Page 31 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

“Don’t make me laugh,” she says, but her jaw tightens as if daring me.

I shove the fork between her lips. She bites—not the food, me. Her teeth graze the metal like a warning. She chews slowly, defiantly, her eyes never leaving mine.

The atmosphere thickens, heavier than the storm outside. My chest pounds. My hand lingers too long as I wipe a streak of wine from her mouth with my thumb. Her lips part, soft heat against my skin. The moment flickers—then she snaps it, her voice low, vicious.

“This is what you call love? Control wrapped in linen?”

I lean closer, my breath hot against her ear. “This is survival. And if I have to choke you with it, I will.”

Her laugh is sharp, cruel. “Then maybe I’ll choke you first.”

The knife flashes in her hand before I see her take it. She presses it flat against my chest, right over my heart. The point doesn’t pierce, but it could. One push, and I’d bleed.

I cover her wrist, twist until the knife clatters to the floor. Her lips curve into a smile that isn’t victory, isn’t surrender—just war.

“Go on, Emiliano,” she whispers, taunting. “Show me what your love looks like.”

Three nights pass before she takes her place at my table again. The bruises are fading now, but I see them still—on her throat, along her collarbone. Reminders. Wounds I didn’t put there, but which bleed into me all the same.

The dining hall glows with candlelight. Silver catches the fire, plates gleam with untouched food. I’ve ordered more than either of us will eat: steak charred rare, figs slick with honey, wine dark as sin. A feast for ghosts.

She sits across from me, spine straight, silk clinging to her shoulders. She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t flinch. She lifts her wine glass like it’s a weapon.

"You've never done this before," Zina observes, her voice a silken thread woven with suspicion. "Dinner by candlelight. Pretending we're civilized."

I lean back in my chair, the ghost of a smile playing on my lips. "Perhaps I'm full of surprises."

She scoffs, the sound a delicate challenge. "Or perhaps you're just full of shit."

The corner of my mouth twitches, and I can't help but admire her spirit. "Is it so hard to believe I might want to enjoy a meal with you, Zina? To savor more than just your body?"

Her eyes narrow, but there's a flicker of curiosity there, too. "And what else do you wish to savor, Emiliano?"

I let my gaze drift over her, lingering on the swell of her breasts. "Every inch of you," I confess, my voice dropping to a husky growl. "Your mind, your wit, your passion... and yes, your exquisite body."

Zina shifts in her seat, her composure slipping for just a moment. She's fighting it, the raw, animalistic attraction that crackles between us like lightning seeking ground. But I see the way her nipples harden beneath the silk of her dress, the way her breath hitches ever so slightly.

My knife carves through meat, steady as a blade through flesh. “You needed strength.”

She tilts her head, eyes catching firelight. “You call this love? Making war in one breath and confessions in the next?”

Her words gut me, but I hold her stare. “What would you call it?”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the tick of the clock and the slow drip of wax. She breaks first, leaning forward, her voice low enough to cut. “I’d call it dangerous. Because if I take it, I’ll own you. And we both know you’d rather die.”

I stand, the chair scraping against the marble floor, and move to her side of the table. I tower over her, my shadow engulfing her petite form. “Is this the love you want?”

"You don't want that," I murmur, my fingers trailing down her throat, over the rapid pulse that betrays her arousal. "You want me to touch you, to claim you, to make you scream my name."

Her response is a defiant glare, but her body betrays her, arching into my touch as I cup her breast through the silk. I can feel her hardened nipple against my palm, and I pinch it gently, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her.

Her breath catches—sharp, furious—but she doesn’t move. She meets me head-on, fire in her eyes.

"This isn't the love I want. But it's the only one you know how to give, isn't it?"

“What would you call it then?”

“If you have to ask, then you already know.”

Her fork falls, clattering across porcelain. The wine spills, bleeding into the tablecloth as I twist her chair to face me, my mouth claiming hers hard enough to bruise.

She claws me, nails raking fire around my neck.

"Fuck you, Emiliano," she curses, but there's a tremor in her voice that tells me she's on the edge, teetering between surrender and defiance.

"Oh, I fully intend to," I growl, my hand slipping beneath the hem of her dress, questing for the heat between her legs as she sits. My fingers find her damp panties, and I rub small circles over the fabric, feeling her squirm beneath my touch.

