Page 9 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

Tires hiss over the asphalt behind us. Headlights sweep across the trees, then vanish. I don’t move. My mouth stays wrapped around him, lips tight, tongue working like I don’t care who sees.

I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper. My throat tightens around him, and he curses under his breath.

I move faster, using my tongue, my lips, letting spit run down my chin as I fuck him with my mouth.

“Just like that. Deeper. I want to see you choke on it.”

I gag once, and he growls.

“Take it. You can take it. You’ve got a filthy little mouth, don’t you, Kasimira?”

My eyes water. I keep going. I want to be ruined. I want him to lose control. My thighs press together. I’m soaking through my underwear.

He tilts my head back slightly, and his cock slides deeper. I gag again, and he groans like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard. “Fuck. You’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep that up.”

And I want him to. I want to taste every inch of how far I’ve pushed him.

I suck harder, deeper, dragging my tongue along the underside of his cock until I feel him twitch against the back of my throat. His grip on my hair tightens, and he lets out a deep, broken sound.

His cock pulses once, then again. A sudden rush floods my mouth, hot and thick.

I swallow all of it, not pulling back even as he groans through clenched teeth above me. My hands grip his thighs, holding him there as I clean every drop with my tongue, slow and thorough.

When I finally look up at him, I’m flushed and panting.

His chest is rising and falling like he just survived a war, but the tension in his body doesn’t ease. If anything, it coils tighter, like he’s not done.

“Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, eyes locked on mine. “You sure as hell know how to suck a dick.”

I tilt my head, lips curling. “Your son taught me.”

His expression snaps. That edge of satisfaction in his voice dies instantly, replaced with something darker. “You should’ve kept that to yourself.”

He steps forward, fists clenching. His cock twitches again, already half-hard, and when his eyes drop to my mouth, I know he’s thinking about putting it right back where it was.

He grabs my cuffed wrists and hauls me to my feet. I stumble, my legs shaky. He doesn’t give me a chance to find balance. His hand slides up the back of my thigh, under my dress.

“I bet he never made you this wet,” Alaric growls into my ear, voice like gravel. “Bet you used to fake it for him, didn’t you?”

I grit my teeth, but I don’t answer. That is the answer.

He laughs coldly, then his fingers hook into the edge of my panties and shove them aside.

The moment his fingers find my folds, my body jolts.

A sharp breath tears from my throat in a broken sound. It’s not even a gasp. It’s a desperate, involuntary whimper , like he’s stolen the air from my lungs with nothing but a touch.

“Pathetic,” he says. “Dripping for me with your wrists chained like a fucking prisoner. What does that say about you?”

“That I’d rather be used by the father than the son,” I snap before I can stop myself.

His breath stutters, like I’ve punched the air out of him.

“Turn around,” he commands. “Face the car.”

I hesitate.

His hand grabs the back of my neck. “Now.”

I turn, chest heaving, and he yanks my soaked panties down to my knees.

I brace my hands on the car as his hand slides between my legs again. Two fingers part my folds, and I can feel how wet I am. Embarrassingly wet. He strokes once, dragging his fingers along my center, and I flinch, legs trembling.

“Goddamn,” he mutters behind me. “You’re soaking.”

He slides one finger inside me. I whimper, biting my lip hard.

Then two. He curls them, and my knees nearly give way. My hips push back into his hand without my permission. I hate that he feels so good. I hate that I can’t stop.

He moves with precision. Every press, every pump is meant to break me apart. I press tighter against the car as his fingers fuck me.

“You needed this,” he growls. “Didn’t you?”

I nod helplessly, teeth gritted.

His fingers move faster. He presses his palm against my clit, grinding small, merciless circles while he thrusts into me from behind with just his hand. My moans echo into the night, swallowed by the trees and moonlight.

“Say it,” he snaps. “Say you wanted this.”

“I wanted it,” I gasp. “I fucking wanted it.”

He pulls his fingers out suddenly. I whimper at the loss.

Then I feel him. The blunt, heavy press of his cock at my entrance. We both gasp—his sharp and broken, mine high and shattered.

He sinks in slowly at first, and my walls stretch around him, aching and desperate. I feel so full, so tight, like I’ll snap in half if he pushes another inch, but I want him to.

His hands slide around my waist, then upward, grabbing my breasts through the fabric of my dress.

“Fuck,” he growls under his breath, and he yanks the top of the dress down until my breasts spill out. His palms are on me instantly, rough and greedy, squeezing my breasts like he’s claiming them for himself.

