Page 78 of Queen
"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.
She looks serene. Untouchable. But I know better. Her body shudders in tiny spasms still, the aftershocks of what we just did rattling through her bones. And me? My chest still burns where her nails tore across it, my mouth still stings where her teeth broke skin. She marked me like territory she swears she won’t claim—and I let her.
I hover close, my hand inches above her hip, the ghost of a touch trembling in the space between us. I want to claim her again, crush her against me until she can’t breathe, until shecan’t deny what I already know. But for the first time in my goddamn life, I’m afraid of breaking something I can’t replace.
I’ve walked into bullets. Dug my own men out of shallow graves. Held dying brothers in my arms and never once fucking trembled. But looking at her now, her back turned to me, her breath uneven, her fingers curled tight in the sheets—I’m shaking. Because if she leaves me, if she dies, if she chooses anyone but me… I won’t survive it.
I close my eyes, but the past claws its way in. I see myself years younger, standing at Giovanni’s right hand, forced into silence as I watched her laugh across his table. The way her head tipped back when she smiled, the way her light bent toward him like he owned the sun. I hated it. I hated her. I hated how she glowed for another man while I rotted in shadows.
Now she’s here— her lips swollen from mine, her body still dripping from me. And yet the truth sears hotter than jealousy ever did: she doesn’t glow for me either. Not really. She’s here because fate twisted us into this cage, because blood and betrayal left her nowhere else to run.
I’ve won her body. But her heart? That battlefield still rages, and I’m not sure I’ve got the strength—or the cruelty—to conquer it.
She shifts in her sleep, a sharp inhale breaking the silence. Her brows knit, her breath stutters. Even dreaming, she’s fighting, bracing for war. My throat tightens. I want to tear the world apart just to give her peace for one night.
I lower my hand finally, pressing my palm to her waist. Just the warmth of skin against skin. Nothing else. It feels like worship. Like surrender. Like weakness I swore I’d never show.
And maybe that’s exactly what she’s made me.
The Message
The room is still thick with the taste of her—salt, sweat, something holy desecrated—but the phone cuts through it like a blade. A sharp buzz against the nightstand, vibrating too loud for something so small. Zina stirs, lashes flickering, but she doesn’t wake. She’s exhausted, and for once, I want to let her have that fragile mercy.
I snatch the phone before it wakes her fully.
“Boss,” a voice rasps through static. One of mine. Nervous. Too nervous. “It’s Santino.”
My chest goes cold, iron heavy in my lungs. “He’s making a move?”
Silence. Then a broken exhale. “No… he’s gone. Vanished. Left something behind.”
I push up from the bed, bare feet hitting marble like thunder. Zina shifts at the sound, but I wave her down before she can speak. My voice comes out lethal. “What kind of message?”
