by Shandi Boyes
Huffing, I roll my eyes. “You can’t get jealous over something you’ve never owned.”
I stop reprimanding myself for speaking my thoughts out loud when Asher murmurs, “Wrong again, Little Mouse.”
Through trembling hands, I thread the reel of Asher’s tenth birthday into the projector. I’d rather handle a dozen ruthless mafia men than witness him kiss Melanie again, but since I’m trying to play it cool, I’ll suck it up and act like a million tiny knives aren’t jabbing into my heart.
“Ouch!” I pull away from the projector with a hiss when the blade used to slice the film chops up my finger instead. I avoided it the first three times since I wasn’t working under Asher’s watchful gaze, but I’m not so lucky this time around. I’ve sliced my finger badly enough, the photos I knocked off my drawer while jerking back are now splattered with blood.
“Show me?”
Not even the command in Asher’s voice can stop me from cradling my hand in my chest. I thought paper cuts hurt. This is ten times worse.
Asher dumps his shirt on my bed, which is now holding my backside. “Stop it. It’s probably just a scratch. Let me see?” He shoos away my sulking lip and watering eyes with a stern glare before kneeling in front of me. With furrowed brows, he pulls my injured hand down from my chest. “Jesus, Zariah. You’ve sliced off the top of your finger.”
“See? I told you it wasn’t a scratch.” When I drop my eyes to inspect the damage, I swallow some of my sass. The cut goes from the top of my finger to the first knuckle, but it’s not very deep or wide. It’s pretty much a paper cut.
Chaos inflicts mayhem on my senses when Asher pops my finger into his mouth. When his tongue slithers around my cut, the throb in my injury descends to a region much, much lower. I stare at him, certain this isn’t something he’d do for anyone, but unsure what it means for me. He has my finger in his mouth—my bloodstained finger. Blood rates higher than any other bodily fluid. It’s even above the one slicking my panties.
I grow worried I’ve had my second bout of verbal diarrhea tonight when Asher raises his eyes to mine. His gaze is hot and heavy—as dense as the pulse between my legs. He stares at me for several long heartbeats, reading me as expertly as I thought I once knew him.
I’m hoping it’s a stare of admiration, but my hopes are dashed when he talks around my finger. “Please tell me Feo wasn’t your first and only kiss.”
Desperate to sidestep his interrogation, I laugh. The upsurge of nerves in my stomach makes it sound more like a groan. My whimpered response isn’t entirely my body’s fault. I’m feeling rather pathetic right now, so it’s only right that my body shows it.
As his glassy eyes bounce between mine, Asher removes my finger from his mouth with a pop. The storm brewing in his eyes is a wild tempest, like the heat roaring through my veins. He looks seconds from going on a rampage, but for once, it isn’t my life he wants to claim.
It’s me.
Proving he can read me as well as he could when we were children, he murmurs, “You’ve never been touched.” Since his statement isn’t a question, it doesn’t sound like one.
He does sound desperate, though, as desperate as I feel for our conversation to be over. I love what I’m seeing in his eyes, but I am also nervous about it. He seems torn, almost conflicted.
I aim to ease his turmoil. “I’ve been touched.”
He’s more angered by my reply than happy. His chest rises and falls in rhythm with mine, but some of the flare glimmering in his icy gaze cooled from my confession.
He has no reason to fret. “By you... last month.”
Chapter Sixteen
Asher
Zariah releases a sharp breath when my fists clench during her confession. She’s mistaking my body language as anger, which in turn makes her embarrassed. I’m not angry. I am struggling to keep a rational head. She is already forbidden, but adding this into the mix... wholly untouched—fuck!
Her just being here, in my room, wearing barely any clothes is already messing with my head, then she throws up a challenge any man as depraved as me would love to win. I love a good challenge, that’s why I was so cocky when I proved she was a virgin. But this, knowing my thumb has been the only one to stroke her clit, this will break me. I was teetering on the brink of sanity after my mother’s confession two weeks, so Zariah’s admission not only pushes me over the edge, it flips on a switch I turned off many years ago.
