Page 15 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

I may regret this in the morning but right now, I do not give a fuck.

I respond fiercely, my hands clawing at his jacket, nails scraping the fabric. He groans into my mouth and lifts me clean off the desk, carrying me out of his office and down the hall.

I smirk at the sight Lionel is cursed to see.

In his bedroom, Alaric sets me on the edge of the bed and stands over me, eyes burning like he’s still trying to figure out whether to worship me or punish me.

“You’re not helpless,” he says again, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

I tilt my head, smiling. “And here I thought you liked your women helpless.”

He leans down, lips ghosting over my cheek, his breath hot and ragged. “I like them dangerous. But brats still get put in their place.”

He hooks his fingers under the straps of my nightgown and slides them slowly off my shoulders. The fabric slips inch by inch, until it reveals my bare breasts. The cool air ghosts over my skin, and my nipples harden instantly under his gaze.

“You always undress your wives like this?” I murmur, voice low and challenging.

His eyes snap to mine.

“You’re the only wife I’ve had,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “And you make me want to kill you and fuck you in the same breath.”

My nightgown pools around my hips now, caught at my waist. He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You have no idea how close I am to doing both.”

His hand trails down my spine, tracing the curve of my back. I shiver, not from cold, but from the way his words thread through me like a fuse waiting to be lit.

He looks up at me like a man facing a shrine. Worship, yes. But ruin too.

“Lie back,” he says.

I don’t move.

“Now.”

I fall back onto the bed, heart pounding in my throat, thighs still slightly parted from how he’d been standing between them. I hear the low rasp of his belt as he undoes it, the clink of the buckle loud in the silence.

He’s going to ruin me. And I’m about to let him.

Before I can breathe, he’s on his knees.

His hands grip my thighs, pushing them apart like he owns the right, and maybe, in this moment, he does.

He tugs the nightgown the rest of the way down, dragging it over my hips, my thighs, baring me completely.

When he sees I’m not wearing anything underneath, his mouth curls into something feral.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters.

His palms slide under my thighs and pull me to the very edge of the bed. My legs drape over his shoulders. I brace on my elbows, heart pounding so hard I feel it in my throat.

Then his mouth is on me.

He licks me like he’s starving. Long, deep strokes of his tongue that make my back arch and my fingers twist in the sheets. His stubble scrapes my inner thighs, and I can’t tell if I want to push him away or hold him closer forever.

But he doesn’t let me decide. He keeps going.

And when I moan his name, he groans into me like it’s the only thing he ever wanted to hear.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue flicks over my clit again and again, like he’s learning every part of me. Like he has all night to make me come undone.

I look down at him, and the sight is almost too much. Alaric Moretti, kneeling between my legs, his face buried in my pussy like it’s the last thing he’ll ever taste.

Then he slips a finger inside. I gasp, loud and uncontrollable.

“Alaric,” I cry, my voice cracking on his name.

He groans against me. The sound vibrates through my core.

He adds another finger, stretching me just right. His mouth stays at my clit, tongue moving in circles, then a slow flick, then back to circles again. The rhythm is maddening, perfect, cruel.

My head falls back. I’m moaning without shame now, rolling my hips to meet every stroke of his fingers. His mouth. His devotion.

It’s not just sex. It’s something else entirely. Like he’s trying to brand me with pleasure. Like if he makes me come hard enough, I’ll forget every reason I have to hate him.

And in this moment, I just might.

My body’s spiraling fast, heat curling low in my belly. I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, holding on for dear life.

He lifts his head just enough to speak, voice wrecked and hoarse.

“You taste like a fucking dream,” he says, breath brushing against my swollen clit. “I could eat you for hours.”

I’m close. So close it hurts.

His fingers keep moving inside me, hitting that perfect spot over and over while his mouth stays locked around my clit.

The pressure builds so fast I can’t keep up with it. I can’t breathe through it. My thighs clamp tighter around his head, but he doesn’t stop. He groans into me like this is exactly what he wants.

“Fuck,” I gasp, the sound raw and broken. “Alaric, I?—”

My back arches.

And then it hits.

Pleasure rips through me in a wave so violent I cry out his name, my whole body jerking. Something deep breaks open, and I feel the rush—wet, warm, unstoppable.

I squirt.

It’s not graceful. It’s not quiet. It’s messy and wild.

Alaric pulls back just enough to watch it happen. I see the way his eyes widen with something like pride.

“Well,” he mutters with a dark laugh, staring straight at my trembling, soaked pussy. “Look at that.”

His hand strokes up my thigh, then gently cups between my legs, feeling the aftermath.

“You and I,” he says, smiling at my pussy like he just won a bet, “are going to be very good friends.”

He leans in, presses one last soft kiss to my inner thigh, then stands.

His hands go to his belt.

