Callous Prince

by Becker Gray

  “Who are you telling?” he growled.

  I couldn’t answer, I couldn’t even think, because he was doing something to my clit that rendered all thoughts null and void. All I could do was lift my hips and pant.

  “Every time,” he breathed between kisses, his hand lifting from my pussy to his fly. “Every time we do this, I get you there, and then you leave me so fucking hard up for it, Sloane. And I can’t stand it. I spend hours tossing myself off after, and it’s still not enough. I’m still miserable for days and days, and it kills me, it kills me.”

  My hands were everywhere too, unbuttoning his jacket and sliding up his stomach and pulling at his bow tie. “I’m miserable for days after too,” I confessed. “You make me come, and then I want more and more, and it takes everything I have not to find you and beg you for it.”

  “Is that so, darling? All you’ve ever had to do was ask.”

  “Liar.”

  “I never lie about what’s important. You belong to me. If this virgin cunt needs to come, then I’ll be the one seeing to it. No one else. Not Rhys. Not anyone. Is that fucking clear?”

  His bow tie was finally undone, hanging from his collar and tickling my throat. “Still jealous of Rhys?” I asked.

  A scowl curved his mouth. “Yes, I’m still bloody jealous. I don’t like it when other people touch my things.”

  My heart twisted a little as I remembered why he’d claimed me as his thing—not because he wanted me, but because he resented my father—but the feeling was quickly overridden by his fingers between my legs again. Then his knuckles. Brushing oh-so-gently against my naked skin.

  “And I’m your thing?” I asked, arching against his touch.

  “My pretty, broken thing.”

  “I’m not broken yet,” I reminded him, although the point seemed rather academic as I was currently panting underneath him with my panties in his pocket.

  The scowl turned into a vicious smile. “You will be.”

  And then I realized what the brushing of his knuckles was: he’d been freeing himself from his tuxedo pants. And now he impatiently shoved the rest of my skirt out of the way so he could wedge his erection against my pussy as he leaned in to kiss me again.

  We looked like a mess, a complete and decadent mess. Me with my gown up to my hips, him with his tuxedo still on but his bow tie unknotted and dangling.

  And the way we felt—well, that was beyond decadent. The hot, velvety skin of his thick length pressed against me, the combination of silk and expensive wool tangled everywhere, his firm lips dragging over my mouth and jaw and throat.

  He moved down to my breast, sucking my nipple through the silk bodice, and then back up to my mouth. Every time I moved, his swollen cock rubbed against my clit, sending bursts of pleasure rocketing through my core and sizzling all over my body.

  “You’re so fucking wet,” he said, rocking against me. His thick inches spread me apart when he moved like that, made it so I got him even wetter. “You get so fucking wet when we fight, my darling. You get so fucking wet when I tell you all the ways you belong to me.”

  “I—don’t belong—to—you—” The words came out as moans, as sighs, and we both knew them to be false. At the very least, they were false right now, as I was chasing his hips with mine, as I was kneading my clit against the erection he’d freed from his tuxedo.

  And then it happened. We were tangled and arching and his teeth were scraping along my jaw, and suddenly the blunt, wide crown was pressed to my wet opening.

  “Oh,” I murmured, the different pressure sending frissons of need into my belly and thighs.

  And at the same time, he muttered, “Christ, fucking Christ.”

  We didn’t move for a moment, both of us absorbing the fact that his flesh was touching mine—there—the flared tip of his cock nudging against my hole. One thrust and he’d be inside me. Fucking my virginity away.

  He lifted his head, his silky hair tumbling in his eyes, and stared down at me. His eyes were hooded, his lips swollen from kissing. “Let me,” he said. “Let me.”

  He was trembling. His entire body was shaking. If I’d ever doubted that he wanted to have sex with me, then there were no doubts, not anymore. He was about to fly apart at the seams with how much he needed to shove himself inside me and fuck.

  I was shaking too. My entire body screamed for this, for him; my thighs ached with the effort it took not to wrap around his hips and have him spread me open.

