Page 13 of The Kings
Tarquin, on the other hand, is fair game, but maybe not yet. I’d rather play the long game and stretch it out. Torture us both before we give in to the lust simmering between us.
We step into the townhouse and head straight for the living room, where Oliver pulls a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet with an ease that speaks of habit. At the same time, James gathers glasses, clinking them onto the coffee table as if he’s preparing for a toast to our collective damnation.
“Pour me one,” I say, sinking into an armchair, trying to appear nonchalant despite the electric tension zipping through my veins.
“Didn’t take you for the whiskey type,” Oliver replies, pouring amber liquid into a glass and handing it to me.
“Got a lot of secrets, Ollie,” I shoot back, snatching the drink from his grasp. The burn of the whiskey as it slides down my throat is welcome.
He snickers as I shorten his name but doesn’t correct me, so now he’s opened that floodgate.
“Secrets have a way of getting one killed in our business,” James murmurs.
“Good thing I’m not scared to die then,” I retort, locking eyes with him, letting the challenge hang heavy between us.
“Cheers to that,” Tarquin says, raising his glass in salute before downing his drink in one go.
Raphael remains quiet, his gaze lingering on me a moment too long before he takes a sip, and I feel that stare like a touch against my skin. I shiver from raw desire, cursing myself for being so affected by him, by all of them, it seems.
I need to get out of here. Fast. “I need some air,” I mutter, pushing myself up from the plush armchair. The guys don’t protest as I slip away.
Taking the stairs two steps at a time, my chest tightens with every step from the raw craving roiling inside me.
Once I reach the sanctuary of my room, the click of the lock behind me is a definitive sound of seclusion. I lean back against the door, sucking in a deep breath. The silence is deafening.
A hunger gnaws at my core. I stand there for a second longer, the image of the guys etched into my mind—those matching tattoos on Raphael and Tarquin, Oliver’s smirking confidence, James’s brooding intensity.
“Fuck it.”
With deliberate movements, I peel away the layers of my clothing, fabric whispering to the floor until I’m naked and on fire.
The sheets are cool as I slide onto the bed and inhale deeply. My hands roam over my skin, tracing the path I imagine theirs would take. Shoulder to hip, collarbone to thigh.
Eyes closed, I let myself drown in the fantasy. My breath hitches as I savour the thought of their hands, their lips, their unspoken pledges of pleasure and devotion.
A slow burn sizzles through every nerve ending. My fingers edge lower while the guys downstairs fill my thoughts.
One hand slips over my pussy, my fingers finding my clit. I’m wet as I arch my back, pinching and twisting as I let out a soft moan.
My pussy clenches at the thought of the guys touching me, and I rub my clit faster, imagining it’s not me touching me but instead Oliver’s strong hands, James’s skilled mouth, and Tarquin’s playful nips on my neck as Raphael slides his enormous cock into me.
Heat pools low in my belly as I picture their bodies entwined with mine. My other hand skates to a breast, squeezing and pinching my nipples as the images become hotter and more vivid in my mind’s eye. I edge myself, drawing back, panting as theclimax recedes, only to be stoked again as I thrust my fingers inside my pussy, coating my fingers in my juices.
“Fuck!” I cry out softly as I edge myself again, needing this sweet torture, craving the drawn-out orgasm that I know will scratch the itch for now.
8
TARQUIN
Electricity sizzles through my veins,the kind that only comes from doing something you know you shouldn’t. I’m leaning back against the hardwood of the headboard on my bed, laptop open, the glow from Eliza’s bedroom filling the darkened space around me. My eyes are locked on the screen where she’s sprawled across her sheets, a vision of forbidden desire.
“Fuck,” I whisper to the silence, a voyeur to her self-pleasure. The sight of her, all soft skin and sharp moans, is more intoxicating than feeling blood coat my hands after an all-out brawl where victory is mine. I’m unable to look away, captivated by her raw sensuality.
My hand drifts lower as I watch her slide two fingers deep inside herself, her green eyes shut tight in bliss. She is edging herself, and it’s possibly the hottest thing I have ever witnessed in my life. My cock is raging, straining against the confines of my pants.
She’s untouchable, meant to be kept at arm’s length for the sake of an alliance as fragile as glass. But she is unravelling every thread of control I possess with every thrust of her delicate fingers inside her pretty little cunt.
“Yes,” I murmur, my voice rough with lust as if she can hear me, as if she’s doing this for me. Unzipping my pants, I pull my cock out and tug it roughly, my movements falling into sync with hers, and I chase the edge right alongside her. This game we’re playing is more than just power; it’s pleasure, it’s possession, it’s a dance with danger—and I’m too far gone to step back now.
