God of Malice (Legacy of Gods #1) by Rina Kent

My upper body hunches over, half due to the intrusion and half due to the shame that must be written all over my face.

The combination of his crude words and his dominant touch have triggered a weird part of me. A sensation I’ve never experienced before. It’s even worse than when my state of mind crashes down and dark thoughts swirl in my head.

These are darker but more erotic and damning in nature that it’s impossible to control them.

“You said you wanted me to trust you,” I croak, changing tactics. “This isn’t the way to do it.”

“You said you’ll never trust me, so why should I keep on trying?”

“I…could consider it if you stop, but if you keep taking away my choice, I’ll hate you.”

“You already hate me, so that more or less has no meaning.” A slight smirk curves his lips as he adds another finger and drives deep. “Besides, I did give you a choice. It’s not my fault you picked the high road. You’re already enjoying this, so let go.”

My breath comes out in a shattered exhale as an ache builds between my legs.

And builds.

And builds.

My nerve endings resurrect to life all at once, and no matter how much I try to suppress that need for pleasure, I can’t.

But I also can’t allow him to take this from me. So I hold on to his forearm with all my might and shake my head. “What should I do to get you to stop?”

“I can feel your tight little cunt clenching around my fingers. Do you really want me to stop while you’re on the edge?”

“None of your business. Just let me go.” I’d rather die with sexual frustration than have an orgasm on his hand.

He lifts a shoulder and cuts me a glance. “I’ll consider that if you tell me who the guys are in you guys?”

“My brother and cousin,” I breathe out. “They’re different from the rest of us.”

“Hmm.” His expression doesn’t change, but his hand stops even though his fingers are still deep inside me.

The throbbing heightens and I wince, trying and failing to contain it. My thighs shake and I think I shift forward.

My eyes widen when I realize what I’ve done. I think… I just grinded into his hand.

I hope and wish and pray to every deity under the sun that he missed it.

But who am I kidding?

A wolfish smirk lifts his lips as he plunges in with renewed energy. His thumb circles my clit as he savagely thrusts so deep, I think he’ll really tear me apart.

“You said you…would consider it.”

“I did, and I decided against stopping. Besides, you’re a slut for my fingers, baby.”

I don’t get to pretend or stop this. Even my hands no longer claw into his as the wave crashes into me.

The fact that we’re speeding down a dark road doesn’t even scare me. In fact, it adds to the thrill.

I slap a hand on my mouth to muffle the scream as I break into pieces around his fingers.

I thought about the fall before, a different fall, and I always imagined it to be dangerous.

A terrifying shadow.

This one, though? It’s completely freeing. And I don’t have the energy to hate myself for it.

Not now.

“You said you’d stop,” I repeat in the silent darkness, holding on to the vain belief that I wouldn’t have fallen the way I did.

“No, I didn’t—you assumed that yourself. Not to mention, you were grinding your hips like a horny little whore, so quit the defiance for the sake of defiance.” He removes his fingers from inside me.

Heat covers my ear and neck when he lifts his fingers in front of his face and stares at them glistening with my arousal.

“I have another question for you.” He rubs the fingers that were inside me against his thumb, smearing the stickiness in a way that makes me want to crawl into a hole and die. “I felt something just now and I’m curious.”

He slides the first finger into his mouth and make a show of licking it clean before proceeding with the other one. His eyes never leave mine through the whole process and I should be worried about us crashing into something, or falling to our deaths.

But I can’t seem to think of that right now.

Either the orgasm hasn’t really finished or I’m sick in the head, because my mouth goes dry and my thighs tremble.

After one last dart of his tongue around his fingers, he pops them out. “Tell me, Glyndon. Was I just touching your virgin cunt?”





10





KILLIAN





The expression on Glyndon’s face can only be categorized as the start of a stroke.

If it were someone else, I’d be ninety-nine percent willing to shove the situation onto that shelf and move on to other pressing issues.

Such as the state of my cock that has, once again, crossed the impulse control red line. This change of events is more blasphemous than when her face was stuffed with my dick as she cried.

And the reason is nothing other than making her orgasm.

I don’t get pleasure from giving. I don’t even give. I fuck. Often—my release being the endgame. Or I used to before the whole event became a monotonous, pleasureless chore. My previous fuck buddies know that reciprocating isn’t part of my modus operandi, but they still beg to suck my cock anyway.

As a certified non-giver, the only reason I thrust my fingers into Glyndon’s cunt was for dominance—nothing more, nothing less. I wasn’t planning on letting her finish and only wanted to drive her to the edge and leave her hanging so she’d beg for a release and still wouldn’t get it.