by Sophie Lark
Without meaning to, I’ve wrapped my legs around his tight waist, and my arms around his shoulders. My hands twist in his hair so I can hold his head against mine, so I can kiss him back just as rabidly.
And I am kissing him back. I’m not fighting him, not trying to push him away.
I’ve wrapped my whole body around him and I’m dropping myself down into this kiss, giving in to it, letting it take me over completely.
I don’t want to think about Rocco and what I did to him. I don’t want to consider if I’m good or bad or justified.
I want to lose myself in this moment of ferocity, where letting go feels right, and where Dean’s aggression has transformed into something pleasurable through an alchemy I can’t understand.
His hands on my body are just as strong as ever, just as violent, but as he grasps my breasts through my shirt, that rough friction makes the blood thunder through my flesh, it makes my nipples stiff and hard and aching, so rigid that the only thing that can satisfy is his rough grip.
I’m grinding my body against his, my skirt rucked up around my waist, only thin cotton panties between me and Dean’s bare torso. I can feel the heat of his flesh and my own wetness soaking my underwear.
Dean feels it, too.
He shoves his hand down the waistband of my skirt, down into my panties, and he starts rubbing my pussy against his palm.
I’ve never been touched there by anyone but myself.
The difference between my own hand and Dean’s is like the difference between a firecracker and a nuclear bomb. His hand is warmer than mine, stronger than mine, just a little bit rougher than mine. It feels incredible against my throbbing flesh.
He shoves two fingers into me. I bounce and grind against his hand, his fingers thrusting in and out of me, his palm rubbing hard against my clit.
All the while our mouths are locked together in a kiss that only grows more violent, more deep, more desperate.
I moan into his mouth, I bounce up and down on his fingers, and I feel something coming, something as massive and hectic as a tornado ripping through me.
Dean pulls his hand away. He stops kissing me and he grabs my face instead, pinching the soft flesh of my cheeks. I can feel my own wetness on his fingers.
He looks into my eyes.
“You don’t get to cum,” he growls.
I let out a pathetic gasp of disappointment and desperation.
I need to cum. I have to. I might die if I don’t.
Dean is already carrying me over to his bed.
I have one wild moment of hope that we’re going to lay down so he can keep kissing and touching me, but instead he sits on the edge of the bed, yanking me down across his knees.
I don’t understand what he’s doing.
I try to stand up, but he shoves my head down with his left hand. With his right, he pulls my skirt up around my waist and rips my panties down around my knees.
“I HATE getting dirty,” he growls. “You embarrassed me, Cat. You made me angry.”
He brings one large, hard hand crashing down on my bare ass cheek.
SMACK!
I shriek.
“Ow, fuck! What the hell!”
SMACK!
He spanks me again, on the other cheek.
“Ow, Dean, don’t you fucking dare!”
SMACK!
“I told you not to call me that.”
SMACK!
“OW!” I howl, trying to squirm away.
SMACK!
SMACK!
“You need to learn to behave,” Dean says.
For a moment his hand rests on my throbbing asscheek. His palm is warm. As he squeezes my buttocks, the gentle pressure soothes my stung flesh.
He massages my ass, then lets his hand slide down between my legs so he can stroke his fingers against my pussy again.
“We don’t have to fight, little kitten,” he says. His voice is smoother than melted butter. “If you’re an obedient pet, I could be a very kind master . . .”
His words fill me with rage. I’m not a kitten, and I’m sure as fuck not his pet.
But his fingers against my clit are a shot of dopamine direct to the brain. They make my whole body flop limp across his lap, like I really am a little kitten being scratched behind the ears. His touch makes me weak. It makes me squirm against him, begging for more pressure, more penetration . . .
“Please . . .” I murmur.
“Is this what you want?” Dean slips one finger inside me.
“Yes . . .” I groan.
“Then promise. Promise to do whatever I say.”
I bite my lip, outraged at his demands. Outraged at how he’s treating me.
