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

“You’ll kiss me?” he asks cautiously, hopefully, even.

“I’ll always kiss you, baby.” I fall on top of him, my lips crushing to his, my chest pressing on his muscles, and our limbs entangling.

Bran slurps on my tongue, drinking me, tasting me as he tosses my hair and messes it the fuck up.

The kiss is sloppy at best, but it’s fucking erotic. I’ve never kissed anyone after sex, but it’s vital with Bran.

I have to kiss him to feel him. To get beneath his skin and dismantle him.

Kissing had no meaning before this motherfucker. Now, it’s the damn center of my existence.

“Want us to be exclusive?” I ask against his mouth.

The lust slowly withers from his face, replaced by whatever demons that force him into autocratic control.

I curse myself for ruining the moment.

He blinks a few times and pushes me away. “You’re crushing me.”

I scoot to the side, falling back on the bed and propping myself up on my elbow. “You weren’t complaining about me crushing you when you had your tongue hooked on mine.”

“Jesus…” He stands up and I follow so that I’m in front of him.

“What do you say?”

“About what?” He faces away, seeming distracted as he studies his surroundings, looking anywhere but at me.

“You fucking heard me, Bran. Want us to be exclusive?”

“Why would I? I don’t want a relationship with you.”

Motherfucker. I can’t believe I was fucking this guy a few seconds ago. Now, I want to drive my fist in his goddamn face.

“So I can go fuck Simon and the dozens of others waiting in my contact list?”

This time, he whirls around and faces me, that menacing danger dancing in his coral-blue eyes.

Yes, baby. Feed me your fire.

“Fuck another person and we’re over, Nikolai.”

“That’s the definition of exclusive. Would it kill you to admit you want that?”

“Fine, whatever.”

He starts to head to the bathroom, but I clutch his wrist.

“Now what?” he asks, watching me slowly.

“Why are you so adamant about hiding your sexuality? Being bi or gay isn’t a taboo, you know. This isn’t the sixties.”

“None of your business.”

“You’re such a dick. I’m just asking.”

“Well, don’t. I told you this is just physical, so stay in your lane. My problem with my sexuality is my own. If you can’t accept that, I can go somewhere else.”

“Like fuck you will.” I grab him by the throat and relish the pop of his pulse beneath my fingers. “My cock is the only cock you’ll sit on, got it, baby?”

“You need to stop talking to me in that language.”

“But you enjoyed this language a few minutes ago.”

“I give up.” He releases a sigh. “Let me go so I can shower.”

“Can I join?”

“No.”

“Are you going to run away again?”

“I’m not running away. I’m leaving.”

I let him go with an exasperated breath and I expect him to fuck off to the bathroom, but he faces me.

“Don’t do this, Nikolai. I’ll see you in the morning?”

I release an affirmative noise and he smiles, but it’s tight, like my fucking insides.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but he shakes his head and slips into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a fucking lock.

Locking me out.

Figuratively.

Literally.





19





BRANDON





A bit longer than two weeks pass in the most bemusing blur.

What started like a temporary loss of control has categorically turned into the most tragic addiction.

Every night, I say I won’t go to the penthouse and I manage to hold out for a few days—nightmare-riddled, completely sleepless, and absolutely torturous days.

I bury myself in the studio, in practice, in being outside of my skin. Day in and day out, I manage to lie to myself for a few hours, only to relapse to daunting bad habits again.

The blood and the penthouse. Both are dangerous addictions of different proportions.

Both are pulling me apart and leaving me completely desolate and unable to look at the distorted face in the mirror anymore.

Only one addiction can actually lead to my decimation. One addiction forces me to forget everything else whenever he’s in my vicinity. Whenever he touches me, kisses me, fucks me. I pretend my outer skin doesn’t exist.

I’m not Brandon King. I’m not the broken entity who sees black ink instead of his reflection in the mirror. Not the weak man who’s more often than not swallowed by disgusting nausea and the terrifying notion of nothingness.

I’m just me.

His lotus flower. His Prince Charming. His baby.

But that vacuum of emotions only lasts for the duration of the mindless release and the unbound lust. It lasts until I lose his touch and I’m forced back into my own skin.

I do the forcing—every time. I just rip off the plaster and walk away, but it’s getting harder to willingly lose his lips, his touch. I’m almost scared of that moment when I have to lock myself in the bathroom and battle my demons. They’re rather vicious lately.