  “You don’t have a condom,” I whispered foggily, trying to think. “We should have a condom.”

  “I’m clean,” he said, dropping his forehead to mine. His breath was warm against my lips. “I’m clean. And we know you are. Are you on birth control?”

  I shook my head under his.

  He let out a ragged curse. “Ahh, fuck me, Sloane, the things I’m thinking right now . . .”

  I moved my hips a little, swiveling on the head of his dick and shivering at how good it felt. “What things?”

  “Fucked-up things. Filthy things.”

  “Like what?”

  I could feel the tops of his thighs against the inside of my own, and I could feel how they flexed ever so slightly, pushing his crown just a little deeper. I gasped.

  “Like I want to come inside you anyway,” he murmured, kissing the side of my jaw and then nipping at my ear. “Like I want to pump you so full that you’re leaking me down the inside of your thigh for the rest of the night.”

  Another flex of his hips, a tad bit deeper. He was still only barely inside me, but it was enough to pinch, enough to make me squirm with something that could have been pain or could have been pleasure, I wasn’t sure which.

  “I could fuck a baby into you,” he purred into my ear. “I could keep you here all night, coming inside you over and over again. I could drag you back to my room at Pembroke and fuck you night after night until you were pregnant.”

  This shouldn’t have been hot. I shouldn’t have been squirming even more at his fucked-up words. But I was. I was.

  His hand came down between us, and he spread it wide over my stomach. “You like that, darling? You like how hot it makes me to think about fucking you without a condom?”

  “I shouldn’t,” I said, which wasn’t an answer, and he knew it.

  I could feel his smirk as he took my hand and guided it down between us, directing my fingertips to trace the place where he was notched against me.

  “That’s the head,” he said, as my fingers found the ridged crest at the top. “Now, here, circle me, just like that. You feel that throbbing? You feel how it jerks sometimes? That’s for you. That’s because I’m aching to sink deep inside you and fuck.”

  I shivered. I was aching for that too. “Really?”

  His cock jolted in my hand, swelling even more. “Yes,” he ground out.

  “As revenge against my father?”

  “Sure,” he said. There was something evasive in his tone. “That’s what it is.”

  I shouldn’t have wanted him to go inside me bare—I had too much planned for my life to risk pregnancy—but something about it, about him claiming me in such a horribly primal way . . .

  Well, it did make me wet. Something he felt, because he grunted, “I can feel you getting slicker, darling.”

  “I can’t help it,” I said, wanting so badly to have more of him inside me. “You mess with my head. You mess with everything. I hate you so much, but your cock feels so good—”

  “Brilliant, because it’s the only cock you’re ever getting,” he vowed. To underscore his words, he pushed his crown all the way in.

  “Lennox,” I moaned. He was wide, so wide, invading my channel. He was maybe only an inch deep, but I felt him everywhere, my thighs and my belly and even in my chest.

  “Shit,” he mumbled, pressing his forehead to mine again. “I can’t go any farther. That’s your hymen stopping me.”

  He flexed his hips a little, moving back out and then again, as if to test the barrier.
He was shivering, like he had a fever, and his forehead was burning hot against mine.

  “I’m owed this, Sloane. I’ve been owed this for years. Your virgin pussy around my cock. Let me break your hymen, baby, please. Please. Please.”

  He was begging now. Wild. Like he’d been every other time we’d fooled around—a bully and a prince brought utterly low by me, by the mere idea of fucking me.

  It’s revenge to him.

  He doesn’t care about you.

  But I was so aroused, so frantic. Desperate for more and more and more. And even if I knew it was a lie, it felt like power to have him like this, to have him begging for something that I could so easily deny him.

  God, it felt even better than power. It felt like its own kind of revenge, its own fucked-up victory.

  Maybe that was what it would always be between us.

  One of us pushing until the other broke.

  “You can, but only if you make me come first—”

  The words hadn’t even finished leaving my mouth before his thumb found my clit, expertly circling and rubbing and pressing. “I could spend every waking minute making you come, Sloane. It’s the only time you smile, did you know that? The only time I get to see your smile is when you’re limp and shuddering from an orgasm I just gave you.”

