Page 135 of Their Broken Legend

“Kaya!” He takes me roughly against the wall, his body a scorching machine made for fucking and fighting—for passion and intensity.

Overwhelming pleasure collects in my core as his pace creates friction, each inward thrust and outward drag, burning me from the inside out.

I hold on for dear life, beat against the wall by his hips, taking his fire while accepting his wet kisses and devouring tongue. The possessive rhythm torments me as he works towards his own orgasm; using my body to wring him the right way haseverythingto do with him and not me.

I don’t mind.Actually…

I release his shoulder with one hand and slide my small palm over to possess his throat, the way he does to me. I squeeze with little strength, feeling the thick column of his neck fight back, retaliate, and undulate within my fist. It’s like a rabbit standing up to a panther.

He growls, bucking his hips harder, liking the pressure there, so I lean in and talk against his ear. “Slow down and fuck me nicely like a good boy does.” The raspy, deep whimper that leaves his throat when I say ‘good boy’is utterly unravelling.

And the words feel amazing purring through my lips—powerful and intimate—the way he tenses under my smooth cadence stirs inside me. I love him.

I loveus.

“Yes,” he agrees, groaning. His hips slow down but deepen, curving in that way that spears his cock through me with absolute precision. He finds the parts inside me that even I can’t find, the places deep and throbbing.

My mind lulls to the pleasure.

And I can feel him everywhere.

Rubbing my internal muscles as they squeeze for more, he builds our orgasms in unison. We become one rolling entity.

When his breaths grow strained, I cup the back of his neck again, panting against his ear. “Good boy. That’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

More deep groans that squeeze my heart blow across my hair. His thrusts in and out are rough but measured, skilled and building heat, collecting pressure, lifting our desires higher and higher to the point that I can’t talk through my long, desperate moaning.

Crying out, I come around him, trembling and arching, my pussy clinging to his cock with such force he hisses and starts to shake against the impact of his own climax.

My bad boy, who likes to be told he’s a good boy, fills me with cum and shakes with passion while I hold him to me and love him so deeply I don’t know where he starts and I end.

CHAPTERFORTY-FIVE

xander

As the night progresses,I notice that Kaya is quiet around the other women in my family until Stacey starts sharing stories about me as a rebellious teenage boy. “He would do everything in his power to stir shit.”

“Oh, I bet. He’s a fucking hothead,” Kaya says, through a soft, lush chuckle that makes me want to drop to my knees and lick her from toe to crown.I’m fucked.If I’m not careful, she’ll be the one fastening the damn dog collar on me.

She gravitates towards Stacey for the rest of the night. It seems so natural for them to be friends. They have the same sass, the same punch and protectiveness. They have me in common, seemingly passing me from one girl to another.

Was I Stacey’s growing up?

In a way, perhaps I was, but now, I’m Kaya’s.

And she is mine.

It’s late now, and I’m sitting around the new poker table with Konnor, Max, Bronson, Clay, and my dad. The Butcher men earned ourselves eye rolls when we sent the women away so we could drink whiskey, smoke cigars, and play poker.

They do as they’re told. As if any of my brothers were going to allow their pregnant women anywhere near cigar smoke. That would never happen.

Grey clouds hang above the chips and cards while Frank sings about doing things “my way,” and I stare over my decent hand at Dad. We haven’t had a chance to talk at all, but that’s Luca Butcher. Same as Max. The words rarely come.

“When was the last time you did this? Been all together?” Konnor asks, sipping his espresso. He’s the only one of us not drinking. He doesn’t touch a drop these days.

“Never,” Bronson muses, putting his cigar out, the ribbons of smoke hanging over the ashtray.

“Se, never,” Dad answers, organising his hand. “I have never played poker”—he stares up from his cards— “with all five of my sons.”

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