At the same time, I’m rolling my hips against his hand, wanting him to use two fingers again, wanting him to give me what I need . . .
When I fail to answer, Dean pulls his hand away.
SMACK!
He slaps me on the ass again, even harder. The flesh is already red and throbbing from before. This second spanking makes my ass burn like his hand is coated in hot pepper.
“OW!” I cry.
SMACK!
SMACK!
SMACK!
“Say it,” Dean hisses.
I shake my head, pinned down by Dean’s arm on my back, my nails digging into his calf.
SMACK!
SMACK!
SMACK!
“Say it!” He barks.
“Alright!” I cry.
“Say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“Yes, sir!”
That punishing hand returns to my pussy once more, and this time he rubs me like he did before, with steady, firm pressure, and two fingers pushed inside me.
The relief of getting what I want is immense. My eyes are closed, my face turned in toward his thigh. I’m humping his hand with no thought for how stupid I might look, how degrading it is to be this desperate.
His ring and pinky fingers slide in and out of me and his index and middle finger rub my clit. I press my face against his thigh and I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent off his skin.
The tornado hits. I’m caught up in the whirlwind, the whole room spinning around me as I cum harder than I ever have in my life, all over the hand of my enemy.
When it’s over, I lay limp and shaking across Dean’s lap.
The position is humiliating. My throbbing ass is humiliating.
But I feel a deep and intense pleasure as Dean growls, “Good girl.”
7
Dean
Cat stands up shakily, her face as red as her ass.
She can’t look me in the eye.
She pulls her panties up from around her knees and smooths down her skirt.
Her hair is a wild halo of black curls. Her skin has never looked more clear and glowing. Her dark lashes lay like twin fans against her freckled cheeks.
Cat has changed since she came to Kingmakers. She used to look weak and childish. But when I felt her body, there was a new firmness to the flesh, a flexible and pliant strength like a gymnast. When I picked her up, she easily wrapped her legs around my waist and held up her own weight while she bounced up and down on my hand. I doubt she could have done that a year ago.
Her hair is longer than it was. Wilder. I’ve enjoyed telling her how to wear it each day. Enjoyed seeing the slim stalk of her neck when her hair is pulled up in a ponytail or bun. Enjoyed even more the days when it’s loose and wind-blown.
My heart beats like a war drum.
I want to pick her up and throw her down on that bed again.
But I have to pull back for a moment. I have to give her space.
Because I just discovered something very interesting about my timid little kitten.
She has a hunger inside her.
And when she’s hungry, she’ll do anything to eat.
I just gave her a little snack.
If I wait, she’s sure to want more.
Cat is fidgeting in place, unable to speak and embarrassed by the silence. I kn
ow she wants to leave, but I’m not done looking at her yet.
I’m fascinated by the dichotomy between her diminutive frame and the ferocity with which she kissed me. Fascinated by her innocent face hiding the depravity that lives inside of her.
Who the fuck is this girl? Who is she really?
“I don’t know what that was,” Cat says awkwardly.
Her tone is half apology, half resentment.
“Yes, you do,” I reply.
Now those dark eyes flit up for just an instant, before dropping again. Cat flushes redder than ever, biting hard on the corner of her lip. Her lips are swollen from kissing, a streak of my blood at the corner of her mouth.
“Cat,” I summon her.
Her eyes rise again without her control, fixed on mine as if mesmerized.
“Go to class on your own tomorrow,” I say.
She looks confused and almost disappointed. She doesn’t know if that’s a punishment or a reward.
I don’t clarify. I just stride over to the door and hold it open so she can leave.
Cat hurries out, without a word of farewell.
I close the door and lock it, before returning to my bed. I lay back against the pillows, staring up at the bare wooden beams of the ceiling.
I slip my hand inside my boxer shorts, gripping the shaft of my rock-hard cock.
I picture Cat’s ass, round and firm, glowing red from spanking, with a distinct handprint from the hardest slap.