  My head was thrashing on the pillow—I knew my hair was going to be ruined and I didn’t even care. It felt so good, so unimaginably good to have him working my clit with his cock inside me. With the thrilling potential that he could sink all the way in at any moment.

  The climax was abrupt, sharp, wonderful. I dug my fingers into his hair and pulled him down to me as my orgasm broke against his talented touch, around the tip of his cock. I gasped into his ear as my cunt fluttered and fluttered and fluttered.

  “Sloane,” he rasped, and that was all. “Sloane.”

  He pushed against my hole and lifted his head to look down between us. I looked too, seeing the crude joining of him to me, seeing his thick erection pressing into me.

  “I can feel you coming,” he said in a tattered voice. “I can feel—it’s so tight, Sloane. God, and knowing that I am the one who made you come—”

  The climax was still rippling through me, but I wanted more, I wanted to fuck, I wanted Lennox to be the only thing that existed tonight. Him and his rough sex and the fire next to us and the sea roaring in the distance.

  “Fuck me, Lennox,” I pleaded. “I want it to be you. I want you to be the first—”

  “I’m going to be the only,” he growled, and slid his arms underneath me.

  I realized what he was doing; he was gathering me close, he was anchoring me so he could plunge in as hard as he needed, so he could shove past my virginity and fuck my whole pussy. There was the hard pulse of my orgasm still clamoring through me, there was the brutal pressure of his cock just barely wedged inside, and there was the feel of wool and silk tangled together, and then there was the smell of flowers and metal and the sound of the ocean—

  And then I heard Lennox’s name. Not from my lips, or from his, but from outside the temple folly, in the maze.

  “Lennox?” a girl’s voice called. “Lennox, are you in there?”

  12

  Lennox

  We both froze, looking at each other in a kind of lust-drunk panic. The kind of panic that says maybe no one will notice us, maybe we can keep going, because we’ll die if we can’t keep going.

  At the very least, I would die. My erection gave a hard throb against her, arguing with me.

  You’re about to be all the way inside of Sloane Lauder’s pussy, my cock shouted at me. Nothing gets in the way of that.

  But then the voice called my name again, and we both recognized it at the same time.

  Aurora. My twin and one of Sloane’s best friends.

  “Fuck,” I said, but I didn’t move. “Darling, I—”

  “We have to get up,” Sloane whispered.

  “This isn’t over,” I said, in mortal agony. I propped myself on an elbow and looked down at the stern, beautiful face that haunted my dreams. “This is the furthest thing from over, Sloane.”

  “Okay, fine, it’s not over—now get up or she’ll see—”

  I somehow managed to pull my cock free. How, I don’t know, because it was the tightest, wettest thing I’d ever felt in my life. And it was virgin too, totally untouched except by me. As if she really had been waiting for me. As if I really had been owed her all these years.

  Fuck. I’d been tossing off to this since the day I met her; my singular goal of making her life a living hell had somehow fused with the necessity of fucking her. And that had somehow fused with a possessiveness I couldn’t explain even to myself.

  She was mine. All fucking mine.

  I wincingly closed up my tuxedo pants around my erection as Sloane attempted to rearrange her dress and hair. She held out her hand with her eyebrow raised.

  “Panties, please.”

  I smirked at her. “It’s cute that you think I’d even consider giving them back.”

  That earned me a typical Sloane scowl.

  “Lennox?” I heard Aurora call again. Now that my dick was back in my pants, I could hear the warble in my twin’s voice.

  Concern battled with my initial irritation at being interrupted. Aurora liked crying about as much as I did—which was to say, not at all. We hadn’t cried when Dad was arrested or when our mother’s humiliation was smeared all over the tabloids. We hadn’t cried when we were sent off to boarding school.

  We both had too much of that stupid Lincoln-Ward pride.

