Page 18 of Wanted By a King

As soon as I ask, he removes his finger from my needy bundle of nerves and pulls the tip out of my weeping cunt.

“You heard me,” he snaps. “If you want my cock, ask me to fuck you.”

I shake my head. “No,” I bite out. “You’re lucky I want to fuck you at all after everything you’ve done to me.”

With a low, dark chuckle, he gets off the bed. He doesn’t move far, if he were to reach out, he could still touch me. I stay on all fours, refusing to look back at him. But in the end, curiosity gets the better of me. Turning my head, I look over my shoulder and watch as he strokes his cock. I can’t help licking my lips as I notice the bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

“We’re even, Princess. I held a gun to your head, and you held one to mine. Tit for fucking tat.”

I scoff. “We’re never going to be even, and you know it.”

Ignoring my statement, Grayson groans and fists the base of his dick. “Are you going to ask me or not?”

“Not,” I grind out. “If I want it, I won’t ask for it. I’ll fucking tell you. But you’ll never find me begging for your cock.”

The irony that it’s only been mere minutes since I was ready to beg him to fuck me isn’t lost. But now that he wants me to ask, I’m not doing it.

Grayson smirks, holding my gaze as he strokes himself faster. His breathing turns ragged, and I know the exact moment he’s about to come. I’m tempted to beg for the relief I want, but no matter what, I can’t make myself do it. Not even when he’s so close, I can feel the heat of his body against my backside.

Without warning, Gray fists my long hair, pulling until I willingly move to my back. As soon as I’m lying down, he fucks his hand as hard and fast as he’s done to my pussy countless times.

“Fuck. Princess.” The guttural groan makes me whimper. “I’m so fucking close. Are you sure you have nothing to ask me?”

“Fuck you,” I spit, enraged and enthralled all at the same time.

He moans unashamedly, and the second he comes, he angles his cock so his cum lands on my tits and neck.

“No, Princess. That’s what I won’t do until you ask me nicely.”

He runs a finger through the cum on my neck and moves it to my mouth. Before I can fully process what he’s doing, I part my lips for him and he slides his finger inside, rubbing his cum onto my tongue.

“A token of my appreciation,” he grins.

As I watch him walk out of the bedroom, I can’t help returning the grin. Because even if I didn’t get what I wanted, I didn’t give in. I held my own. It’s a minor victory, but a victory all the same.

The only problem with not giving in, is that I’m so fucking worked up. My pussy is slick, my nipples hard, and it’s oh so tempting to make myself come. The only reason I don’t is that as soon as I think about it, I remember the last time I was indulging in some self-care and Grayson barged into my bedroom.

That was the first time he fucked me, and the first time I had an orgasm that wasn’t self-induced. At least as far as I know. Who knows what he did to me the night he made me suck him off while I was drunk as a fucking skunk.

Apart from that, I don’t want to give Grayson the satisfaction of knowing just how needy I am. I’d rather be squirming than give him the satisfaction of bringing myself to orgasm with him so close.

I stay in the bedroom until darkness falls, making the shadows longer and thicker. I’ve spent most of the day returning to the same question, and I need an answer. So I finally get up and take a quick shower before joining Grayson at the kitchen table.

Fully prepared to use everything at my disposal if needed, I’m braless in one of the strapless tops Mama C or Alana packed for me. The only other thing I’m wearing is a pair of booty shorts that show the bottom of my ass cheeks. I’d barely call it clothing, but hey, if it helps me get the answer I need, I’ll take it.

Grayson might have won the battle earlier, but I’m here for the fucking war.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” he asks as he looks up from his phone.

I give him an exaggerated eye roll. “How old did you say you are?” I sass. “It’s this thing where we sew fabric together into something we can put on our bodies. A bazillion years ago, someone decided to call it clothes.”

Despite trying to look unimpressed, his lips twitch. “Is that so, Princess? Did they teach you that at your fancy school?”

Smiling sardonically, I answer, “No. My mom taught me that when I was a kid.”

At the mention of my mom, my composure slips. I quickly school my features, but not before he notices.

“I’m sorry about your mom and sister,” he says solemnly.

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