Page 58 of Obsessed Kings

I’m their slut. Their plaything. That’s the only reason they’re so kind today.

Rook wraps his gargantuan muscular arm around my petite shoulders. "Leave our slut alone. She’s ourprincesstoday. We’ll make her our whore after we finish shopping."

Heat blooms in my core, and I smooth out my shirt in a futile attempt to push it down. "Knock it off, guys. You were taking me to Hermès. Remember?"

"We remember." An invisible hook tugs Brock’s lips into a smirk. "You’re going to look so good dripping in designer. You’ll put every last one of those hating Saintswood bitches to shame."

The flagship Fifth Avenue Hermès store is mind-blowing. Nothing I’ve ever seen in my life compares to it. Twillies, Kelly bags, blankets, bangles, and riding gear line the shelves as far as the eye can see. It’s so French I feel like someone’s going to bring me a croissant and a café creme while I browse.

A sales associate approaches us. "Aménage à quatre. I love it.Je l'aime."

Brock grips my hand. "Je veux que tu fasses en sorte que notre fille se sente comme une reine aujourd’hui. I want you to make our girl feel like a Queen today."

I turn to Brock, my jaw dropping. "I didn’t know you spoke French."

Brock’s cheeks turn pink, then he growls as he whips away from me. "Pretend you didn’t fucking hear that."

Rook presses his lips to my ear. "Brock is insecure about the fact that he’s bilingual. The idiots in middle school ruthlessly mocked him because he spoke French."

It’s hard to believe that anyone would put someone down for speaking a second language. Still, when I think about how idiot boys are in middle school, it makes more sense. Anything that’s out of the ordinary is grounds for bullying. I take a good look at Brock, this sturdy steed, and a wave of newfound admiration for him well up inside me. The fact that he speaks fluent French makes him ten times more attractive. I thought he was nothing but a vicious brute, one who takes what he wants without asking, but now I know that he’s a vicious brute who speaks French. He’ll pummel me with his rock-hard baguette and feast on mypetite madeleines. And plunge his tongue into mytuna tartare.

That’s why Brock was so talented at eating my pussy with the cherry pit in the quad. He knows how to please a girl in ways that Americans can’t.

Brock roars as he shoves Rook so hard that Rook smashes into a riding saddle. "Tell her about my past at your own peril."

"Guys." I walk forward, placing my hand on both men’s chests.Holy fuck. I have the power to calm these crazy beasts with my feminine energy."Let’s focus on what matters right now. I’d love to hear about Brock’s bilingualism, but we have important events on our schedule. Buying me a Birkin."

What? I’m not allowed to keep my cavemen on track before they get distracted?

Brock snarls, and if he were a dragon, he’d push out one final snort of smoke. "All right, baby girl. We’ll stay in control from now on."

Rook nods in agreement. "We can’t fight in Hermès. They’ll never let my crack whore mother in here again."

Each man shakes his head a bit, getting the last of his rage out. Then, they loop their arms around mine once more, civilized and proper.

Wow. Just wow.

This is… what women have the power to do. Men don't know it, but we’re the only things that calm the beast. Video games can’t do it even though guys think they can. Fighting doesn’t work. Only the power of a female brings a man down from the brink of murderous rage and makes him semi-civilized.

Semibecause men are always one nasty look away from going feral and beating another man into a pulp. Or at least the real ones are. Some bitch ass man with a five-inch dick who can’t even make a girl come lets a girl calm him all the way. No woman wants her man to sound like he’s fucking medicated. A real man is always ready to unleash his inner cage fighter.

The sales associate guides me around the store. Using a French accent that makes me feel so special and privileged to even step foot into this refined world, she teaches me Hermès history, telling me how Thierry Hermès started the brand in 1837 to build riding harnesses, passed it to his sons, who then built it into the epitome of luxury that it is today. We try on scarves, shawls, sample Champagne out of pristine flutes, and even look at exquisite hand-crafted dinnerware. Rook picks up a wooly blanket, drapes it around my neck, and tells me it’d be great to snuggle me in.

The associate leads us into the back. She instructs us to wait in a special seating area, giving us even more Champagne as she heads into the store’s secret vault. A pulse of anticipation zings through me because I know what’s about to happen. This is the moment every girl dreams about. Getting her very own Birkin.

Rook massages my thigh. "Tell me you’re ready."

I grip my champagne flute tight, my breath catching in my throat. "I’m nervous."

"Not as nervous as when I ate you out on the quad." Brock smirks.

Colt smacks Brock’s hand. "Don't wreck our girl’s big day with your filth."

"It’s okay." I brush a strand of hair over my right ear. "You made me come."

Each of my men holds me tight as we count down the seconds. Any moment, I’ll be the brand-new owner of my very own Birkin.

The sales associate marches into the VIP seating area with eighteen women each carrying bright orange Hermès boxes. "We only have eighteen in stock. I hope that will be sufficient for your needs."

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