Page 60 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

A rianette

I feel him everywhere.

Inside. Outside.

Under my skin, inside my ribs, between my trembling thighs.

The cabin is dark but my body glows–flushed and raw and aching, slick with sweat and his seed. And I know, deep in that shattered little part of me, that something important has happened.

I'm not alone anymore.

I'm his. The Baron King’s wife.

I blink up at the dark wood planks that make the ceiling, dizzy, my legs still spread wide across the ruined bed.

The air smells like sex and smoke and bliss.

He watches me from behind that mask, his body on the edge of the mattress, breathing hard, his fists clenched like he’s afraid of what he’ll do if I ask for more.

As if he doesn’t already know.

I shift, feeling the sweet throb between my legs, and I whimper–soft and broken – deliberate .

His head jerks toward me like a predator catching the scent of blood.

I don’t wait. I can’t. Now that I’ve had him I want more.

I crawl up over him, my hair wild and damp with sweat, sticking to my flushed cheeks.

Straddling his thighs, I feel the heat of him, the sheer size of him, and it makes something deep and reckless unfurl inside me.

"Tell me what you thought the first time you saw me," I purr, trailing my fingers lightly over the hard lines of his stomach, the dark trail of hair leading down. There’s also a scattering of gray, reminding me that this isn’t a boy I’m playing with.

His body is incredible, masculine, with hard, defined muscles.

I touch them, exploring him with my fingertips, stopping only to bend my head and lick his skin.

Marking.

Tasting.

My nails scrape lower, feather-light, just enough to make him suck in a breath.

“You were half-dead,” he says, cradling my face. “With the shine of someone who’d seen the other side.”

"A daughter of darkness," I whisper, leaning down so my lips just barely brush his ear. “Daddy.”

He growls–a low, warning sound–but his hands stay fisted at his sides, liking the heat of my pussy against him. “You shouldn’t call me that.”

“Why not?” I pout.

“Because I’m not a good father,” he says, reaching out to flick one of the bars.

Pain shoots through me, startling right down to my cunt where the muscles squeeze.

His tongue darts out, but I’m only thinking of the little blond boy in the photograph on his dresser. The one that doesn’t live here anymore.

“Were you a good husband?” I ask, knowing I’m teetering on something dangerous.

He snorts. “Apparently not.”

“I don’t believe that.” I slide down his body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his chest, his ribs, his hips. I hear the sharp hiss of his breath when my tongue flicks against the sensitive skin just above his cock, teasing, taunting, refusing to give him what he wants.

He’s hard for me.

Because of me.

I glance up at him through my lashes–and I see the murder in his eyes, the pure, feral need to rip control away from me and take.

“Let me be both,” I say, just before dragging my tongue along the length of him, slow and cruel, savoring the salty taste of his skin.

I wrap my hand around the base, squeezing just enough to make his hips jerk.

“I can be both, a wife, a daughter, anything, whatever you want. We’ll build a life together.

A home. A place where you can feel safe with me, and I’ll feel safe with you. ”

I almost ask him to remove the mask, to let me see his face, but he snarls something low and filthy under his breath, words I don’t quite catch.

His hands snap up, burying in my hair, forcing me closer.

I hollow my cheeks and take him into my mouth, inch by inch, keeping my eyes locked on his.

He groans–a broken, brutal sound–and I feel the bed shudder under us, the whole world narrowing down to the desperate push and pull between my lips and his body.

I’m relentless.

Wicked.

Devoted.

And when he finally loses that last shred of control, when he curses and thrusts into my mouth, fucking my throat with bruising need, I moan around him, the vibration pulling another vicious sound from his chest. When he comes, it's violent, and I take it all, greedy and grateful, swallowing him down like the wicked little thing he wants.

I pull back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and I grin up at him, sweet and victorious.

"I can be good," I promise, voice hoarse and wrecked. We’ve been in this bed for hours. I’ve transformed into something he wants–something he can’t live without: daughter, Baroness, wife. I don’t care which.

As long as we walk this wicked path together.

The first thing I feel is soreness.

A deep, throbbing ache between my thighs, across my hips, in the tender, bruised places where his hands left fingerprints on my skin.

He’d taken me again just after daybreak, flipping me on my stomach and settling me on all fours.

He slid in and out of me like an animal, hips rutting against my backside.