I cry out, the noise raw and wild. My body jolts with every movement, the combination of being filled from behind and touched so fiercely making my legs shake.

He cups both breasts from behind, pressing them together, thumbs brushing my nipples in maddening circles. Every touch sends another jolt of heat straight to my core, where his cock pulses inside me.

“You feel this?” he hisses against the back of my neck, his breath ragged. “This is what happens when you run. You come back tighter. Hotter. Needing it more.”

I can’t even speak. I just moan louder, my nails scraping at the car, the cuffs rattling as my body rocks forward with every thrust. He pushes me forward and then pulls me back against him, over and over, like he owns the tempo of my body.

“Louder,” he growls, thrusting deeper. “Let them hear you.”

“I can’t—” I choke out, but it’s not a protest. My voice is broken. My thighs are soaked. My skin is burning.

His lips are at my ear again. “You can take it. You’re made to take it.”

He pulls my body tighter against his chest, one hand dropping to my clit while the other wraps around my throat, holding me steady.

And then he pounds into me.

Fuck.

Each stroke drives the breath from my lungs. My pussy clamps around him, gripping like I’m afraid to let him go. His fingers rub relentless circles over my clit, sending sparks behind my eyes, my body caught between pleasure and pain.

“Say you want it,” he rasps. “Say it.”

“I want it,” I sob, trembling now. “Please, don’t stop.”

“Too late for stopping now.”

He fucks me like he’s trying to brand himself into my bones. And I let him.

Because I’m close, so close I can’t hold it in. My legs tremble violently, barely holding me up. My thighs lock around him, muscles clenching tight as the pressure snaps. My mouth falls open, and then everything breaks as my vision goes white.

I scream his name as the orgasm hits me like a wave, ripping through my body with brutal force. My pussy spasms around him, pulsing, dragging him with me.

He groans, voice hoarse, and thrusts once more, before he stills.

I feel it. The heat of him spilling inside me, his cock twitching as he comes hard, holding me against him like he can’t bear to let me go.

His forehead rests against the back of my shoulder. We’re both panting, spent, skin slick and burning.

The night is still. The only sound is our ragged breathing.

Neither of us speaks for a long time.

Trucks thunder past on the highway, their headlights briefly illuminating the car before disappearing back into darkness.

Then he steps away.

The sudden emptiness makes me shiver. I keep my hands flat against the car, legs shaking, trying to catch my breath. My dress is twisted around my waist, and I can feel everything he left behind.

I hear him moving behind me, the car door opening and closing. When he comes back, he’s holding something from the glove compartment.

“Turn around.”

I do, slowly, using the car for support. My legs feel like water.

He kneels in front of me without a word, pushing my thighs apart with gentle hands. I start to protest, but then I see what he’s doing.

He’s cleaning me. I bite the inside of my cheek. Not because it hurts, but because the tenderness of it is worse. He doesn’t look up at my face; he just focuses on what he’s doing, like this is normal for him.

After he’s finished, he reaches for my bag, pulls out a fresh pair of panties, and holds them for a moment in one hand before glancing at the ruined ones still tangled around my knees.

He unlocks my ankle cuffs, pulls my panties off completely, tosses them into a compartment in the car that clicks closed, then slides the new panties up my legs before locking me up again.

He stands, and his gaze drifts to my chest. The fabric of my dress is still rucked down, exposing skin flushed from sex and cool night air.

He steps closer, cups one breast, then the other, his palms warm against me. His mouth lowers. A brush of tongue, the faint tug of a nipple between his lips. One side, then the other.

He smooths the dress back into place with both hands, then straightens.

Something in my throat tightens.

He leans into the car and grabs a water bottle. I take it. Rinse. Spit. Splash my face.

A hand lifts the hair from my cheek, brushing a few damp strands behind my ear. Then he pulls out a small wrapped candy bar and presses it into my palm.

I take it.

He helps me into the passenger seat. I sink down, chewing slowly. Something inside me itches to cry, and I don’t know why.

Minutes pass before he slides into the driver’s side and closes the door. He adjusts the mirror and shifts the car into gear.

We sit in silence.

When he speaks, his voice is low and flat. “There’s a jet hangar thirty minutes from here. We’re flying back to the estate.”

I turn to look at him, but his eyes are fixed on the road.

“I don’t want to hear another word from you tonight.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “You open that mouth again to say anything other than ‘yes, sir,’ and I won’t be so gentle next time.”