It’s just more perverse now.
When I was younger, I wanted to be all of Zariah’s firsts, so you can imagine how badly I wanted to kill Feodor when I heard he had kissed her. If Nesti hadn’t taken care of him, you can be assured I would have. When rumors circled I was gunning for Feo’s blood, I downplayed my anger as if it was because I considered Zariah a sister, and that meant she deserved more than a pond-dweller with nothing to his name.
Most people bought my excuse, except my mother. She knew the real reason for my fury—just like she knew bringing Zariah here was the right thing to do. I was angry Feo’s lips touched ones that belonged to me long before I realized why I was so protective of Zariah.
The tape my mother played last month proves without doubt how much I shielded Zariah when we were children, but everything changed when her mother died. I want to blame teenage hormones and being forced into adulthood before I was ready, but it wasn’t that. Zariah wasn’t the only one whose eyes darkened after her mother’s death. The light inside me was snuffed out as well.
I went down a destructive path, one that saw me acting more like my father instead of my mother. I recorded my first death not long after Zariah’s mother was killed and snorted my first line of coke shortly after that. I got caught up in the life, the thrill of acting like I was a god. Although I was barely a teen, I was feared by men twice my age.
When our families went to war, my protectiveness of Zariah switched to pandemonium. I became an arrogant, conceited man who looked after one man and one man only: me. I didn’t need anyone—everything was temporary. Life. Money. Drugs. It was all temporary. I was adamant there would never be another permanent fixture in my life.
I thought that would have changed when Dominique entered my life. It didn’t. Nothing changed. I still lived my life as if I were single, and Dominique was merely there when I needed her.
I can’t say the same for Zariah. Even being doped up on shit that would put most men in their final resting place hasn’t led to me living the life I had before she reentered it. I should be pissed at how weak she makes me. I swore I’d never let anyone become attached. It did me no good in the past, so I refused to make the same mistake twice. But for some reason, I’m refusing to live by the rules I created. I guess that’s understandable when the person I created them for is the one I’m breaking them for.
Having Zariah here is a mistake, but no matter how hard I fight to change it, I can’t. Just like I couldn’t kill her, I can’t force her back out of my life, even when it’s the best thing for us both. I tried. I kept my distance no matter how great my desires became. I only watched her from afar and treated her as I would any member of my staff.
Nothing worked.
The more I told myself I have no feelings for her, the more I found myself making excuses to be closer to her. I’ve barely eaten at my dining table the past six years, but I’ve been there breakfast, lunch, and dinner the last six weeks.
I could blame the memories her tape elicited, or the way she’s peering down at me with needy, lust-filled eyes for my derailing thoughts, but it isn’t that. I once wanted to be Zariah’s firsts—I still do—and I’m a stubborn fuck who won’t conform for anything or anyone.
Some may say I am too late; Feo already kissed her. I’m not as inclined to agree. His kiss doesn’t count. Why? Because I’m the judge, jury, and the executioner, so nothing but my verdict matters.
Locking my eyes with Zariah, I nudge my head to her pillow. “Lie back.”
There’s not a drop of alcohol or drugs in my system, so t
hey’re not to blame for anything I am about to do. This drug is much more potent that any you’ll find on the market. It doesn’t relinquish its hold even after over a decade of turmoil.
A man on his knees could be seen as weak, but not when he’s facing what I am now. Zariah did as I asked without hesitation firing through her dark, temptress eyes. She did the same when we were kids. I led, she followed. This time is a little different, though. She’s lying before me with bare thighs, and the heavy rise and fall of her chest is awarding me the slightest peek of her modest panties. They’re cotton and plain, nothing like the ones I destroyed in a moment of rage when I imagined any man but me seeing her wear them. I obliterated anything remotely appealing, hoping it would stop not just myself from being tempted by the forbidden, but any men surrounding me as well.
