Throne of Power (Throne Duet #1) by Rina Kent

His sinfully beautiful face appears right out of a photoshoot as water glues his dark hair to his temples and forms rivulets down his neck and chest. I’m temporarily distracted by the hard ridges of his muscles and the ink that peeks out from over his abdomen.

Since he’s fully covering my back with his chest, I don’t get a full view of his tattoos. That little disturbance brings me back to the reason I turned around. “W-what are you doing?”

“I won’t fuck you,” he grunts as his pace picks up.

“Then what…”

I trail off when he jerks his hips forward, and the sensation nearly brings me to orgasm again. He thrusts between my thighs and against my core once, twice, before he groans, his chest tensing on my back. His cum covers my inner thighs before it’s soon washed away by the stream.

“Fuck! Bleeding hell,” he curses in a strained tone, and even though I’m barely holding on by a thread, I recognize that he just spoke in a different accent than his usual one.

It still sounds British, but it’s not English, more like…Irish? Northern Irish?

That’s the first time I’ve heard him speak in such an accent, and for some reason, it doesn’t feel like he did it on purpose, more as if it came out on its own.

“What did you just…ooh…” My words end on a moan when his lips latch onto the hollow skin of my nape.

Holy. Hell.

Is that spot supposed to feel this good?

Kyle sucks on my skin while he rides his orgasm, and I remain still, as if any movement will ruin this moment. He releases my throat and holds my hair in a fist on the side to give him better access to my neck.

His other hand holds me possessively by the hip as his teeth nibble on the same mark he left yesterday. The sting starts at my throat but ends straight between my legs.

“K-Kyle…”

“What, Princess? You want more?”

I don’t speak, not wanting to admit the effect he has on me. Because, yes, I do want more. It doesn’t matter that I just came or that everything seems too much.

“Say it.” He pulls on my hair.

“Say what?”

“Say you want every deranged fucking thing I do to you. Say you like being at my mercy when it’s only the two of us.”

I clamp my lips shut, refusing to acknowledge how true his words are.

“Are you or are you not going to say it?” He nibbles harder on the sensitive spot, making me wince and whimper at the same time.

Why does he get to make me feel all these polar opposite emotions all at once?

He tugs on my hair so that I’m staring back at his eyes. They appear icy, even though they’re heated. He’s a fucking paradox, I swear.

“Say the words, Rai. Admit. It.” He enunciates the last words.

I meet his gaze with my defiant one, refusing to budge. He must see the determination on my face because he narrows his eyes. “I’m going to make you scream it.”

“Never,” I mutter.

He releases me and I stumble from the loss of his weight, my body suddenly feeling empty and barren. I turn to face him, but he’s already stepping out of the shower.

Kyle stares at me over his shoulder and roams his hungry eyes over my naked form like he’s engraving it to memory.

It takes everything in me not to fidget. I never thought being naked would make me this exposed in front of him, and yet the stupid self-consciousness won’t disappear.

“Come out. We need to go.” And with that, he completely steps out.

I get a full view of his fit back with the broad shoulders.

A dagger tattoo is inked in the middle, dripping blood into a pool underneath it. It’s both beautiful and gruesome and so much Kyle.

The killer whose origins are unknown to all, along with the identity of who taught him to be a perfect killing machine.

The only time I allowed myself curiosity and asked him, he disappeared for seven fucking years.

I shake my head and focus on washing my hair even though my body still tingles from the orgasm he wrenched out of me.

After I’m done, I wrap a towel around my torso and another one around my hair.

While I’ve always prided myself on not being intimidated by men, Kyle obviously screwed that over like every other rule in my playbook.

I find him standing in front of the window, the morning light forming a halo around him.

He’s dressed in black pants and a white shirt. His fingers glide over the cuffs, buttoning them with firm movements. Those same fingers were inside me not too long ago and—

I try not to focus on him and busy myself by picking my dress up off the floor. He turns around that instant, and I freeze as if I’m a kid caught stealing from a jar.

“Don’t put that back on. It’s dirty and bloodied.”

“Do you suggest I go out in a towel, genius?”

“My wife wouldn’t go anywhere in a fucking towel.”

I want to curse him for the possessive way he speaks, but my insides liquefy at the way he said ‘my wife’.

Stay down, insides.

He opens a closet that I thought was filled with sheets and brings out a plain black shirt and sweatpants. “Wear these.”

I release the cloth and step in front of him. They’re a few sizes too big, but they’re better than a bloodied dress.

He holds the clothes out of reach at the last second. “Not so fast.”