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King of Fatui's
Chapter 4
Blood thrums in my ears. A light breeze cools the slickness coating my pussy and inner thighs, making me shiver. Scaramouche gives a small shake of his head, then brushes a surprisingly gentle thumb over the tuft of hair down there.
“They tailor made you to my liking, Queenie,” he murmurs. Then his tone sours. “Of course they fucking did.”
Queenie?I’d thought I imagined him calling me that in the car. Why is he calling me Queenie? But then he drops to his elbows, slides his shoulders under my knees, and licks from entrance to clit. Immediately, I file the thought into a box labeledQuestions for when Scaramouche Raiden doesn’t have his face buried in my pussyand drop my head against the pillow.
The next hot, wet stroke of his tongue comes slower, punctuated by an angry suck on my clit. I force myself to slow my breathing and relax my thighs, because I know not only will I not survive this, I won’t make it past the next five seconds at this rate.
My blood turns to steam and rises, creating a haze over the bed, growing thicker with every crazed lick and hard suck and guttural groan. Every nerve in my body has slid south and come alive. Jesus, I can’t come already. Partly because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how hothe makes me—although it’s pretty obvious by the sloppy sounds coming from my entrance every time his tongue dips into it—and partly because I don’t want him to know how pathetically inexperienced I am.
I’ve only ever had sex with two men; neither went down on me. Guess there’s not much room for it in the back of a souped-up Honda. They didn’t care about getting me off, anyway.
Despite Scaramouche's enthusiasm, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care about my pleasure either. His hands grip me so tightly his busted knuckles disappear into my flesh. He holds me where he needs me, tilting my hips upward to take longer, angrier laps from me.
Right now, I couldn’t care less about his motive. Each lick brings a fresh wave of delirium, bigger and scarier than the last.
“Oh,fuck,” I moan when he swirls his tongue around my clit for a sudden change of pace. He groans in approval and buries his face deeper into me.
The pressure builds, driving me mad, until I’m so close to coming the ceiling breathes above me. I release the bed sheets and dig my fingers into his thick hair, pulling his head back.
Our eyes clash; mine filled with desperation, his blackened with irritation.
“I think I’m gonna—”
“Don’t you dare.”
After a final nip on my clit, he throws me on my hands and knees and closes the gap behind me.
“These. Fucking. Thighs, Y/N” he hisses. His hands are rough and selfish as they skim up the backs of my legs and palm my ass. “Had to change the uniform because of these thighs.”
Despite my skin humming in anticipation, I frown. “What’s wrong with these thighs?”
He slaps my ass, hard. My head drops to the bed, allowing the pillow to absorb the brunt of my moan.
“They piss me off.”
I don’t have a clue what he’s going on about, but I don’t care. Not when he grips my ass and sinks his teeth into a cheek. White-hot pain carves a frantic path to my pussy, where it settles into a satisfying throb.
“Ow!”
“Shut up.”
“Jesus,” I growl into the pillow. “Thought you were charming.”
A dark chuckle cools my pussy lips. “Not in the bedroom, Queenie.”
“Yeah, no shit. Why does anyone fuck you when you speak to them like—oh, god.”
He slices through my sarcasm by sliding two fingers inside of me. As maddening pressure grows and blooms with every unwilling rock of my hips, a strangled sound rises up my throat and fills the room.
Behind me, Scaramouche makes a noise of satisfaction. “You’re so tight, baby. You’re so…” His free hand spanks my ass again, loaded with his frustration. “Fuck. You're perfect"
“More,” I mutter into the pillow, not entirely sure I want him to hear me. He responds by pressing his heavy chest to my back, bracing himself with a hand by my head. I turn to look at it. A busted, bloodied paw resting on luxury cotton, it ended a life less than an hour ago. Forme.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The thought shouldn’t bring me closer to the edge.
Scaramouche pushes his fingers deeper inside me and holds them there. His lips come to the shell of my ear with a loaded question.
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King of Fatui's
Chapter 3
His eyes rake over my tits. “Do I ?” he asks dryly.
“That’s what they say.”
A demonic smirk tilts his lips. “And what else do they say?”
I swallow. “That you only fuck from behind.”
His gaze lifts to mine, flashing black.
“How very gentlemanly of me.”