I was a fool. Whether in rags or the finest silks, Zariah stands out. It is why Ilya had an issue with her two weeks ago. She didn’t like the attention Zariah was getting. It took her hours to prepare herself for a night out on the town, yet not an eye in the room was on her when Zariah entered it.
The dark locks that frame Zariah’s pale cheeks and her big oval eyes give her a foreign, unique look that’s deserving of more than one glance. She would have gotten that and so much more if I hadn’t warned my men to keep their hands and eyes off her. Wyatt has yet to get the hint, but I plan on getting across my point—even more so now.
“Still, Zariah. I’m not going to hurt you.” I’m just going to have a taste, a little nibble of the scent that entrenched me in darkness many years ago. “This will be as good for you as it is for me if you lie back, relax, and trust me to take care of you.”
You have no clue how hard it is for me not to whip out my cock and plunge into Zariah’s delicious-smelling cunt when her legs immediately still upon hearing my command. They stop scissoring in response to the heat of my needy breaths on her damp panties and sweep apart. Not enough for me to get my head between her thighs, but enough any worry I’m taking something unwillingly leaves me in an instant.
I doubt her refusal would stop me though. I’m not a good man. My heart is as hard as my cock now sits against my zipper. I am undeserving of this, but I want it enough, I’m willing to take it without permission.
Zariah’s eyes rocket to her open door when I run the back of my hand down her panties, which are soaked through. “Do you really think I’d let anyone see you?”
Licking her lips, she returns her eyes to mine. “No, but your door no longer has a lock.” Her words quiver at the end. Her pussy is so fucking hungry, it’s sucking at my fingers through her panties, begging to be touched—to be consumed—but it’s not the cause for the vibrations in her tone. She likes me seeing her like this; she just doesn’t want anyone else having the privilege.
I like that—very much so.
“Excluding you, no one comes in this room but me.”
Zariah stares at me with heavy-lidded, dilated eyes. “But my box... How did it get in here...?” She takes in a sharp breath when the truth smacks into her. “You gave it to me?”
I run my hand over her cunt for the second time, stilling her movements even more. I refuse to be seen as weak, and the soft, indulgent look she’s giving me is exactly that. I also don’t want her thinking I dug up buried memories with the hope of getting into her panties. It’s been six weeks since a woman’s warmth has surrounded my cock, but that has nothing to do with my decisions tonight. I wanted to test a theory. To see if what my mother told me weeks ago was true. Although I had no reason to distrust her, I’ve been burned in the past, so I’m always cautious. Not as cautious as I should be acting now, but vigilant all the same.
I’m so unhinged, I’m about to do something I swore I never would.
I’m going to make Zariah mine.
Snatching Zariah’s wrist, I drag it to the smell eradicating any thoughts but hunger from my head. “Feel how wet you are. I’ve barely touched you, yet you’re dripping.”
I guide her fingers down the material clinging to her pussy before raising them back to her clit. She’s wearing panties, but she may as well not be. The heat radiating from her cunt is intense, as furious as the fire roaring in my gut.
“Have you ever touched yourself like this, Zariah?”
Her thumb rolls over her clit two times before she briefly nods. An ordinary man could mistake her inflamed cheeks as embarrassment, but I know that isn’t the case. She’s heating up—everywhere.
“Did you come?”
Her teeth graze her bottom lip before her head bob turns into a shake.
With a groan, I scoot closer to her. I shouldn’t relish that she’s never brought herself to climax, but I do. That can only mean one thing. The time I brought her to climax on my bedroom door was the only time she has climaxed.
I like that too.
Her moans curl around my cock, squeezing and caressing it when I shred her panties off her body. Her cunt is as beautiful as her face, but it’s not nearly as innocent as it seems. The wetness glistening on her folds and the throb of her clit aren’t sights you’d expect to see from an untouched cunt.
Using her thumb and index finger, I pinch her clit, knowing it will bring her closer to the edge. It will have her mind so preoccupied, nothing but the wishes of her body will be on her mind.
“Do you want to come now, Zariah?”
