Page 21 of Malevolent King

I held her hands together with one palm and circled her throat with the other, forcing her to turn her head. I licked my way up the slender stalk of her neck, and she gasped again. Then I bit her earlobe, and she tensed.

“I thought you were fighting for your life?” I muttered in her ear as I rushed headlong toward coming in my pants like a teenager. “I thought I was the bad guy?”

My quiet mocking prompted her to fight me again, but this time it comprised dragging her tits against my chest and raising her hips to my thrusts—a move that destroyed us both if the way her eyes rolled back meant anything. She was about to come.

I could feel her anticipation. I could feel her desperation. She burned beneath me, fighting me but holding me closer at the same time. I turned her face toward mine, gripping her chin hard enough to leave a mark as she fought the simple action damn hard. She didn’t want to acknowledge the reality of who she was dry-humping and how much she was enjoying it.

“Eyes on me, prom queen. Or you’re not coming,” I warned her.

Anger flew from her gaze. “Fuck you.” Her tone was too breathless. It was a fucking turn-on by itself.

“Soon, but not tonight. Tonight, you’re going to cream your panties, wishing I’d pushed them aside and stuffed my cock into you. Tonight, your cunt will grip onto nothing and wish it was me. Then you’ll come with my name in your mouth.”

I gripped her jaw and kissed her hard, pushing my tongue along hers as I rotated my hips against her in a frenzy, rubbing her clit with my hard-on. She tensed, a strangled cry leaving her and falling right into my mouth as I held her face to mine and devoured her through the entire peak. Her nails sank into my back through my T-shirt, and her body was rigid with tension. Her face was contorted and tear-stained and so utterly beautiful.

I drew it out, rubbing my hard-on up and down her cunt until she shook and fought me again, too much stimulation to her sensitive little pussy. Then I let myself fall. Three more hard thrusts, and I was coming, too. Jet after jet of hot cum filled my boxers, sticky around the head of my cock. I ground it against Sofia’s panties, dragging out every pulse and twitch. I pinned her down, fucking against her like a man possessed until my cock ached from overstimulation.

I collapsed on her, our harsh breaths rasping in the air. After a moment, I moved, making sure not to crush her. She was so small, despite her fighting words and impressive ability to draw my blood.

Leaning on one elbow, I adjusted myself through my wet jeans, already irritated by the feeling of sticky cum pooling around my crotch. Sofia didn’t move. She was wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling quickly. I couldn’t resist moving a few strands of her dark hair from her sweaty brow. I still had her hands in one palm, and I took advantage of the moment to slide my hand between her thighs and under her short skirt. I stroked the front of her panties and found them even wetter than I’d imagined.

Raising an eyebrow at her as I slid my finger across the soaking lace between her thighs, I tutted. “What a mess you’ve made here with your desperate little pussy. So greedy and sublime.”

Sofia swallowed and scowled at me. “I still hate you.”

“I expect nothing less. Now, let’s make sure you can’t sneak off again. If you attempt it, I’ll pin you in place with my cock, and you can fall asleep on it.”

7

SOFIA

Age 17

“Sofia, are you listening to me?” Renato, my older brother, snapped his fingers in front of my face, pulling my attention to the present. “You’re really out of it lately.”

“I’m fine,” I said, pushing his hand away and blinking out of my daydream.

I stood in the middle of the workout studio in Casa Nera. The studio was buried on the third floor of the central mansion in the De Sanctis family compound, deep in the old Italian heart of New Jersey.

My black workout clothes clung to me and I had aliccasapuniin my hand. It was a wooden version of the stiletto knife used for the practice ofparanza corta, the Sicilian art of knife fighting. An old bodyguard of ours had taught Renato and me since we were children. Twirling the knife adeptly, I forced my attention to my brother. He wasn’t training today. In a jet-black bespoke suit sharp enough to cut, he looked dangerous and powerful. Every day that passed, the aura of boss seemed to seep into Renato, preparing him for the day he’d lead the De Sanctis family.

Maybe I had zoned out again, but in my defense, my life had veered off track since that night, a whole week ago, in the underground gambling den. Since then, a certain tattooed someone had haunted my thoughts every waking second.

“Okay, well, as you know, I’m leaving this afternoon.” Ren was quiet for a long moment as his dark gaze searched my face.

He was my favorite person in the world. Since my mother had died, he’d been my only ally, even if his influence was limited. Every single time Antonio lost his temper with me and Renato stepped between us, Ren bore the harder punishment. Antonio had no patience for compassion, and he didn’t like being defied.

Now, my only protector was leaving.

“Are you going to be okay here?” Ren asked, his tone telling me he knew I might not be.

I shrugged, trying my best to seem more confident than I felt. “Of course. I’ve got school, and soon I’ll be graduating and heading to college. Life is great,” I told him brightly.

He studied me, waiting to see if I’d drop the cheerful act and be honest. I held the smile on my lips until it tasted bitter.

“Va bene. I’ll call you every week to check in. If you need me …” He shoved a hand through his dark hair, knowing that the rest of that sentence was pretty discouraging.

“If I need you, you’ll be in Italy,” I pointed out. “Don’t worry,fratello mio. I’m fine. I know how to stay on Papa’s good side, remember? Just worry about keeping up with my knife skills, or I’ll destroy you when you get home,” I teased him, brushing aside my melancholy.

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