  I helped Sloane to her feet—without asking her, by the way; I merely scooped her up and then set her down on her heels, which earned me another Sloane scowl. And then I pushed through the curtains separating the inside of the folly from the rest of the maze.

  Aurora stood in front of the folly, shivering in her tiny, strapless gown. Her skin was covered in goosebumps, and her mascara was running down her cheeks and dripping off her jaw.

  “Bloody hell, Rory, are you alright?” I asked, coming down the temple steps as fast as I could, Sloane right behind me. I shrugged out of my jacket and flung it over her shoulders, pulling it tight around her. “What the hell were you thinking coming outside like this? You’ll freeze.”

  She sniffled. And then threw herself against my chest and started sobbing.

  I held her tight, smoothing my hand over her back while I met Sloane’s confused stare. That made two of us who were utterly lost as to what was happening.

  “Did someone hurt you?” I asked, already growing angry at the thought. Aurora and I sparred plenty, but no one fucking hurt my twin, no one.

  Aurora nodded tearfully against my chest, and I gently pushed her away from me, just enough so I could study her face and arms. If I saw any bruises, any scrapes, so help me God—

  But there was nothing that I could see. Just her swollen lips and mussed hair.

  “What happened?” I asked again, as softly as I could.

  Her chin was dimpling, and I could see she had to swallow once or twice before she could force the words out. “Phineas,” she whispered. “Phineas happened.”

  Phineas, that fucking playboy arsehole, I was going to kill him. I understood equal opportunity hatred very well—just look at Sloane and me—but whatever this was had crossed the goddamn line. Pleasant images of smashing his face with my fist danced in my mind, and given the way Sloane’s scowl had curved into a darkly gleeful smile, I had to think she was imagining much the same thing.

  “Let’s get you inside,” I said to my twin. “I know a place.”

  Twenty minutes later, we were in the Huntington kitchens, and I was getting a glass of water for my sister and a bottle of whiskey for myself.

  I say kitchens plural, because the Huntington Mansion is old enough to have required hordes of servants and cooks back in the time before electric ranges and dishwashers, and so the kitchens are actually a cluster of rooms beneath the house, each r
oom with a different purpose. There’re pantries and larders and butteries and sculleries, and we were currently in an unused-for-decades scullery, close enough to the main kitchen that we could faintly hear the catering staff chattering and clattering dishes, but far enough away that we were hidden well out of view.

  “How did you know this was here?” Sloane asked as I walked in with the water and whiskey. The water I handed Aurora, and the whiskey I unstoppered and took a swig of before I handed it to Sloane.

  I expected her to fight me on it; I’d never seen her drink, not even once, but to my surprise, she grabbed the bottle by the neck and took a few healthy swallows.

  “Rhys showed it to me,” I said, taking a seat next to my sister. Sloane had found Aurora a blanket, and one of the reasons I’d chosen the scullery was because it had an old, clunky radiator that still worked, but Aurora was still shivering. I took the whiskey from Sloane and gave it to my twin. “Here, this will warm you up.”

  Aurora accepted it, her eyes hooded as she took several long drinks. Between the drama and the cold and getting warm again, I had the feeling she’d be asleep soon.

  “Rhys knows where his scullery is?” Sloane sounded doubtful.

  “More like he knows all the spots in his house where he can fuck someone without getting caught,” I said, and then narrowed my eyes. “He might have tried to bring you down here, you know.”

  “He might have,” Sloane agreed.

  Jealousy rose in my blood again, so violent and sharp that I wanted to smash something. “And would you have gone with him?”

  Aurora was watching our exchange with the glazed listlessness of the almost-asleep. For her sake, I managed to keep myself from roaring and pounding my chest at the thought of Rhys touching what was mine.

  It was Sloane’s turn to narrow her eyes now. “Maybe.”

  “You’re never going anywhere with him again,” I said coldly. “If you go anywhere else like this, I’ll be the one to take you.”

  Sloane’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t reply, turning away to smooth Aurora’s messy hair with her hand instead. My sister sighed and then slid down to the floor, curling into a ball next to Sloane, her eyes already closing.