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

God-fucking-damn-it.

Why the fuck is mere contact turning me into an animal? The thought of claiming him ticks in my brain like a bomb, drowning any trace of other thoughts. Not that I have many of those when he’s around, but still.

He inches closer to the door as if he can escape me. Not possible in this lifetime and any future ones, if I have a say in it.

“Don’t touch me,” he orders, but his voice carries nothing of the usual haughtiness he breathes instead of air.

“But I love touching you, my Prince Charming.”

“I don’t give a fuck about what you love, and I’m not your Prince Charming.” He swings around, the sheer mass of his body lunging forward, eyes blazing with a fire so fucking wild, I want to fan it, turn it as bright as an inferno.

He tries to push against me, but I slam my hands against the door on either side of his head, my chest shoving his. I’m so close, I can smell the alcohol on his breath and see that fire burning in his eyes.

More.

I smirk, staring down at his puffed-out lips. “Someone is mad.”

“Fuck you.”

“Baby, you know I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

He grabs me by the throat, fingers digging ruthlessly into the sides. “You need to stay the hell away from me.”

“No.” I try to step closer and he tightens his grip until I can barely breathe. My lungs burn, and I can feel the veins in my neck bulging.

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Mmm. Love it when you get rough.”

“You think I’m joking?” His short nails sink into my skin. “Touch me and I’ll choke you to death.”

“Tell me more. Your mouth makes me so fucking hard.” I roll my hips and slam them against his groin.

And fuck.

Fuck me.

“Looks like I make you hard, too. If I reach inside your pants, will I find you leaking for me?”

“You fucking—” His face flushes a subtle shade of red and his fingers compress so hard, they shake.

He’s shaking, my Prince Charming, losing his precious control one layer at a time.

And what do I do?

Trap him between my teeth and never let go. Of course.

I’m getting under his skin. The first step of being inside him.

“You can fight me, can choke the life out of me, but that won’t stop you from wanting me,” I strain and wrap my hand around his throat, on the hickey he’s hiding as if his life depends on it. “You came here to stop me from fucking Clara. You weren’t mad for her, you were mad at her. You didn’t like the way she touched me and called me babe, right?”

“Shut your mouth.”

“You’re pissed off at me because I let her touch me?”

That beautiful rage shines bright behind his eyes, but then he says the exact opposite of what he thinks, “Why would I care what you do?”

“Always playing a role, my lotus flower. Hiding, pretending. You obviously broke up with her tonight. Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“How…?”

“She told me she was going through a breakup and was looking to forget at the pub.” I try to get my head closer, but he keeps me in place with his unyielding hold. “You did it for me, didn’t you? You lost her because I told you to. No. You did it because you wanted to be with me. Because you know I’m the only one who can give you what you need.”

“Stop dreaming.”

“Stop fucking pretending.” I remove the Band-Aid at his throat, revealing the purple hickey. “Stop hiding.”

He shakes his head, but his fingers loosen around my throat. Bran isn’t weak. Sure, I have more muscles, but he has strength. The reason he let me touch him the previous times isn’t because he couldn’t stop me. It’s because he chose not to stop me.

Like right now.

His war for control breaks like ice beneath his feet.

I’m the lake waiting to swallow him fucking whole.

My fingers spread on his sharp jaw, my lips an inch from his, breathing notes of alcohol and mint off his fractured exhales.

“Don’t you dare…” he whispers and it’s shaky, breathless.

The asshole clearly wants me, he’s burning for it. His body language gives him away. Eyes darkening, nostrils flaring, and fingers holding my neck so lovingly—though he’d argue otherwise—and his huge dick is performing a standing ovation for me.

But he’s still fighting tooth and nail, still refusing to admit the inevitable.

“Want to blame me again?” I murmur against his skin.

A puff of air leaves his mouth and he nods once.

“Then blame me all you want, baby.”

I slam my lips to his, taking what’s mine.

Because he is fucking mine.

It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know it yet and would probably deny it till kingdom come. It doesn’t matter that he’s a fucking asshole.

He’s my asshole. Literally.

Bran opens with a groan, his hot, wet tongue clashing against mine as he moans. He moans like the most erotic fucking thing I’ve ever devoured.

He’s so pliant and passionate when my mouth speaks to his, so fucking wanton and responsive. His hips roll and he brushes his cock against mine as I kiss the living daylights out of him.

I nibble on his bottom lip the way he loves, then plunge my tongue back inside, seeking his greedy one, stroking, rubbing, and twirling.