Page 12 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

zina

Defiance Meets Surrender

I tell myself I won’t go back. That I’ll stay in the guest room at the far end of the hall, lock the door, and put as much distance as I can between us.

But my feet betray me.

The house is quiet, shadows stretching long across the marble as I cross the corridor. My hand hesitates at his door—not because I’m afraid of him, but because I’m afraid of myself.

The man is poison. And I’ve already swallowed too much.

When I push the door open, he’s there—shirtless now, sprawled in a leather chair like he owns the night. The lamplight paints gold across his chest, the dark ink on his skin shifting with the slow movement of his breathing.

“You couldn’t stay away,” Emiliano says, voice low, like velvet dragged over gravel.

“I’m here because I want answers,” I snap, though it sounds weak even to me.

He doesn’t get up. He just crooks a finger, and somehow I’m walking toward him. “You already know the answers Zina . You just don’t want to admit them.”

I stop in front of him, but he closes the space for me, his hands gripping my hips and pulling me between his knees. Heat radiates from him, a pulse I can feel through the thin silk of my dress.

“This,” he murmurs, sliding a palm up my side, fingers brushing just under my breast, “isn’t hate.”

I grab his wrist, meaning to push him away, but his thumb strokes over my ribs and my breath hitches—traitorous, unforgivable.

His mouth finds my ear, his breath hot. “You can lie to yourself all night, Zina. But your body?” His teeth graze my skin. “It knows who you belong to.”

I should shove him. I should walk out. Instead, I’m gripping the back of his neck, dragging his face to mine. The kiss is brutal, like we’re both trying to win something neither of us will admit we want.

He takes control easily—hand in my hair, tilting my head, his tongue sweeping into my mouth in a claiming I feel all the way to my toes. I hate that my knees go weak. I hate the sound I make when he drags his mouth down my throat.

His hand slides lower, over the curve of my hip, fingers pressing into my skin like he’s marking me. “Say it,” he growls against my pulse.

“Never,” I breathe.

He laughs—low, dark, and full of promise. “We’ll see.”

With a swift motion, he lifts the hem of my dress, exposing the lace-clad globes of my ass. The cool air was a brief respite against my heated flesh before his fingers hook into the delicate fabric and pulling my panties down, baring me to his hungry gaze.

"You know the answer, Zina," he murmurs against my skin, his fingers tracing the curve of my cheek, dipping into the wetness that awaited him. "Tell me who you belong to."

I remained silent, my pride a stubborn fortress even as my body begged for surrender.

With a swift movement, he lifts me, positioning me so that I straddle him. The leather of the chair is cool against my thighs, a stark contrast to the heat that emanates from his body. His fingers find my wet folds, parting them with ease, and I can’t help but gasp as he slips two inside me.

The sensation is electric, a jolt runs through my entire being. I grind against his hand, seeking more, needing the friction to quiet the ache that has taken root within me.

"Ride my fingers, Zina," he orders, his voice thick with lust. "Show me how much you want this."

And I do. I move atop him, my hips undulating in a primal rhythm as his fingers work their magic, curling and thrusting in time with my body's demands. My dress bunched around my waist, my breasts heaving with each ragged breath, I am wanton and unashamed, lost in the sensations that threatens to undo me. I gasp, my head falling back as pleasure surges through me. I’m wet, so wet, and the realization only deepens my grinding.

My legs tremble as I settle on his lap, the hardness of his thighs pressing against my core. I can feel his arousal, a solid presence against my pelvis, and my cheeks burn with humiliation. How can my body react like this? How can it want him when my mind screams in protest?

“You already know the answers, Zina,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “You’re just too proud to admit it.”

Without warning, he stands, lifting me with him, his grip unyielding.

He presses me against him, his lips crashing into mine.

The kiss is fierce, demanding, his tongue invading my mouth, tasting me, claiming me.

I try to resist, but my body betrays me again, my lips parting, my tongue tangling with his.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his thumbs circling my nipples, coaxing them into hard peaks. "So defiant."

He kisses his way down my body, his tongue tracing a path of fire that leads straight to my core. I knew what’s coming, and yet, when his mouth closes over my pussy, the sensation are still enough to make me cry out.

“Spread your legs for me,” he commands, his voice a growl.

