to the ceiling as I scrub her clean of us. Story’s got really delicate skin, so smooth and soft-looking. I like her best when she’s freshly showered, sweet-smelling and new, free of the others’ touches and grime. But this is almost better, knowing that she’s full with me, carrying me around inside her, all night and all day.

Just then, her stomach releases a loud, demanding rumble.

Her hand flies to her belly, cheeks blossoming pink. “Um…”

My eyes narrow and I grow even more pissed at her little adventure with Tristian. She must have really worked him over if he took her out for ice cream and little else. This is supposed to be his job, worrying about how much she eats and how clean she is. And here I am washing her.

Here I am, pulling on my boxers and leaving the warm comfort of my bed to go downstairs and find something to feed her.

Jesus Christ.

There isn’t anything prepared—Ms. Crane doesn’t exactly plan for late night post-sex snacking—so I make her a sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwich, fuming with every slather of the knife. This isn’t what I do. I’m supposed to find her in my bed, use her like my own personal toy, and then fall asleep, tired, fucked-out, and happy.

Instead, I’m stomping up the stairs with a plate in one hand and a glass of milk in the other.

What kind of fucking twisted Prince-flavored bullshit is this?

She’s gnawing on her thumbnail when I storm back through the door, using my foot to slam it behind me. Just like before, she jumps at the sound, drawing her knees to her chest. I don’t pause this time, but it still annoys me. I’ve never hurt her before.

Except that one time.

Well, those two times.

Whatever, those were special circumstances. This is just me being put out and too tired to care about keeping a cool exterior. She can fucking deal with it.

I set the plate and glass down beside her on the end table, biting out, “You tell Tristian about this and he’ll put you on some dumb fucking cleanse.”

She stares at the sandwich with this loose, dumbfounded expression, but doesn’t say a word as I go to my desk, opening the laptop there. I try to ignore her as she picks it up, but I don’t miss the sniff or the way she glances at me, suspicious and unsure.

I answer a couple emails as she eats, shifting uncomfortably at the thought of crumbs in my bed. That’s when I see the new addition to the spreadsheet. It’s useless. The Lords’ game is over. Story’s virginity is gone. The only points that matter anymore are the ones between houses.

But Tristian has entered ‘Blowjob’ with a variant of ‘Road Head’, giving himself a solid hundred points. My lip curls at the number, knowing that he’s only entered it in to provoke me. It doesn’t work. In fact, it’s just proof that I’m the winner here. He hasn’t fucked her yet. I’m the only man who has. Glancing up, I watch her tear a piece from the sandwich before placing it in her mouth, looking unsettled but relaxed.

For now, she’s mine and mine alone.

I wait for her to finish, gulping down the rest of the milk, before closing the laptop. She looks less twitchy than before as I lumber to the bed, settling back into my place. I wedge my arm behind my head and try to sink into the exhaustion of the day, avoiding thoughts about tomorrow. Forsyth, The Lords, South Side…everything is a game here. I’m good at playing them, but sometimes I wish I didn’t have to juggle so many.

There’s a dip of the mattress before our skin meets, a cool cheek pressing into my shoulder. It startles me, my muscles tensing at the sudden invasion, but for some reason I can’t do anything but lie there as Story nestles into my side. My eyes fly open, gaping at the top of her head as she settles against me, a knee dragging over my thigh, her soft tits pressing into my ribs.

“Thank you,” she whispers, resting her hand on my chest.

I stare at her hand, at the raggedly bitten thumbnail, at the wrist cuff that marks her as our property, at the way her fingers curl against my skin.

And my tongue won’t work.

It’s stuck to the roof of my mouth, melded in some impossible fucking way, because in no universe would Story be cuddling me right now.

I get this instant, lightning-fast swarm of thought. Maybe Tristian was right all along. Maybe Prince tactics work. Maybe all it takes is the smallest act of kindness, even made in spite, and she’ll latch onto it with a death grip. Maybe we’ve broken her. Maybe she’s dumber than I thought.

Maybe she could be mine.

Slowly, reluctantly, I slide my hand from behind my head and ease it around her, daring to skate my fingertips across her bare back. It’s a wary, testing movement, more about me than her. Is this even something I want? Do I want to feel her, warm and sleepy against my side as we sleep? Do I like it? Is it good?

Well.

It’s not bad.

Quietly, she asks, “You wouldn’t let anybody hurt me, would you?”

“What?” There’s this pebble of wonder at the question, but it’s overtaken by the way she feels, curled all small and vulnerable into my body.

“If someone wanted to hurt me,” she clarifies, “you’d protect me?”

Baffled and lost, I turn my gaze away from her smooth body and shiny hair. “I did before, didn’t I?”

There’s a stretch of quiet, and at some point she begins tracing the tattoo on my chest, hand barely moving with the scorching circuits. “But if someone did. If they hurt me. You would…” She trails off, voice floating away on a thin exhale.

Pressing my palm to her back, I inhale the scent of her hair. Softly, I answer, “I’d fucking kill them.”

She nuzzles her cheek into my shoulder. “Okay.”

Okay.

It gives me an uneasy feeling, like I’ve just signed a contract I don’t know the terms to. It’s just so hard to care when she’s falling asleep against me, not flinching away at my touch.