I remember the way she squirmed against my thighs and the little shrieks and moans she let out, helpless against the pleasure and the pain.
My hand slides up and down the shaft of my cock, the flesh rigid and hot, the head throbbing as my palm glides over it.
Never in my life have I enjoyed a sexual encounter more, and I didn’t even cum.
I’ve fucked pretty girls. Dozens of them.
But fucking hell, there’s something different about Cat’s tight, petite little frame. The way I can lift and manipulate her so easily, the way I can hold her down with one hand.
I love my control over her.
Even more . . . I love the way she responded.
I wasn’t forcing her. I wasn’t making her do it.
She wanted it. She wanted it just as badly as I did. Maybe even more.
From the first instant that I kissed her, she responded like a little wildcat, feral and starving. She clawed me and bit me, clinging to me like she needed me for life.
And when I touched that wet little pussy, she was putty in my hands.
I lift my hand to my face, inhaling that sweet, musky scent off my fingers. My mouth waters and I lick my fingertips to taste her.
All the while, I’m pumping my cock with my other hand, imagining that Cat is touching it, imagining that I’m thrusting the head between those soft pink lips . . .
The orgasm explodes out of me without warning. Thick, hot cum pours over the back of my hand.
I picture her on her knees before me, begging to lick my fingers clean . . .
For the next week, I leave Cat alone.
It’s extraordinarily difficult, because my craving to take control of her again is almost irresistible.
But I know the same impulse is working on her. If I give her time for the shock and shame of our encounter to fade away, then all that will remain is the nagging desire to be touched again . . .
Meanwhile, I’m consumed by two things at once: my fixation on Cat, and my growing obsession with my boxing classes.
I’ve always loved to fight, but I’ve never been trained by a professional on Snow’s level. He sees everything. It can be frustrating, because he detects even the tiniest flaws in my form. But it’s also incredibly rewarding, because whenever I follow his instruction, I improve tremendously.
Our training sessions are long and grueling. I’ve never put my body through so much. Yet I’m becoming faster and stronger by the day, and that’s a fire that fuels itself. I’m greedy. I want more.
Everyone in the class seems motivated by the same desire to take advantage of Snow’s coaching for the single year he’ll be at the school. Leo and Ares work with feverish focus. Ares surprised me last year, when I fought him in Combat class. He almost seemed to be holding back deliberately. Then when he finally lost his temper, he was a far more imposing opponent than I’d guessed.
I hate to admit it, but Leo is likewise talented. It infuriates me that his skill comes without discipline. Still, I’d be lying to myself if I tried to deny his athleticism.
Leo Gallo has been the thorn in my side for as long as I can remember. The tormenting vision of what my life should have been. He has everything I should have had—parents that love him. A safe and happy childhood in Chicago. A network of uncles, aunts, and cousins, and now a baby sister too. And Anna, the only girl I ever admired, wildly in love with him.
I’ve hated him for so long.
Our fathers tried to kill each other. How different things would have been if mine had triumphed.
It’s not the sins of the father that are visited on the head of the son. It’s his failures.
My son will never feel that shame.
I’ll secure an empire for my son, or I’ll have no son at all.
Snow is late to class today, unusual for him. He’s strictly punctual, as a rule.
Ilsa Markov is warming up on the speed bag, muscle standing out on her arms and shoulders. Corbin Castro jumps rope, while Jasper re-wraps his tattooed hands.
Kade Petrov and Tristan Turgenev shadow box against the far wall where all the medieval weapons hang—swords and axes, maces and crossbows, notched and dented on their edges from the battles of centuries past.
“We’ve got weapons like this in the monastery,” Kade says, nodding toward an ornate broadsword. “All sorts of antiques, furniture and rugs, chandeliers and wine barrels . . . it’s a lot like Kingmakers, actually.”
“That’s in St. Petersburg?” Tristan says, puffing as he jabs toward his own shadow on the wall.