I don’t know why I keep saying her name. It is as if I’m reminding myself that she is lying before me just as much as I’m reminding her it is me kneeling between her legs.
“Yes.” A sprinkling of dark hair falls into her eyes when she briskly nods. “Please, Asher.”
My groan nearly sets her off. Not once the past six weeks has she said my name like that, so needy and hot.
When I position my head closer to her seductive scent, she bucks up her hips. She’s as desperate for me to touch her as I am to taste her for the first time. My thirst is as dire as it was when we were kids and Wyatt dared me to kiss her a mere nanosecond before he switched my target to Melanie. He changed my target when he saw the eagerness on my face. He knew he had played into my hand when I suggested we play truth or dare. I didn’t want to kiss Melanie, but even at the tender age of ten, I didn’t know the words back down.
Even though Zariah’s clit has the same bluish tinge her lips got when I squeezed the air from her lungs, I tighten her pinch. She’ll get more pleasure this way.
Satisfied she has things under control, I connect my eyes with her heavy-hooded gaze. “When I tell you to, release your clit from your hold; do you understand?”
She nods eagerly.
“Not until I say, Zariah. Not a second before or a second after. You do it when I tell you to—no hesitation. If you hesitate, I’ll fuck your ass before claiming your cunt.”
The excited wobble of her thighs is heard in her words when she responds, “I understand.”
With my veins blazing with possession, I slice my tongue through the only thing capable of raising me from the ashes I’ve been buried in the past decade. I drag my tongue up her delicious cunt before groggily commanding for her to release her clit. She follows my demand straightaway, freeing her clit for my more-than-eager lips.
I tug on the pulsating nub with my teeth before sucking it into my mouth. Seeking further pressure, Zariah’s back arches off the mattress. My flicking tongue stimulates a stiffening, heightened response from her body. Her thighs clamp around my head as hers falls back with a groan. I hear my name in a mangled moan before her juices drip on my chin.
While she shatters within seconds of me touching her, I struggle to keep a grip on my sanity. I love how quickly I can make her come. It makes me feel invincible, like I can have both her and my revenge.
If only that were true.
As I eat her like a man starved of taste, a primitive, crude cloud engulfs me. I pin her thrusting hips to the bed before trailing my tongue up her cunt on repeat. I circle it around her clit and prod it inside of her as if it is my cock.
I consume her without remorse until she explodes for the second time.
As Zariah screams through the ferocity of her climax, she tears at my head, struggling to maintain a control she’ll never have again.
Our exchange changes everything.
It makes her mine.
I’ll get both my revenge and my childhood wish.
How? I’m Asher Yury, the most feared man in Russia.
I can have anything I want.
After a final lick of her drenched slit, I raise my head. While one hand clears away the wetness from my face, the other tugs at my belt. “Tell me you want this.”
Zariah is barely coherent compliments of the lust haze circling her, but clarity breaks through the fog a mere second so she can nod.
“Say it. Tell me you want this. I don’t take anything unwillingly, but I’m this close, Zariah. This fucking close.” I pry my thumb and index finger a few millimeters apart. I’m flying over the edge, soaring to a place where I’m neither a man or a monster.
I’m just me.
When she bucks her hips again, aiming to grind her clit against my cock I’ve just freed from my trousers, I slap them back down. I need words. I need permission. Then I’ll drag her into the insanity with me. I’ll have her as high as a kite without a single drug running through her veins.
I’ll make her mine.
I yank on my dick, begging for it to calm down. If it had its way, it would have already torn through her by now. I’m going to hurt her no matter what, but the thickness her taste has instigated will make matters worse. She’s going to bleed, just not in any of the ways I’ve imagined the past year.
“Yes, please—”
“Please, what? Spell it out for me. Say it in a way I can’t misconstrue.” My growl rips through her as I wish my cock could.
“I want you to fuck me. To make me yours.” Lust could be speaking on her behalf, but her eyes don’t show that. They’re reflecting as much ownership as mine.