I hesitate, my pride warring with my desire, but his grip tightens, his fingers digging into my hips. I obey, spreading my legs, my pussy exposed to his gaze. His tongue flicks out, tracing the seam of my lips, lapping at my sweetness, and I gasp, my head falling back.

His fingers thrust inside me, his touch relentless, as his tongue explores every inch of me.

He exposes my clit, his lips closing around it, sucking gently, his tongue flickering over the sensitive bud.

My juices flow freely, coating his fingers, his tongue, and I moan, my body arching into his touch.

I grind against him, moving up and down, side to side, my pussy rotating as I surrender to his mouth and tongue.

His grip tightens on my hips, his fingers thrusting deeper, his tongue lapping at my clit, and I’m lost. My mind is a blur, my body consumed by pleasure, and I hate that I want it, that I want him.

His lips trail up my body, his teeth grazing my nipples through the sheer lace of my bra, sending jolts of desire through me.

I gasp, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more.

But he’s not done. He shoves me back down onto the sofa, my ass in the air, my face buried in the pillows.

I wiggle, trying to free myself, but his grip tightens, his fingers digging into my hips.

His cock brushes against my ass cheek, hard and demanding, and I shiver with anticipation. “This pussy belongs to me,” he growls, his voice a promise and a threat.

I freeze at his words, my body tense, my mind reeling.

I arch my back, my breath coming in short gasps, my body begging for release.

He positions himself behind me, his cock pressing against my entrance.

I clench my fists, my nails digging into the sofa, as he thrusts inside me, his cock filling me completely.

His thrusts are relentless, hard and deep, his cock reaming my pussy, stretching me, filling me.

I meet him with equal desperation, my body moving in rhythm with his, my moans echoing through the room.

The friction between our bodies is intense, his cock sliding in and out of my wetness, my juices coating his shaft, making each thrust smoother, more intoxicating.

“Say it,” he demands, his grip tightening on my hips. “Say you’re mine.”

I hesitate, my pride warring with my desire, but his thrusts deepen, his cock pounding into me, and I can’t hold back. “I’m yours,” I gasp, the words torn from my lips.

He growls in response, his thrusts becoming frenzied, his cock reaming my pussy, his balls slapping against my clit. My orgasm builds, a tidal wave of pleasure, and I scream his name, my body trembling, my pussy clenching around his cock.

He follows me over the edge, his cock pulsing inside me, his cum filling me, marking me as his own. The warmth of his seed spills into me, a physical claim that leaves me breathless, my body still trembling from the force of my orgasm.

I collapse onto the sofa, breathless, my body still buzzing, my mind reeling from the intensity of what just happened.

Emiliano collapses on top of me, his breath warm against my neck, his weight heavy but not unwelcome.

I close my eyes, my body still humming with pleasure, my mind torn between hatred and desire.

His lips brush my ear, his voice a low murmur. “You belong to me, Zina. Body and soul.”

I shiver at his words, my skin flushing, my body responding despite my protests. I want to deny it, to fight it, but the truth is undeniable. My body wants him, craves him, and the realization terrifies me. I lie there, trapped between hatred and desire, between fear and want.

Destruction as Defiance

The hallway stretches out like a cathedral built to worship silence.

Every polished inch of marble floor gleams with the reflection of chandeliers, every oil painting in its gilded frame stares down like a judgment, and every shadow clings too tightly to the corners—perfect, untouchable, and not mine.

And then there’s the vase.

It sits dead center on its pedestal like a jeweled crown, crystal cut so fine that the light fractures into a hundred rainbows across the walls.

A centerpiece for the empire he claims to own.

I’ve passed it a dozen times since stepping into this gilded prison, forced myself not to look, forced myself not to think about how badly I wanted to hear it shatter.

But tonight… tonight the air feels tight.

It presses against my ribs, squeezing until my chest aches.

I can’t breathe without hearing the echo of every cage I’ve ever lived in.

Giovanni’s cage, built of rules and threats whispered in my ear.

Emiliano’s cage, reforged with fire and steel and a crown I never asked for.

I stop. My bare feet sink into the plush runner, toes curling against fabric so soft it mocks the rage inside me. My pulse thrums so hard I hear it in my ears, matching the itch in my palms.