In one swift motion, he sheds his shirt, balls it in a bloodied fist, and tosses it on the floor.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.All other characters in the Bible too. Backlit by the early morning sun streaming through the window, he’s a mountain of muscle and sin, and no amount of ink staining his body can conceal his brawn or definition. Rubbing a bloodied paw down his abs, he takes a lazy step toward the bed, a move that makes my mouth water in anticipation and my toes curl in fear.
He looks up at me warily. Spreads his arms like we’ve found ourselves in an unfortunate situation, and the consequences will be less painful if we just accept our fate.
“Guess you were right.”
The sunbeam cutting across the playing cards and scriptures on his chest traps the meaning of his words:I’m no gentleman.
I shouldn’t be so stupefied. I knew it from the beginning. From the moment I sauntered up to him at the bar and his gaze heated the flesh through the slit in my stolen dress. But I guess being faced with the reality is scarier than the fantasy.
And Scaramouche Raiden in all of his sinful glory, is scary as fuck.
Clink, thawp.His belt slides from its loops with a flex of a bicep. It sounds like the crack of a whip and it sobers me immediately. On instinct, my eyes dart to the door, and I wonder if I’d make it past the monster if I ran fast enough. Deciding there’s not a chance in hell, I stifle a groan and stare at the sheet by my thigh instead. Run a trembling hand over the cream Egyptian cotton and make a shitty joke, as if it’ll poke a hole in my unease.
“I knew you ironed your sheets.”
An animalistic grunt spills from the bottom of the bed. I look up just in time to catch ink dipping under black boxers before a strong hand grips my ankle and yanks me flat. The ceiling disappears as quickly as it arrived, obstructed by shoulders wider than a soccer field and some beautiful purple eye's.
Sweet, holy hell.Despite only being five-foot-two with a straight spine, I’ve never felt small before. Guess most girls whose thighs chafe in summer have the same issue, but when Scaramouche ’s hot, heavy body comes down on top of mine, pinning me to the bed with steel muscle and ill-intent, I feel like I’ve been swallowed by an eclipse.
Despite the delirium-inducing warmth, I shiver when he grabs my bun, tugs my head back, and nestles his face into my throat. “Do me a favor, Y/N”, he growls against my racing pulse. “Unless you’re moaning my name or sucking my dick, keep your fucking mouth shut.” Another tug on my bun, another crackle in my clit. “I’m so sick of the shit that comes out of it.”
I know I’m meant to be furious, but fuck, it’s hard to be angry when you’re melting under meat and muscle. Hard tothink.His torso skims down my body, his hands following suit, until he’s nestled between my thighs. Thick, swollen fingers curl over the waistband of my shorts, and my heart gives up beating altogether.
Fuck. Is he going to finish what he started in his office? I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it. I haven’t been able to handle the mere ideaof it. I’ve used the shower head on my clit four times thinking about it, and haven’t made it past the third imaginary lick before—
Oh, god.He rips my shorts down my legs, and with his absent-minded toss, they disappear into the shadows behind him. He glances quickly at the strip of lace covering my pussy, then buries his face into it.
My gasp melts into a shudder at the warm, wet pressure. Some mine, some his. A deep rush of pleasure spreads out from my center and through my limbs like a wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.
I know I won’t survive it.
When I feel his tongue push the fabric of my thong into my entrance, I clamp my teeth over my bottom lip to stop myself from moaning. I might not be in the right state of mind, but my desire to not give this man the satisfaction of breaking me is instinctual.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of anything but what’s going on between my legs, but it becomes impossible when he yanks my thong off, too. My lids pop open just in time to see him fist my panties and toss it in the direction of his dresser. They fly through the room and land on a lamp.
He glances up at me. “Mine now.
“You fucking my panties, or something?”
A hard flick on my clit makes stars flash in front of my eyes.
“Or something.”
Christ.The thought of him jacking off into my panties has my head spinning. It’s so crude, soungentlemanly,and it’s obscene how flattered I am. With a rough tug, he pulls my legs apart, clamps my knees to the bed, and sits up just enough to study what’s in between them.
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King of Fatui's
Chapter 2
Pissed me off.”
I swallow. “So you killed him.”
His palm presses harder into my stomach, and his chin comes to rest on my shoulder.
“He was eyeing something up that doesn’t belong to him.”
His deep voice is bottomless, and for a brief second, I close my eyes and fall into it.Is he talking about me?Kazuha was close enough to the car to bounce off the hood and wake me up. That, plus his creepy behavior toward me in general, makes it plausible he was ‘eyeing’ me up, but the way Scaramouche says it makes my spine go rigid. Because his words come with a heavy insinuation tacked onto the end.It belonged to me instead.
