Page 18 of Spearcrest Queen

And she knows I’m too fucking weak to say no.

Pain and anger surge through me, searing enough to cauterise the wound. She squirms underneath me until I let her roll me underneath her. She straddles my lap, and she lets me dig my fingers into her hips. I reach for her, wanting to drag her against my chest, feel her skin against mine, let her know she’s safe, but she slaps my hands away. I lift myself up to kiss her throat, and she pushes me back with an irritated huff. She grinds herself on my straining cock, the wet hot glide ripping a moan out of me.

“That’s right,” she sneers, her smoky voice rough and mean. “That’s how you want it, too.”

It’s not, but when she takes my cock in her hand before guiding it into her tight heat, I can’t help dropping my head back against the bed, mouth open, my entire body tensed, nerve endings buzzing, muscles twitching. My fingers tighten on her hips as she rides me, every rise and fall a torment and an ecstasy.

I want to touch her skin, to taste her, to feast on the sight of her body as she bounces on top of me, but she doesn’t give me the satisfaction. She rides me, fully clothed, skirt bunched at her hips, long thighs taut with tensed muscles.

And when she’s about to come, trembling uncontrollably, breath seized in her throat, she fuckingcloses her eyes. Even in this moment, she wants to shut me out, and this time, even the pleasure of her tight hot pussy isn’t enough to abate my fury.

My arm flashes up—my fingers curl around Sophie’s throat, hard. Her eyes flutter open, dark and unreadable, her pupils dilated like spilt ink. For the first time all night, she looks at me like I’ve caught her off guard.

“Eyes open,” I command roughly.

She laughs, jagged as broken glass, but there’s a tremor there, barely noticeable, like a crack in a glass too fine to see. I punish her laughter with a hard thrust that makes her eyes roll back; I punish her laughter because I want what it’s hiding. She swallows, maybe with nerves, maybe with anticipation, her throat moving beneath my fingers. Her eyes stay open.

“Good girl.” My voice is low and harsh. I release her throat and shove both my hands beneath the satin fabric of her dress, grabbing her hips hard—taking over. I fuck into her from beneath, hard, short thrusts that make her gasp. “Keep your eyes on me.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to send you back to Harvard with a limp and so many bruises around your neck everyone will know you belong to me.”

She sneers even as she whimpers, my cock driving into her mercilessly now, my own orgasm building, inevitable.

“I don’t belong to you,” she spits out.

I flip her around, hard, pinning her down. I yank up her skirt so roughly it tears in my hand, and I pull out my hard cock, and I rub it between her thighs, slick with her wetness, until it slides over her clit, and I feel her entire body trembling with unbearable tension.

“Yes, you do,” I growl into her ear. “You. Will. Always. Be.Mine.”

She comes with a strangled cry, and she tries to cover her mouth, but there’s no hiding her convulsing thighs, the pulsing of her pussy when I thrust home. I let the addictive pleasure of her orgasm rush me to mine, and I come inside her with brutal, desperate thrusts, burying a hoarse moan into her neck, into her soft dark hair, and she laughs, drunken and contented and still a little mocking. And then she curls her arms around my neck, holding me close, her thighs pressed into my hips, my cock still inside her.

For a moment, I dare hope that she’s satisfied enough to grant me affection, to grant me the closeness I’ve craved all evening. I tighten my arms around her, shiver as her lips brush against my temple.

And then she murmurs into my ear.

“You fucksomuch better when you’re not pretending it’s love.”

8

Hilt-Deep

Sophie

I wake up withmy head feeling like the anvil of a particularly wrathful Hephaestus. The room is thankfully dark, though pale sunlight forms a glowing line right at the bottom of the floor-length windows, where the curtain hems meet the shiny wooden floor.

Rolling instinctively to the side, I reach out, expecting a warm body next to mine. Panic jolts through me as my arm falls over empty space. The bed is empty. The sheets are cold. I feel around, fingers finding nothing.

“Evan.”

I try to say his name, but my voice is a low croak, stifled into my pillow.

I let out a sigh, hair flying from my face, and flop onto my back. When did he go? And what the hell happened last night? I remember arriving at the hotel, feeling like an animal with a thorn stuck in its hide, restless and angry with insistent pain. I remember dinner. Drinking too much. Dancing, maybe. The memories blur together, murky and out of focus.

When was the last time I drank this much? Not the summer holiday; I’d been on my best behaviour while staying in New Haven. The last time I drank this much was probably Spearcrest.

The thought sends a wave of nausea through me and I roll back into my pillow, regret flooding in. Did I make a fool of myself? Did I say something stupid and embarrassing? I didn’t want to talk about Harvard or Max or his shit friends or how shit everything is with Evan. I didn’t want toleanon him. It felt like a mistake, like trusting your entire safety into a hand that might be pulled back at any time.

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