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

“You want to fight? I’ll give you a reason to fight.” His hold tightens and he shoves his knee between my legs, slapping them apart and thrusting his thigh against my core. “I could choke the living fuck out of you right now, and there’s nothing you could do about it. Is that what you want, hmm?”

I try to shake my head, but I don’t know if it moves. The lack of oxygen turns me lightheaded. The good kind. The kind that throbs in my core and against his jeans.

Shit.

Please don’t tell me this is what I think it is.

My senses are heightened to an extent I’ve never felt before. My head thrums in an irregular rhythm causing my eyes to droop, but I can smell him deep in my bones. The woodsy, amber scent is no different than an intoxicating substance. Like alcohol.

Or drugs.

No, probably worse.

My stomach quivers as I inhale every painstaking drag, on and on, my belly drops and fills and empties in a rhythm I can’t keep up with.

But the worst part is that my hands that are clawing at any part I can reach, but I don’t think it’s to push him off me anymore. I just want the pads of my fingers on his skin, my blunt nails leaving marks on him as he does on me.

“Or maybe you’d like that.” He presses his thumb against my pulse point with the brutality of a savage animal. “Maybe being choked turns you the fuck on like it makes me fucking hard.”

I should be appalled by the suggestion, should try to scratch his eyes out, but something entirely different slips from my mouth.

A moan.

I want to find excuses, to say it’s a moan of pain, or discomfort, but I can’t think straight, let alone attempt to trick my brain.

Killian’s lips pull in a cruel smirk. He’s not happy about this, on the contrary, the anger from earlier is slowly gathering in the stormy blues of his eyes.

They’re a shade darker now.

Charcoal, black, and every cold hue that hasn’t seen the sun.

“I knew you were more than your looks suggested. You had this clean, innocent, and utterly pretty aura, but really, you’re nothing more than a dirty little whore, aren’t you? All this fighting and running and fucking shenanigans were just a way to provoke me so I’d throw you down and fuck you on all fours like a fucking animal. Or maybe so I’d shove you headfirst against the nearest surface, like this wall, and fill you up with my cum.”

His free hand slides over my aching breasts and he cups one violently. “Tell me, were you thinking of me when you wore this red dress or was it for Gareth?”

Pleasure starts where he’s touching my breasts and ends in my core, and all I can do is focus on it.

“Answer the fucking question, Glyndon. Is he the one you wanted to feel up these pretty little tits and make these perky nipples all hard?” He pinches one and I gasp. “You always wanted the nice guy; too bad you got the fucking villain.”

“It wasn’t him…” I choke out.

“Come again?” He loosens his grip so I can breathe properly.

“The dress is for…you,” I admit on a breath.

I think that will delight him, but his face remains on the edge.

“It was for me, huh?” His hand slides from my breast to my hip, then he shoves the skirt of my dress to my waist, exposing my thighs and underwear. “You even put on lace panties and came prepared to be fucked.” He rubs his fingers against them and I can’t pretend to close my eyes out of pure mortification. “Are you sure it’s for me? Or are you saying that to please me?”

I shake my head.

“The thought of you dolling up to seduce my brother drives me fucking insane. The thought of you imagining his fucking fingers on my pussy while you were cleaning and dressing it makes me see red.”

His fingers tighten on my throat and it’s like I’m gasping for air through a straw again.

And the most embarrassing part is, my undies are utterly soaked, and I think he feels it. I think he knows exactly the type of effect he has on me.

“Did you think I’d let him touch what’s mine and live to talk about it?” He tugs me close by the neck and tilts his head down until his lips nearly touch mine and I can see my reflection in his savage eyes.

Do I really look that aroused?

I yelp as he yanks down my underwear and thrusts three fingers inside me at the same time.

A choked sob tears from my throat, and although it should be due to pain or discomfort, it’s actually due to relief.

I’ve been in a constant mode of stimulation ever since he strangled me and it’s only gotten worse with time.

“Feel that? That’s your cunt welcoming my fingers home. That’s your cunt knowing who the fuck owns it, touches it, and brings it pleasure. If someone dares to look at it, let alone contemplate touching it, they’ll be an MIA statistic, am I clear?”

A whimper rips from me and it’s sick.

I’m sick.

He’s clearly threatening to hurt people, but I can’t seem to take that into account as I drip all over his fingers, rocking my hips unconsciously at first, then intentionally.

“This is my pussy.” Thrust. “My property.” Thrust. “Fucking mine.”

A strangled gasp spills from my throat as my core pulses for the orgasm.

But just when I’m about to scream, he pulls out his fingers.

My eyes widen, staring at him, then at the place that he definitely didn’t satisfy.