Panic and annoyance fill me in equal parts. Just because I have a constant feral urge to rip all his clothes off with my teeth, it doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly tossed all my beliefs about men out the window. No man has ever made me as…dizzyas Scaramouche Raiden does, but that doesn’t mean I’m suddenlyhis.
He’s an anomaly, not the exception.
I drop the cotton pad with a soggyplopand twist around to look at him. Christ, he’s close. So close my nose grazes against his. I push the breathlessness away and harden my stare.
“I don’t belong to you, either.”
A humorless smirk stretches his lips. “I don’t want you, Y/N.” Before his omission has time to sting, he brings his hand to my jaw and grips me there. “But I’m going to take you anyway, and then I’m going to ruin you.”
I blink. “What?”
“It’s only fair,” he says, tone devoid of emotion.
An awful sense of dread creeps over the planes of my shoulders and squeezes the nape of my neck. “Why?” I breathe.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because it’s only a matter of time before you ruin me.”
I don’t have a comeback, but it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have gotten it out by the time hot hands come down on my hips, lift me up, and carry me out of the room.
Oak-cladwalls,creamcarpets,and drips of blood pass in a blur. I make eye contact with the serpent poking its vicious head out from underneath the open collar of Scaramouche ’s shirt and tighten my grip on his neck.
“Where are we going?” Although, my heart already knows.
“My bedroom.”
“Why?” I whisper.
He shifts his forearms under my ass. “So I can fuck you, Y/N. Why else?”
I knew the answer to that question, too, but it doesn’t stop the shock electrifying my skin. It’s the brazen way his silky voice wraps around the sentence. Flippantly, factually,like it’s his God-given right to fuck me. Like he didn’t hear me when I told him I’m nothis.Makes sense, I guess. God gave him everything else.
My pulse strums so violently in my clit the rest of my body feels weak. Still, I know I should put up some sort of protest. I smack my forehead against his chest and make a half-assed attempt to wriggle out of his grip.
“Well, I don’t want to fuckyou,asshole.”
His shoulder connects with a door and we burst through it. One hand slides between my thighs and cups me over my pajama shorts. It’s a rough, audacious hold that makes my eyes roll to the back of my head. His now-damp hand comes back to my hip.
“Uh-huh,” is all he says. I catch the serpent’s smirk before Scaramouche tosses me on the bed.
I bounce twice, then scramble up to the headboard and press my back to it like it’s a life raft. Like it might save me from the six-foot-four monster with the reckless stare, looming at the foot of the bed.
I bounce twice, then scramble up to the headboard and press my back to it like it’s a life raft. Like it might save me from the six-foot-four monster with the reckless stare, looming at the foot of the bed.
We lock eyes and his half-lidded eyes only pull me deeper into dangerous waters. Nerves crawl through my veins like spiders, because I’m not entirely convinced he’s bluffing. But then he pops the top three buttons of his shirt, and, well, suddenly I don’t give a fuck if he’s bluffing or not.
My breathing shallows and I watch him watching me, his eyes roaming over my body like he’s considering where to start. I lost the blanket somewhere between the lounge and the galley, and now I’m cursing myself for wearing my shortest shorts to sleep in Scaramouche ’s car.
My focus drops to the bulge straining below his belt. I cross my legs in self-preservation.
“Thought you took girls on dates before fucking them?”
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King of Fatui's
Chapter 1.
I stand behind the bar while Scaramouche sits in an armchair on the other side of it. His eyes are trained on a bland bit of wall behind my head, a poker chip spinning between his swollen fingers. The lounge is too pristine for all this blood. Too bright, too quiet. I can practically hear the sins dripping off his body—some his, some not—and staining the carpet at his feet red. I rest my sweaty palms on the bar and swallow.
“Want me to call someone? Your brother?” His lips tilt into a humorless smirk, and I remember the sight of Kazuha's bloodied, naked body and the menacing glare he shot me through the windshield. I shiver. “The other brother, I mean.
He shakes his head once.
Well, then.
I shuffle from one slipper-clad foot to the other and stare at him for a few ticks of the grandfather clock on the mantle. I skim over his ruffled black hair and open collar. He popped off the stitches that held his gentlemanly persona together the moment we boarded the yacht—his collar pin and cufflinks. As they bounced over the swim platform, I managed to catch them before they disappeared into the Pacific. Now, as I glance down at the diamond dice cufflink next to my trembling hand, I wonder how they ever fooled anybody.