“Yup,” Kade says. “I’ve lived there all my life. It’s a huge old place. My brother lives with us, and my father’s men, in their quarters . . .”
“You mean your uncle’s men,” Vanya Antonov says.
He’s sitting cross-legged on a stack of mats with Bodashka and Silas, not warming up, just watching Kade and Tristan.
Kade frowns, tossing back his dark hair.
“It’s the same thing,” he says.
“No it isn’t,” Vanya says, sliding off the mats and standing up. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his gray gym shorts, but the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his jaw is anything but casual. “Ivan Petrov is Pakhan, not your father. Ivan owns that monastery, and all those soldiers. Your father’s just a lieutenant.”
“I never said otherwise,” Kade retorts, patches of color coming into his cheeks. “They’re brothers.”
“But Ivan’s the eldest,” Vanya says, taking another step toward Kade and dropping his hands to his sides.
“What’s your point?” Tristan says quietly, no longer shadow-boxing.
“My point is that Dominik Petrov came to the meeting in Moscow as if he were boss. He’s been doing a lot of things as if he were boss. Giving orders. Making changes.”
“What the fuck do you know about it?” Kade demands.
“I know your father has been taking money out of the Gazprombank,” Bodashka says to Kade, likewise rising. “A lot of money.”
Bodashka’s father is derzhatel obshchaka in St. Petersburg, head accountant just like my father. He has connections at all the major banks, so Bodashka’s assertion rings with truth.
“Are you making an accusation?” Kade says.
The three older boys have all stood up from the mats now and formed a half-circle around him.
“I’m not the one saying it,” Vanya informs Kade, his voice low and insinuating. “It’s everyone in Moscow. They say your father is overstepping. Doesn’t know his place. Just like Adrik when he was
at school, thinking he was an Heir when he’s only an Enforcer.”
“Don’t talk about my brother,” Kade hisses, tendons standing out in his neck. “Or my father, either.”
“I’ll say whatever I like about them,” Vanya scoffs.
“Leave him alone,” Ares says sharply.
He’s crossed the gym to intervene, which is strange because he generally avoids conflict at all costs, unless Leo Gallo drags him into it. This is the first time I’ve seen Leo tagging along instead, following his typically peaceful friend.
Kade doesn’t appreciate the rescue. He throws Ares an angry look as if he’d prefer him to stay out of it.
“My father is an honorable man,” Kade spits at Vanya. “You know nothing about my family.”
“I know more than you think,” Vanya says, with an air of holding back some secret.
The threat only makes Kade angrier.
“My father has run St. Petersburg flawlessly while Uncle Ivan’s been in America. The business prospers as it never has before. And the dispensaries in America are raining money!”
“Yes, so your father says,” Vanya hisses, his eyes narrowed to slits. “It’s him making the reports, after all . . .”
“If you have something to say, then say it!” Kade cries. “And I’ll break your fucking jaw for you!”
“All right, I will. I think your father is a lying fucking thie—”
Kade rushes at Vanya and I run forward at the same moment, intersecting the two before they meet. I put my back to Kade and shove Vanya so hard that he stumbles backward, falling on his ass on the mats.
Instantly, Bodashka and Silas surge forward, as do Leo and Ares.
I find myself in the bizarre position of facing off against my own friends, with my enemies by my side.
The truth is, I like Kade Petrov better than Bodashka, and I fucking despise Vanya and his father, who are conniving rats, always trying to improve their own standing within the Bratva by tearing down those above them.
I only met Dominik Petrov for a moment, but he seemed like a man of honor. Besides, Ivan Petrov is one of the most feared bosses in all the Bratva. He controls the entirety of St. Petersburg, as well as massive holdings in America where he capitalized upon the legalization of marijuana to open seven of the largest dispensaries on the west coast. I highly doubt his brother would be stupid enough to embezzle money from him, or whatever the fuck Vanya’s trying to imply.