Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #3)(4)

“This is what I was talking about,” I murmur against his lips. With a string of colorful curses, Vic sits up and rakes his fingers through his hair. His pupils are so dilated that his irises look entirely black. In reality, they're a very dark brown, but it's impossible to see the color without a whole lot of light. “Now, get on your back.”

He gives a derisive snort, and I scowl.

“Nah, how about you get on your knees for me?” he asks, cocking a brow as he stands up and yanks me to my feet. I try to keep the sheets with me, but end up tripping over them and falling into his tattooed arms. His grandmother's ring sparkles on my finger as I curl my hand around his bicep.

See what I mean?

Give and take.

We are not willing to accept equality. One of us always wants to be in charge. Like last night, when I rode his ass into the mattress until I was satisfied.

Vic slides his fingers into my hair and kisses me again, working his mouth against mine until I'm making sounds that are most definitely finding their way out the open balcony door and into the ears of Havoc’s remaining members.

At least the girls are at breakfast with Aaron and Callum.

And no part of me is concerned about that; they couldn't be safer.

My knees feel weak as Victor massages the back of my head with his inked fingers, encouraging me to let down the seemingly infinite number of shields around my heart. He breaks them into pieces, with every kiss, every look, every touch. He spirits my numbness away, leaves me vulnerable and aching.

I want to please him, and I hate myself for that.

But not as much as I love him.

“I hate you,” I murmur again, but he just grins against my mouth, giving me one, last punishing kiss before I slide my palms down the length of his beautiful body and drop to the floor. My left hand, the one with my still-fresh HAVOC tattoo, encircles the base of his cock, squeezing until I get a satisfying groan to pass through those wicked lips of his.

“Hate me while I’m loving you,” he says as he lets his head fall back, resting his big palms on the top of my head. For a moment there, I almost believe Victor’s being nice. He shatters that notion pretty quick. “Hate me while your mouth is wrapped around my cock.” His fingers tighten in my hair, encouraging me to take him between my lips.

I let him guide me there, let him push as much of himself into my mouth as I can take. It takes both my fist and my mouth to hold all of him and even then, it’s a challenge. My stomach muscles tighten with anticipation as I move back, swirling my tongue around the tip of Victor’s cock and tasting both his cum and my own honey. The combination of the two is intoxicating, amplifying the slight buzz in my head from the Scotch and a morning filled with orgasms.

My head bobs a few times, just to work up some friction. Then I draw back, running my tongue along the underside of his dick, down to his balls. I tease the seam with my tongue as my eyes lift up to find Vic’s face. His head is thrown back in bliss, lips parted, fingers massaging my scalp.

He’s completely open to me right now, drowning in reckless abandon.

I could probably kill him, if I really wanted to. Is that a strange thought to have? Regardless, it brings me a perverse sense of pleasure. I’m on my knees, but he’s the one who’s vulnerable right now. When I slide my mouth over the length of him again, Vic’s hips thrust in response, driving deep into my throat. I keep my hand in place to control him, drawing back and then squeezing hard with my fingers. Using my saliva as lube, I draw my fist along him until I reach the end of his shaft, and then I let go. He lets out a little growl, but I quickly grab him at the base again. Over and over, I repeat that motion, like I’m milking him.

“Mouth,” he snarls, yanking my head back to his cock. Vic thrusts between my lips, and I groan, shifting in place. I’m soaking wet again. Well, I never really stopped being wet. That’s how my last three days have been. Since we walked away from the decrepit ruin of Victor’s grandmother’s house, we’ve been fucking nonstop.

We are addicted to each other’s venom.

No doubt about that.

I start to hum, a trick that I learned, aptly enough, from the halls of Prescott High. Nobody knows how to give a better hummer than a girl from the southside. The vibrations in my throat travel through my tongue and into Vic, the world’s most perverted song.

“Right there, princess,” he groans, his fingers tightening their hold on my head. I place my right palm against his lower abs, feeling the rock-hard muscles clench as a powerful climax digs its claws into him. When I try to pull back—to correct his usage of the word princess—he thrusts forward with a violent groan, spilling hot, salty seed across my tongue.

I swallow and draw back, swiping my arm across my lips. When I turn a poisonous glare up to Vic, I find him grinning down at me, clearly satisfied and smug and annoying as shit.

“Princess?” I ask as he offers me a hand, yanking me to my feet and tucking my naked body against the front of his. “There is no princess in chess. Call me queen or find a new nickname altogether.”

“How does cupcake sound?” he asks, laughing at the scowl on my face.

“Glad you find it funny. How about we make it serious?” I quip as Victor catches my much smaller hands between his larger ones. Seeing our newly slashed palms pressed together, HAVOC tattoos intertwined, dulls my anger. But just a little. “Don’t make me cut you, Victor Channing.”