Is this what a breakdown looks like?I wouldn’t know. Despite the fact that, by the end, my mother would stand naked in front of the record player in the hallway, crying along to Whitney Houston’s most heart-wrenching ballads, or that my father would smash his head repeatedly into the bathroom mirror, their demise was slow. More of the crumble I expected, rather than a suddencrackI didn’t see coming. When I look up from the cufflink and back to Scaramouche , I’m startled to find he’s staring right at me. A half-lidded gaze, blackened by the type of recklessness that makes your survival instinct kick in. The type that’d make you cross the road if you saw it in the eye of a stranger, or jump back out of an Uber if it greeted you in the rearview mirror. I turn to the liquor wall. Not because his expression scares me, but because I know it shouldn’t heat the space between my thighs. I’msick.
I reach for the First Aid kit and a bottle of Smuggler’s Club whiskey.
“Vodka.”
My shoulders pull taut. “Since when did you start drinking vodka?”
“Since you said you wouldn’t kiss me if I drank whiskey.”
A hot tide carries dizziness to my head and warmth to my stomach. The sensation only intensifies when I turn around and find no humor in his eyes.
Stepping out from behind the bar, I cross the lounge and into his orbit, my heart beating a little faster with every step. His eyes track me, hardening when my legs come into view.
“Put some clothes on, Y/N. My men are onboard and I don’t want to kill anyone else today.” He drops back in the armchair, running a busted hand through his hair with a careless sweep. “Those fucking thighs,” he mutters at the bland bit of wall again.
Kill.So Kazuha’s dead. Christ, I thought maybe he just gave him a little concussion, or something. What could he have done that was so bad?
Still in shock from waking up to the sound of Kazuha’s body bouncing off the hood of Scaramouche’s car, I don’t have it in me to argue about how if a man sexualizes pajama shorts and a tank top then that’s his own fucking problem. Numb everywhere but my center, I pick up the throw slung over the arm of a sofa and wrap it around myself. I have every intention of placing the liquor and First Aid kit on the coffee table and scurrying back to the safety of the bar, but Scaramouche’s arm shoots out, wraps around the backs of my legs, and pulls me onto his thigh. My pulse slows to a syrup-like rhythm, too sticky to beat properly. My vision dims at the heat of his body seeping through the blanket and soaking into my own. He’s hard and warm and danger rolls off him like a sonic wave.
He tightens his grip on my waist, and my eyes fall down to his arm. His jacket came off not long after his cufflinks did, and now his sleeves are rolled up to reveal inked forearms covered in blood, too. The King of Fatui's stares back at me expectantly.
I turn away and grab the First Aid kit. Nonchalance isn’t the easiest expression to wear, not when a heartbeat thuds against my shoulder, and hot, heavy breath tickles my throat. My feeble poker face is immediately undermined by the tremble in my fingers as I pry open the white and red box.
Blankly, I stare at the foreign objects inside. “Hold on; I need to Google this.”
A bloody grip on my hip keeps me from jumping up. “The clear liquid is saline solution. Soak a cotton pad in it.” He spreads a large, busted paw over the curve of my thigh, sending a fever-like chill through me. “Then clean up my hands.”
I can barely concentrate on the task; I’m too busy blistering under his stare and pretending like his hand on my thigh doesn’t affect me at all. I pause with the cotton pad hovering over his knuckles. “This might hurt.”
His laugh is rusty and my ears grow hot. “I think I’ll survive.”
His gaze continues to press on my cheek as I wipe down his wounds with clumsy dabs and a scrunched-up nose. When the tension grows so thick it slows my movements, I say, “For a man who prides himself on not having busted knuckles, you sure know your way around a First Aid kit.”
This time, his laugh is softer. “I’m from a family of thugs. Patched up more than a few bullet wounds in my time.”
He lifts his right hand to inspect my handiwork, and once he deems it satisfactory, he slides it up my leg and places it on my lower stomach. The feeling of his busted pinky finger resting on my pubic bone makes me want to rub my thighs together. My next breath comes out shaky and ragged. He moves his left hand so I can work on it.
“Well, now you’re a thug too,” I mutter, soaking more cotton in saline. “What did Kazuha do?”
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