Page 48 of Queen
She shoves me hard enough to rock me back, but not break me. Her eyes flash. “You’re a bastard.”
“I’ve never lied about that.”
The slap is faster than I expect. My cheek stings, burns. The sound ricochets off the shelves of leather-bound books and polished wood.
Before the echo dies, I’m on her.
Mouth on mouth. Heat crashing into heat. She tastes like fury, like fire, like the danger I’ve been chasing since the moment I let myself want her. Her hands tangle in my shirt, tearing at fabric, yanking me closer.
I grip her waist, pulling her close. She gasps, half protest, half surrender, and that sound ignites me.
The air between us crackles with unspoken truths, with desires we’re both too afraid to name.
I rip her dress down, the silk tearing with a sharp sound that echoes in the silence. Her breasts are freed, full and heavy, her nipples tight peaks begging for attention. I tug and pinch, rolling them between my fingers, listening to her moans, feeling her body arch into my touch.
She bites my lip, her anger warring with her need, but I tighten my grip on her throat, spinning her around to kneel on the cold marble. She struggles, but I drag her back, ripping her panties, positioning her ass in full view of her pink lips. Her skin is flushed, her breath coming in short gasps as I position myself behind her.
My cock plunges into her, deep and relentless, her screams a mix of pleasure and fright. The scent of her arousal heavy in the air. Her eyes are wild, her body trembling, but she doesn’t beg for mercy. She never does.
Her tightness gripping my shaft like a vice. She cries out, gripping the edge of the desk, her body meeting my every thrust with a desperation that matches my own. We thrust repeatedly towards each other. My cock is a steel rod, pulsing and twitching with the need to be sheathed within her wet heat.
I slap her ass, once, twice, three times watching my cock thrust in and out of her wet lips. My finger finds the eye of her ass and begins to rotate around her opening, rubbing, circling, pushing inward until her anus gives in to my probing.
The sensation of her twitching side to side, arching, then going limp, coming undone, is intoxicating, a drug that mainlines to my cock, making it throb with the need to dive inside deeper.
I can feel her muscles fluttering around my cock, the telltale signs of her impending orgasm. I reach around, finding your clit with my fingers, and I work you mercilessly, until she’s shaking,screaming my name, until her pussy is convulsing around my cock, milking me.
I smile, a dark, predatory thing, as I pull her up to face me. I grab her arms as she straddles my cock, her hips rocking back and forth with a rhythm that’s both urgent and deliberate. Her hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging in as our climax builds, explosive and simultaneous. I grip her hips, pulling her down hard onto me, my cock buried deep within her, her cunt still milking me with relentless greed.
I fill her, my release a roaring wave that crashes over me, leaving me breathless, spent. Her screams of delight echo through the hall, her body convulsing as she comes, her juices dripping down my throbbing cock. Her laughter mingles with pain and pleasure, the sound vibrating through me, raw and unfiltered.
She collapses on top of me, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart pounding against mine. I run my hands up her back, my fingers tangling in her hair, holding her close as the silence settles around us. The air is heavy with the musky, earthy, heavy scent of sex and sweat.
She stares at me, eyes bright with hate—or maybe something far more dangerous. She’s trying to remember every reason she should despise me. But her body has already betrayed her.
And that, more than anything, is mine.
The Aftermath – Her Cold Retreat
The room still carries the weight of her—heat, perfume threaded into the air like smoke that refuses to clear. My shirt hangs open, buttons straining where her hands tore at them, the fabric twisted like evidence. The clock ticks in the corner, each second another reminder that what just burned between us can’t be undone.
She’s turned away now, spine straight as a blade, pulling her dress over her shoulders with surgical precision. The whisper of velvet against skin is louder than the clock, louder than my pulse. No fumbling. No hesitation. Zina is reassembling herself, piece by piece, like a soldier preparing for the next war.
“You hate me,” I say. It’s not curiosity—it’s calculation. I want her answer, sharp, clean, undeniable.
Her hands pause for only the briefest second before she zips the dress. Then she turns, her eyes cutting into me with the kind of precision only grief and fury can hone. “I hate what you’ve made me feel.”
The words land harder than a knife. I lean back on my elbows, pretending I’m unaffected, but the truth pulses behind my ribs. Hatred is simple. Hatred I can turn into fuel. Butfeelings? Those are dangerous. Those are chains no blade can cut.
“Feelings are a choice, Zina,” I tell her, my voice steady, my smirk deliberate. “You chose this.”
Her laugh is short, brittle—like glass fracturing underfoot. “No. You cornered me into it. And you know it.”
She bends for her heels but leaves them, walking barefoot across the marble. Her hair is tangled from my hands, her cuffs half-buttoned, her lips still swollen from the violence of my mouth. Yet she carries herself like a queen walking into coronation—regal in defiance, untouchable.
She reaches the door. Her fingers rest on the frame. For a moment I expect her to turn, to throw one final barb that will cut deeper than the slap she gave me earlier. But she doesn’t. And that silence is worse than words. The refusal to look back is an executioner ignoring a condemned man’s last plea.
“That’s how queens are forged,” I murmur, not for her but for the walls, for the ghosts who never leave me. The words taste like victory, even though she believes she’s stolen one from me. She hasn’t. Distance only sharpens the bond. Give them space, let them believe they’re free, and the tether only grows tighter in their absence.
