God of Wrath (Legacy of Gods #3) by Rina Kent

“You can have different, but only with me.” I up my rhythm and her nipples tighten further against my chest. “You won’t let anyone else touch you or I swear to fuck, it’ll be the last time they touch anything.”

A moan rips from her, and she grabs onto me harder, her cunt clenching around me in faster intervals.

“I love how you take my cock and the way you look when you’re being fucked by me. Your skin turns red, your lips part, and you try to match my rhythm. But do you know what I love the most?”

She shakes her head, breathing shallow as she chases her peak.

“How you look when you come apart while saying my name.” I lift her up and then slam her back down on my cock.

A violent shiver rattles her as she spasms and clenches.

“Say my name, Cecily.”

She purses her lips, even as she chases the orgasm and holds on to me. Even as she’s hugging and squeezing me.

“Say my fucking name.”

She continues to gasp, but she doesn’t open her mouth and, instead, stares at me in pure defiance.

Just when she’s riding out her orgasm, I pull out of her, push her back against the sofa, and come all over her breasts.

A look of disappointment covers her face. She would never admit this, but Cecily loves it when I paint her pussy with my cum. And she loves it even more when I thrust it inside her, not allowing a drop to escape.

But she provoked me just now, so I did the same.

We’re both breathing harshly. Me, because I want to strangle the fuck out of her. Her, because of fuck knows what.

I grab her by the hair, wrenching her toward me. “Do you think a fucking rebellion will keep you safe from me, Cecily? You think I won’t purge it out of you?”

She doesn’t cower. If anything, her gaze becomes more defiant. “You’re using me for the wrong reasons. Why can’t I do the same?”

“Wrong reasons?”

“You think of me as property, don’t you? Someone you can own, control, and whose life you can dictate. Well, I think of you as a dick that somehow knows how to fuck me.”

This little…

I take a deep breath to stop myself from acting on my murderous thoughts.

“I do own you, Cecily. Every last fucking inch of you. Whether you get used to that or don’t. Whether you have a rebellion or not, the fact remains you’re a whore for my cock. You’re a whore for me.”

Her lips tremble, becoming a shade paler, and I don’t want to look at her. Not now, when she’s fighting demons that I’m part of.

That she already decided I’m part of.

I release her as gently as possible under the circumstances and stalk to the bathroom to clean up.

When I come back with a wet towel, she’s still on her back, legs splayed, thighs glistening with our release, her tits and stomach painted with my cum.

Instant erection.

Fuck.

Cecily doesn’t protest as I clean her. The whole time, her expression remains blank, and she acts as if she’s not interested in my touch as I flip her like a doll.

The involuntary shivers and pleased noises she makes now and again give her away, though.

However, she doesn’t look at me. Not when I start the fire, not when I pass her a bottle of water, and not when I bring us a blanket.

She thinks it’s for her and starts to take it, but I grab her by the arm and tug her toward me so that we’re both beneath it.

In her attempts to pull away, I get her closer to me so her naked body is snuggled into the crook of mine.

I can feel her stiffening, and I lift her chin to stare at her eyes. She frowns, and they’re filled with confusion, so that means she isn’t zoning out. She’s safe.

Reluctantly, I release her and watch the fire.

“What was that for?” she whispers in the silence. “Why did you look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you were searching for…a ghost.”

A log crackles as it’s eaten by the flames and I offer her a small truth. “Maybe I was.”

She relaxes further into my hold, and I revel in the feeling of her lowering her resistance a little.

“Does it have to do with when I zone out?”

I nod.

“Do you know a lot of people like me?”

“Only one.” I remain silent as she stares at me with her inquisitive eyes, but I don’t look at her. I can’t. Not right now. “My mom.”

“What happened to her?” Her voice is softer than the silence, even as it disturbs it, stabs it, and refuses to leave its wound alone.

“What makes you think something happened?”

“Something always happens in these situations. People deal with trauma differently. Some internalize it, others express it, but the fact remains that the scars will always be there.”

“So you admit to having scars.”

“I never denied that I do.”

“You just hid them, then?”

A long breath heaves out of her. “I did in the past. Now, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Mum always told me that once I embrace my scars, I’ll feel more comfortable in my skin. I want to be comfortable in my skin more than anything. I want to stop my head from tormenting me with the past.”

A shiver goes through her and she snuggles closer to me, as if I’m her safety. I’m anything but fucking safety, but I want to be a haven for her right now.