Page 75 of The King of Hearts

Ownership gleams in his eyes.

Down his hand goes. He slips it over the small trail of hair that covers my pubic bone and between my legs. I’m so wet that one long finger easily slips between my lips. He presses just the tip barely inside me. There’s a bit of an uncomfortable feeling, as if he’s testing the flexibility of my hymen. His whole palm cups me, and he applies pressure, the heel of his hand hitting perfectly over my clit.

I shift on my feet, my brain screaming at me to push him away. Ineedto push him away. He has no right to touch me. Not with his threat looming over my head. Over the head of every person involved with The Raven Group.

Only twenty-four hours ago, I was desperate for this man, crazed with the need to have his hands on me. Anywhere, and everywhere, and all over.

I hate my body for going against me because that vicious need is still there. No, it’s not only still there, but it’s growing in strength the more his hand explores. It makes me feel like I’m betraying my family and every person his threat will impact.

“Look at me,” he demands, and I focus on him through the mirror. “My fucking pussy. Say it, Vicious.”

His claim angers me. He shouldn’t get what he wants. He doesn’t deserve to claim ownership of any part of my body. But the thing is, as much as I don’t want to admit it, he does own me. Not because he says so, but because my body demands it.

Even so, fuck this guy. I press my lips together and deny his request, shooting daggers at him from my eyes through the mirror.

In the next blink, his hand is around my throat, and I can’t breathe. Not even a little. I grab his arm with two hands and try to yank his hold free, but it’s no use, not that I really expected to get anywhere.

He dips his head so his mouth is at my ear. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice in the matter. Every inch of your body is mine, whether you give it to me willingly or I take it from you by force.” He bites my earlobe hard. “Stop being a stubborn brat and say the fucking words.”

He releases my throat enough for me to suck in a breath, and I mutter, “Your pussy.”

“Forever, Savina. Until we both breathe our last breath.”

He spins me around before I have a chance to respond. Using the back of my thighs, he hoists me up, and my legs automatically go around his waist, and my hands clutch his shoulders. The friction of my bare pussy against the slightly rough cotton of his sweats, but especially the hard rod beneath them, has my breath catching on a silent moan.

I don’t want to be turned on, but I am. Holy hell, am I ever.

He leaves the bathroom and goes straight to the high platform bed, setting me down on the end of it.

“Lie against the pillows,” he orders, taking a step back. There’s a huge outline of his cock tenting the front of his sweats and it reminds me of how big he is.

My breasts quiver and flutters swirl in my stomach as I scoot back. I don’t know why I’m so easily complying to his demands. This wasn’t my plan. I was supposed to make this hard on him, not give in so easily.

I’ll fight him later, I decide. When my mind isn’t so consumed with lust.

I sit with my knees drawn up, my legs closed, feeling vulnerably exposed.

“Spread your thighs.”

I purse my lips, not complying at first to give myself time to come to grips with what’s about to happen. Before, when I imagined myself losing my virginity, I never imagined it would be like this. In a mansion on a seaside cliff. Owned by a psycho who has an deranged obsession with me. The same man who’s blackmailing me into marrying him.

I focus on Ryker standing at the end of the bed. Legs spread apart with bulging arms hanging loosely at his sides. Eight rigid planks make up his abs. Several tattoos cover his torso and wrap themselves down his arms. My mind’s too preoccupied to discern the designs of the ink, but I can’t miss the scars. Multiple clusters of crisscrossed lines start just below his pecs and stopwhere his pubic hair begins. There are more on the top of his thighs.

How did he get them? Are they from an accident? If I’m not mistaken, they look like they may have come from a knife, so I don’t think an accident is the case. Did someone hurt him? From the color, they look old. How old was he when he got them? Did he hurt himself? Is he a cutter? Some internal instinct shies away from that possibility.

I push those questions to the back of my head to think about later.

His hair, which has mostly dried, looks messy, like he carelessly swiped a towel over it only to get rid of the excess water after his shower. His cheeks and chin sport the beginning of a five o’clock shadow.

Since he started coming to me, it’s always him I see when I fantasize about sex. Or rather, a man in a black mask. The erotic pictures I’ve drawn the last few weeks? My masked devil is in them all. When I read my dirty books, it’s him I picture doing those depraved things to me.

“Spread your thighs, Savina, or I’ll tie them open to the bed.”

Moisture pools between my legs. Maybe I should refuse him to see what he does. Tied down to his bed with my legs spread open, my pussy on full display for him, doesn’t sound so bad.

Instead, I slowly part my thighs as commanded. His eyes drop, and I swear I feel the caress of them on my exposed flesh.

“Good girl. Now pry those lips apart. I want to see that pretty pussy that’ll turn you from being my innocent little Savina to Daddy’s vicious whore.”

---