"Stop," she pleads, but her hips rise to meet my hand, her legs begin to open, chasing the friction she so desperately craves.

"You're soaked," I observe, my voice thick with lust. "Deny it all you want, but your body tells me the truth."

With a swift motion, I pull and rip the flimsy lace, baring her to me. She's glistening, her pussy swollen and ready. I plunge two fingers inside her, and she cries out, her inner walls clenching around me.

"Mm, fuck, you are so tight," I groan, pumping my fingers in and out of her, curling them to stroke her G-spot. "Stop fighting me."

Her body trembles, and I feel her resistance crumbling. "I hate you," she whispers, but her voice is laced with need, her hips moving rhythmically, and her hands are clutching my arms, nails digging into my skin.

With each rhythmic pulse of her hips, she gives me an unspoken command to pleasure her.

"Hate me later," I command, adding a third finger and stretching her, preparing her for my cock. "Right now, I want you to come for me."

I increase the pace, my fingers sliding in and out of her slick heat, my thumb circling her clit. Her breathing becomes erratic, her moans growing louder with each passing second.

"That's it, Zina. Let go," I urge, watching her face as she approaches the precipice. Her eyes lock onto mine, a storm of emotions raging within their depths.

With a final, desperate cry, she shatters, her body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washes over her. I continue to stroke her through her orgasm, drawing it out until she's limp and panting in my arms.

"Beautiful," I murmur, withdrawing my fingers and bringing them to my lips, tasting her essence. Her eyes widen, a mix of shock and arousal flashing across her face as she watches me.

Before she can recover, I lift her onto the table, sending silverware clattering to the floor. I spread her legs wide, exposing her to my hungry gaze. My cock strains against my trousers, eager to claim what's mine.

"I'm going to taste you, Zina," I promise. I'm going to feast on your sweet pussy until you're begging for my cock."

True to my word, I part her thighs. I flick out my tongue, teasing her entrance, enjoying her taste, lapping her inner folds, a gentle prelude to the maelstrom of sensation that is to come. I lick, nibble, suck her button with long, languid strokes, each one stoking the fire within her.

"You taste like sin," I growl, the vibration of my voice against her sensitive flesh sending shivers of pleasure through her body.

"Emiliano, we can't—" she begins, but I silence her with a kiss, fierce and claiming.

"We can, and we will," I insist, freeing my cock and positioning it at her entrance. With one powerful thrust, I bury myself inside her, feeling her tighten around me.

She cries out, her fingers clawing at my back as I begin to move, each stroke deeper and more forceful than the last. I can feel her body responding to mine, the friction between us building to an inferno.

"You're mine, Zina," I growl, pounding into her with wild abandon. "Say it."

Her answer is a moan, her body arching to meet my thrusts. "You’re full of shit," she concedes, her voice barely a whisper.

Her eyes meet mine, wild and unyielding. “I’m not yours,” she gasps, her voice strained. “I’m not anyone’s.”

“You’re not in control here,” she says, her voice steady, but her hands trembling as they grip my shoulders. “Not really.”

I smile, a slow, dangerous curve of my lips. “Aren’t I?”

She doesn’t answer, but her body does. Her hips press against mine, her pussy soaked and throbbing, her nipples erect and hard. She’s wet, desperate, and I can feel her need pulsing against me like a second heartbeat.

Her words send a jolt of possessive electricity through me, and I fuck her harder, faster, chasing our shared release.

I can feel her pussy fluttering around my cock, her orgasm building once more.

Her pussy clenches, milking my cock, her juices spilling over, soaking us both with her creamy, erotic lube.

"Come with me," I command, and she obeys, her body clenching around me. Her orgasm is a storm, a tidal wave that sweeps us both away. I follow, my seed filling her, my body trembling as I empty myself into her.

We collapse onto the table, a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths. The candles have burned low, casting long shadows across the room. I press a kiss to Zina's forehead, a rare moment of tenderness between us.

"This changes nothing," she murmurs, but there's a softness in her eyes that tells me it changes everything.

Aftermath: Fragile and Real

As morning breaks, the silk sheets cling damp to our skin, twisted and heavy with sweat.

The air is still charged, the room thick with the scent of sex and secretions, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.

Zina lies with her back to me, her golden hair spilling across the pillow like a flame guttering in the dark.

Her spine is a blade carved from moonlight, every curve sharp enough to cut me open.