Page 54

“Well, never fucking do it again,” I snap, feeling taut with annoyance. “Obey your Princes. It supersedes that covenant. Now, sit the fuck down.”

She goes rigid at the command, eyes flicking down to my cock, swollen and ready. “Do you… does it have to be like that?” She meets my gaze, dread filling her eyes. “Again?”

It makes me grin, dark and bitter. “Remembering your throning, Rosi?” I run my hand down the shaft, emphasizing the length. “Disappointed it’s not gilded? It’s just as hard.” When all she does is look away, face twisted, I add, “I’ve given my order.”

She gathers up her courage gradually. A long inhale, hard sigh, chin jutting, shoulders squaring. I spend it taking the bottle of lube from the top drawer of my desk and dribbling it over my tip, exhaling loudly as I spread it with my palm.

When she finally approaches me, turning to show me her back, I almost lose it right there. She bends, the hem of her dress lifting just enough to give me the barest peek of where her ass meets her cunt. I savor it as she lowers herself, her spine a tense line, but I stop her. Lifting the dress, I wet my lips as I adjust, using one hand to point my cock right at her entrance, the other guiding her hip. I’ve waited so fucking long. Not just in prison, but before. I’ve thought about this moment a million times, in the hundreds of different ways it might unfold. This was never one of them, but it’s better than nothing. I slot myself against her entrance. She’s not very wet, but the first touch against her pussy makes my thighs flex instinctively.

I bat it down, pulling her in. “Torn-up pussy isn’t my kink,” I tell her, my voice dropping at least three octaves. “Take me nice and slow.”

Her palms grip the arms of my chair, knuckles going white as she sinks down. A small noise escapes her throat, and it takes everything in me not to slam up into her, reveling in the heat. She’s not wet, but the lube eases the way well enough.

For now.

“That’s right, come to me,” I breathe, watching as the distance between us slowly disappears. It doesn’t matter that I can see her expression on the monitor, contorted with displeasure. She takes me so fucking good, every inch of my cock being sheathed by her without a protest. The second her ass finally meets my thighs, I spit a curse. “Shit, Wicker wasn’t lying. You’re tight as fuck, girl.” I place a hand on her back, feeling the rise and fall of her long, deep breaths.

“I need a minute,” she says through clenched teeth, and a gnarled laugh escapes me.

“Oh, you’ll get more than a minute.”

Her fingers don’t leave the armrest, gripping it like a lifeline as I swivel us back toward the desk. I check the Palace feeds first and she notices, asking in a strained voice, “You’re… watching over Ashby’s assets?”

My balls are tight and I can feel my dick twitching inside of her, desperate to fuck. Clearly, she wants to be distracted, but me? Ineedto be distracted. I flip through the channels in a daze, explaining, “Front door, kitchen, your empty bedroom, the Gentlemen’s Chamber, and then…”

The last one is the old tape from the ball.

She pitches forward to get a closer look, the movement making both of us tense. “Is that the dressing room?” she asks, sounding stunned. “You were watching us change?”

My cock chases her like a heat-seeking missile, and she stiffens, immediately rocking back.

The sound I make is gruff and surprised, my hands clutching hard at her hips. “Obviously.” I slide my hand down her thigh, finally indulging myself in the softness of her skin. It’s just as smooth as I thought it’d be, and when she shivers–or maybe shudders–I can feel it around my whole cock. “There were twelve random bitches in East End’s most important asset. Had to know who you were.” I finally give in to the impulse, ducking forward to graze my nose against her hair. “Whatyou were.”

She’s still rigid. Anxious. “And what am I?”

Narc.

Traitor.

Mine.

“Too tense,” I answer, trailing my hands up her body. The underside of her breast is round and heavy when I graze it with my scabbed knuckles. Her breath catches and I smile to myself. “You’ll need to relax.”

The weight of her in my lap is perfect, and when she turns her head, just enough for me to see the vivid spot of color on the apple of her cheek, I get a whiff of her shampoo–floral and sweet andgirl. “No, I don’t,” she says, eyelashes brushing against her cheek when she blinks, slow and dejected. “I just have to take it until you’re done.”

“That’d be easy for you, wouldn’t it?” Lowering my hand, I skate eager fingers up her inner thighs. “A little too easy.” She stiffens when I brush against her center, thighs fighting to close, but I easily slide my fingers between her lips, finding her clit. “All that clenching isn’t gonna get me to move.”

“You’re not going to, ah,” she tries to shift but I grab her hip, holding her still, “move?”

“Not an inch.” She’ll have the urge; even if it’s just to lessen the tightness, to stretch herself out. I know she’s bruised in there. Lex told us so this morning. The simple pressure of my cock filling her up probably hurts like a mother. “I already told you, all I want is for you to sit.” Nudging into her hair, I whisper against her ear, “Just like I did for all that time in prison.”

Her jaw drops, but something catches my eye and I reach around her, minimizing all the screens but one. I leave the night of the ball in a small box in the bottom right corner. The main screen fills with the interior of The Gentleman’s Chamber.

“Is that…” she wiggles, and I dig my fingers into her hip to make her stop. I’m not ready. “Is that a strip club?”

“Shhh.” I’m perfectly still below the waist as I remotely shift the view, scanning over the women dancing on the stage, over to my father’s table. The man sitting with him is Timothy Maddox. Maddox is known for crossing boundaries, going in and out of Forsyth with ease. There are a few wealthy, unaligned men like this in the city. Jacob Oakfield is one. Louis Mercer is another. Then there’s Timothy Maddox. He doesn’t just ooze wealth. He’s got a calm intensity about him that makes my skin crawl.

Curiously though, the latter’s’ sons both hold positions of leadership in opposing frats, extending their family’s reach without having to pick a side. Well, Oakfield’s did, until he ended up in our basement. A waitress brings over a tray of drinks, bending to whisper something in Maddox’s ear. His hand rests on her ass, fingers dipping into the curve of her booty shorts.