I lie there panting, legs still twitching from aftershocks, as he unfastens his pants, the zipper dragging down with deliberate slowness. Then his boxers.

His cock springs free.

He watches my face as I take him in, all of him. That same cock I’ve had in my mouth. The one that wrecked me once in a hotel room and has haunted my fantasies ever since.

He strokes himself slowly from base to tip, and I see his jaw flex like he’s trying to keep it together. His eyes roam over me like he’s memorizing the way I look, wrecked for him. I’m breathing hard, and he hasn’t even touched me again.

He steps between my legs. “Ready for more?” he asks, voice low, rough.

I nod, throat too tight to speak.

He leans down, one hand braced beside my head, the other guiding his cock to my entrance. The first touch is almost too much. I’m still sensitive, soaked, stretched from his fingers and his mouth, but not enough for this.

I feel the blunt head of him nudge against me.

He watches my face, waiting for that first flicker of tension, the slight hitch in my breath.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do.

And then he pushes in.

I cry out as he fills me, inch by inch. It’s not pain. It’s too much and just right at the same time. Stretching me wide, making me feel every bit of him.

He groans deep in his chest as he sinks all the way inside.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing to mine.

I can’t speak. I can’t think. I can only hold on, fingers digging into his back, as he starts to move.

Long, slow thrusts at first, grinding into me like he wants to press his cock into my soul. His hands find my wrists and pin them above my head, holding me down while his hips roll against mine.

I arch into him, greedy for more. Needy in a way that burns.

And he gives it.

Again. And again.

Each time making me forget every reason I ever had to run from him.

He drives into me, dragging every nerve in my body to the surface. Every thrust makes my breath stutter, makes my fingers curl tighter in the sheets. His grip on my wrists tightens as he watches me squirm beneath him, helpless and wild.

He leans down again, mouth brushing my ear. “You take me so well,” he murmurs.

I whimper in response, arching into him.

Suddenly, he stops.

Before I can ask why, he grabs me by the hips and flips me over onto my stomach. I gasp, the movement dizzying. He pulls me up onto my knees, chest still pressed to the mattress, and slides back inside me from behind.

This new angle has me seeing stars.

“Fuck,” I groan, my voice muffled in the sheets.

He moves with more force now, one hand gripping my waist, the other snaking up to tangle in my hair. He pulls just enough to lift my head.

“I want to hear you when you come,” he says, his voice like gravel and fire. “No more hiding from me.”

My only answer is a sob as he thrusts deeper, harder, angling perfectly to hit that spot inside me that makes my whole body tense.

I can’t think. Can’t breathe. I can only take him.

His rhythm stutters once, then picks back up, slower but even more intense. His hand releases my hair and slides around to cup my breast, fingers teasing the sensitive peak. The sensation sends sparks through me.

“Alaric,” I moan, broken and desperate. “Please.”

He groans low behind me. “Not yet.”

He pulls out of me, turns me over, and lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, arms clinging to his shoulders as he carries me across the room.

The wooden chest of drawers presses cool against my bare thighs as he sets me down. It’s the perfect height. He nudges my legs apart with his hips, spreading me open. My skin prickles from the chill of the surface and the heat pouring off his body.

I grab him by the jaw and kiss him like I’m trying to steal the air from his lungs.

“Fuck me,” I whisper against his mouth, “like I’m your real fucking wife.”

His eyes flare.

He shoves in hard—a deep, brutal stroke that makes me cry out. My legs fly open, wrapping around his hips to hold him there.

“You want to be my wife?” he growls. “Then take all of me. Take everything.”

He fucks me hard, deep, savage. My breasts bounce with every thrust, nipples peaked and aching as his mouth finds one, then the other, sucking until I moan.

“You like being owned, don’t you?” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Like being stuffed full of your husband’s cock.”

“God, yes,” I pant. “I want it. I want you to ruin me.”

He growls low and snaps his hips harder. The dresser creaks. My skin slaps against wood. The sound of our bodies fills the room.

“You’re gonna come on my cock, aren’t you?” he snarls, biting the side of my neck. “Gonna soak me while I fuck you full.”

“Yes,” I gasp. “Make me come. Make me yours.”

“Already fucking are.”

He grabs my ass with both hands, slams me harder onto his cock, filling me to the root. The stretch, the pressure, the burn. It’s everything. My body trembles. My walls clamp down. I dig my nails into his back and scream.

He groans into my skin, his breath hot in my ear. “That’s it. Come all over your husband’s cock.” And with a raw groan, he follows me into release, hips jerking, spilling inside me.

Later, much later, after he’s cleaned me up, I lie in his massive bed with silk sheets tangled around my body. Alaric sleeps beside me, one arm thrown possessively across my waist.

Through the windows, dawn light creeps across the grounds I once tried so desperately to escape.

I’m a Moretti now. For better or worse.