God of Fury (Legacy of Gods #5) by Rina Kent

“Your hand is jerking me so good, baby.” Nikolai groans, trapping the corner of his lip between his teeth and I can’t help looking at his face. At the fuck-me expression. The hollowing in his cheek as he releases these fucked-up erotic noises that destroy something inside me.

How can a savage be so…attractive?

It’s the alcohol. Please tell me this is only because I’m hammered.

“Does it feel good when I touch you?” He squeezes my hand on our lengths. “Does it feel intoxicating? Liberating?”

All I can do is stare at him. Caught in a trance. Astonished. As if my soul has left the confines of my physical body.

“You don’t have to answer. Your cock is doing the job so fucking well. You’re leaking for me…fuck…” he breathes. “Come for me, baby. Show me how much you want me.”

Oh fuck.

No, no, no.

“No… Fuck you…” I can’t hold on to my lies anymore. They sound needy to my own ears.

“Correction. I’m the one fucking you.”

My balls fill to the brim and I get no warning as my cum splutters all over Nikolai’s T-shirt and even shoots up his neck and jaw.

A fever-like sensation spreads all over my body as I watch him darting his tongue out and chasing the cum on his lips and chin, licking every droplet clean.

There’s no other expression for what he does next. He uses my hand as he thrusts himself against my slowly depleting cock, faster, harder, until a shiver goes through me.

Until I forget my damn fucking name.

“Ungh…fuck… I’m coming…” His muscles tighten as he does a few more brutal thrusts, and then I feel the wetness on my groin and all over my hand.

“Mmm. Prince Charming is covered in my cum. Yum. I can get used to this view.” He smears the cum on both our lengths, then reaches a hand that’s glistening with evidence of our depravity and coats it all over my lips.

My head swirls and I can feel my ears heating.

No, no…

My lips part and he jams his middle and ring fingers inside, all the way to the back of my throat, forcing me to taste him.

No, it’s not only him. It’s us.

Good grief. This is so sick.

Then why aren’t you fighting?

I must try to release another noise in an attempt to speak, because Nikolai shakes his head, eyes still blazed with intensity and unbound lust.

“Shut the fuck up. Don’t try to ruin this with your fucking mouth. Let me keep that busy for you.” He jams his fingers deeper. “Choke on my fingers instead. I want you to swallow every drop of cum down your throat.”

And then he rubs his fingers on my tongue, the sloppy sound of saliva echoing in the air around us.

He keeps doing that until I start licking him.

Until I talk myself into believing this is a dream.





It was not a dream.

No matter how much I try to convince myself that I’m imagining things and that I couldn’t possibly have done that in public—where anyone could’ve seen me. The truth remains that I didn’t have a dream.

Not even a little. Not even close.

I pace the length of my bedroom and bathroom, nursing a pounding headache and thoughts so chaotic, they add to the migraine.

My inhales and exhales are fast, fractured, and completely repulsed by the reality I woke up to this morning.

At five a.m. Like clockwork.

Only, nothing makes sense.

I stop pacing and look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my hand gripping my hair tighter the longer I stare at the fucking cunt. The weak bloody wanker who couldn’t stay in control, just because he had a few drinks.

Black ink covers my features, turning it faceless. What stares back at me is unrecognizable.

A monster.

My heart hammers and I storm toward the mirror, then drive my fist into it. The surface cracks but doesn’t splinter, and I have to look at six distorted versions of my face.

“Fuck you,” I whisper to all of them as blood drips from my knuckles, my fingers, and then splashes the white sink in red.

I want to punch the mirror again—this time, erase myself completely, but I don’t, because this is also messing with my fucking control.

The ticking invades my brain until it’s the only thing I can hear.

Tick.

You’re useless.

Tick.

You’re nothing.

Tick.

Weak.

Weak.

Weak.

I strike the side of my head with my bloodied fist until I think I’ll knock myself out.

Black ink slithers from the mirror and swallows my feet, my knees, and my thighs. I grab a piece of the mirror and press on it.

Blood pours out of my fingers, and with it, the ink rushes out of my bloodstream and dissipates from around me.

I let the glass fall to the sink and exhale harshly. Streaks of red line the white porcelain and drops of blood follow in quick succession. I let my life essence pour out of me as I look at my reflection—hair glued to my temples and my eyes glassy. Dead.

It’s done. I’m calm.

I’m back to being in control.

But I can’t stare at myself too long. Otherwise, it’ll come back.

My gaze falls on the blood that’s gushing from the cuts in my fingers, soaking my palm, the back of my hand, and forming a small pool in the sink.

It’s done.