Page 32 of Broken Queen
I rubbed the tip of my dick against her ridged hole, teasing both of us as I held my mouth open. I wanted to hear her scream so damn bad, and I was finally pleased with her response.
“So what do you want, Zira?” I growled.
“Fuck my ass like you don’t care if I like it or not.”
I pressed my cock in all the way to the hilt, a gasp swelling through her chest, a cry building in her center. As promised, I shut up for a moment, letting my lengthy dick press through her. Her smooth ass was like a liquid glove, fitting perfectly around me. I steadied myself, freezing in place. She was so damn good; if I wasn’t careful, I’d be mere seconds away from coming already.
But I couldn’t stop myself from talking. I wanted to hear her panting words.
“You like having your ass filled up?” I growled.
“I do. God, I do,” she cried. “Why does it feel so good?”
“All of those sensitive nerve endings,” I said. “Reaching up, swelling to that touch. You’ve been fucked in the ass, but has it ever felt like this, my queen?”
“No. Never.”
“Tell me how much you love it.”
“I love it when you take my ass,” she whined. And I shoved my dick in and out, again and again, until her ass clenched around me as she moaned. Each time that primal sound erupted from her perfect mouth, I sped up, so damn eager to show her exactly how I wanted to tear her apart. We both knew what this was. She wanted to hate every minute of it, but she needed it far too much. And I always gave my queen what she wanted.
Finally, she convulsed, the orgasm taking her breath away like it could kill her. I pulled out again, coming all over her ass for the second time that night. I groaned, and she turned around, lying on the bench, smearing her furniture with my come. It brought a smile to my face; I was staining her private rooms, leaving my mark. Her housekeeper would clean it up, but my memory would still be there, seeping into the cushion.
“Jesus christ,” she muttered, her cheeks red with exhaustion. “What have you done to me?”
I beamed. “You just met your match.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she deadpanned.
I winked, then zipped up my pants, letting out a deep sigh. Coming was one thing, but now, we needed to talk business.
“The other board member. We need to kill him. Ernest,” I said in a low voice.
“Ernest,” she repeated. “And your sister’s killer.”
“Right.”
“What was her name?”
I thought for a moment. Would Gabby and Zira have gotten along? Probably not. They were both too strong willed, and I’m sure Gabby wouldn’t have thought kindly of a rich woman who was hungry for more power. But when she learned what Zira had been through, I had a feeling Gabby would have wanted her to get that throne too.
“At the very least, I need a name,” Zira said, interrupting my thoughts.
“Gabrielle Boucher,” I said. “But she went by Gabby.”
CHAPTER 10
Zira
The days passed as if nothing had happened, but Hazard’s eyes watched me. Locked inside, he kept one eye on his closest window, and whenever I glanced up, he was there, his gaze fixated on me. There was a chance that he was simply eager for answers about his sister, but deep down, I knew it was more than that. He was obsessed with me, and I liked knowing that. Unless a man was pulling my teeth or using my holes, rich daughters were a dime a dozen in Opulent Gates. I always had to prove my worth.
But not to Hazard.
I walked across the lawn, the rotten stench of the pond drifting up to my nose as I found the side entrance to the banquet hall. Inside of the last room for socializing, I pressed a picture frame on the wall. The wall panel shifted open, exposing a small hidden door leading underground.
With every step down, the air was cooler. Hell is always portrayed as a fiery pit of madness, like a volcano without a clear vent in sight. But I always imagine something like this: silent, cold, and endless. Narrow hallways leading to nothing, and little boxes with withering bones. I flipped the switch and the lights flickered on, illuminating the catacombs.
The Marked Blooms Syndicate had a long, bloody history filled with the deaths of women. Men were killed too, of course, especially male enemies tricked into attending Masquerades simply to be executed. But women were the preferred choice. Women were disposable here—objects to be traded. A way to get off.