Panting and empty, he’d fallen against me, muscles taut, skin sweaty.

Insatiable.

The second thing I feel is cold.

The next, s ilence. It presses down over the cabin, thick and final. I reach blindly for him–the King, my King–but my hand meets only rumpled sheets.

The bed is empty.

How long has he been gone? A pit opens up in my stomach. Slow and widening.

"Hello?" My voice is a scratch. Weak. Dry from using it to lick and suck. I listen carefully.

No answer.

I sit up, looking around the room. His shoes are gone, as are his clothes. Only my crumpled wedding dress where he tossed it after stripping it from me. Panic blooms sharp and bright behind my ribs.

No.

No, no, no.

Not after last night–not after what he took from me. What I gave.

I stumble out of bed, dragging the tangled sheet around my naked body. My legs tremble. I make it three steps before the door to the bathroom opens.

Steam curls out, warm and damp, and he steps into the room–

Fully dressed.

Buttoned into a black shirt, slacks, polished shoes.

His regular mask is back over his face, hiding him from me.

No mussed hair. No feverish hands. No kiss-bruised mouth.

The man who destroyed me last night is gone.

This is the King now. Impenetrable. Remote.

I stop, blinking up at him like a fool. Am I? Am I a fool?

My heart flutters, desperate, a trapped thing against my ribs.

"You're here," I breathe, almost laughing with relief.

He doesn't answer.

Just looks at me–cool, assessing. I shuffle closer, the sheet slipping lower on my shoulders. “I thought we would spend the morning together. Ask Graves to send up some breakfast, then we could pick up where we left off?”

I want his hands on me again. His cock inside, driving into me with insatiable want. I want that feeling of being owned … not the cold spot currently building in my belly.

“The honeymoon is over, Arianette.” He steps past me. “I have work to do.”

"Oh.” I try not to show my upset. It’s obvious he doesn’t like that.

“Well, then let me help you. I can–I can make you something to eat," I say quickly, my words tumbling over each other.

"Or tea. I’m good at tea. I can... I can be good for you.

" I don't know why I'm babbling. I just can't seem to stop.

"I'm your wife now," I remind him. "I can take care of you. I can do wifely things. Take over for whatever it is Graves does for you. Laundry, sewing, cleaning, cooking…” the words just keep coming. “I learned all of these at the Manor.”

I hover there, trembling, half-naked and clinging to the threadbare sheet, searching his unreadable mask for a crack, a sign, anything–

“I’m not hungry,” he says, voice void of any of the emotion we’d shared overnight, “and I have a busy day ahead.” He tugs at his cuffs, pushing the tiny buttons into place.

“We can do other things,” I offer. “Back in the bed. Or out of the bed.” I reach for his hand, but he jerks away, as if he’s been burned.

“I had Graves bring you some breakfast, water, tea, and some supplements.” He walks calmly over to a tray I didn’t notice in my panic.

A dome sits neatly over a plate of food.

He lifts a glass of water and carries over the capsules.

I blink once, then take the glass from him, and he holds out that smooth hand, the one that made me cry out over and over last night.

The one that made me beg. “These will help with the dehydration and any side effects of the revelry last night.” He drops them into my still, open hand. One, two, three…

I look at the pills. One is filled with brown powder. The other white. Then there’s a tablet, hard and pressed. Different from the supplements I’ve been taking. There’s a nagging at the back of my skull.

“What is this?” I ask, staring at it. “It looks different.”

“It is,” he says, looking into a mirror and brushing a loose strand of dark hair into his waves. “It’s an emergency contraceptive. Your uncle was so insistent about your virtue, we didn’t think to plan ahead.”

“Contraceptive?” My eyes flick to his. “To keep me from having a baby.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to have my baby?” I ask, an unexpected emotion crashing into me.

“Last night was a mistake. A loss of judgment after the stress and strain of the ceremony. I allowed myself to get caught up in the celebration, in Samhain, and frankly,” his eyes dart down to where I clutch the sheet, “in you.” A hollow pounding echoes in my ears, and I try to keep upright.

He sighs, taking the pill from me and holding it up.

“You are a child, Arianette, and neither of us are in a position to bring another one into this world.” He lifts his chin.

“Now, be a good girl and take the pill.”

My jaw drops open, and he pops it on my tongue. A moment later I’m swallowing the water and the bitter, chalky pill.