The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(76)

She let him kiss her breasts, offering up to his mouth first her right nipple and then her left. As he sucked her, he ran his hands up and down her smooth back. She was thin but shapely, tall and lissome as a f lower but with strength rippling under her skin.

At last she pulled away, moved down his body, removed the cock ring and slipped the condom over his straining erection. She straddled him again. He watched as she gripped him and put him inside her. She took him in slowly, working him into her wet body inch by inch. Her orgasm was recent and her vagina tight from it. He felt that tightness straining to take him all, the size of him pushing against her narrow inner walls. It pleased him to fill her, to see her wince as her body struggled to accept all of him. She tilted her hips forward and took him all the way in. Ecstasy—white-hot and blinding—permeated him as she moved on him, riding him, each thrust of her hips taking him deeper inside her. She placed her hands on the sides of his chest, covering the scar with her palm. Her eyes closed, and he watched her move on him. Her hair swayed about her shoulders, her breasts rose and fell with every breath. She came again, and he could feel her tight inner body convulsing around him.

He wanted to come, too, but not yet. Not quite yet.

Mistress Felicia lifted off him and crawled to the head of the bed. She put her hands on the headboard and spread her legs in an invitation. He needed no other instruction. He mounted her from behind in one swift stroke and wrapped an arm around her waist. His other hand gripped the headboard to hold them both steady. Then he let loose with his need, pounding into her with all his pent-up need and desire. His hips beat against her soft rounded bottom, his cock pummeled and hammered deep inside her. He watched himself disappearing into her hole, reemerging from each foray wetter and wetter. She made no protest, gave no order to slow or stop. Whether she enjoyed it or not didn’t seem to matter to her. He’d earned this privilege of f*cking her as hard as he needed.

Blood throbbed in his thighs. Without mercy he pushed into her. Without complaint she received him. His climax built painfully in his back and hips. He’d been hard for so long, too long. His thrusts grew wilder, more desperate, more bruising. And when he knew neither of them could take anymore, he came and he came and he came, a hand clamped on her shoulder so hard she would share in his bruises tomorrow.

He pulled out of Mistress Felicia and lay on his back again. He knew the thorns were there, but he could no longer feel them.

She crawled on top of him and took a lock of his hair between her fingers. She lifted it and kissed the tip.

“You were sixteen,” she said. “You let a boy inside you.” Kingsley whispered his yes.

“You’ll let me inside you.” It wasn’t a question. Still, he whispered his assent.

She left the bed to retrieve her harness, and he rolled on to his stomach. Since coming out of the hospital he hadn’t let anyone inside him. The knowledge that he’d been violated like that while unconscious had made him afraid to let anyone in him lest he remembered something he far preferred to forget. But Mistress Felicia had hurt him in the way he needed to be hurt, and tonight he could deny her nothing.

She prepped him well, and he felt nothing but pleasure as she pushed inside him. He closed his eyes and received, not merely the phallus she used to penetrate him, but received the comfort of her touch, as well, and the words she whispered into his heart.

Beautiful…she whispered into his ear. Brave…virile…strong… powerful…and a hundred other words that bound his wounds.

The litany kept him with her. He didn’t go into his past, didn’t leave her or the bed. And when he came soon after, they were both pleasantly surprised. She even laughed and kissed his cheek, called him her new favorite slut.

He asked her to stay the night, and she agreed. He worshipped her body all night long, f*cking her on her back, on her side, in the shower. He gave her orgasm after orgasm with his hands and his mouth, his cock and the toys he kept under the bed. He obeyed her every order, indulged her every whim and took pride in how readily her body responded to him.

After they’d worn each other out with kink and sex, Felicia massaged warm oil into every inch of his body. He hadn’t felt this sated in years. Not since S?ren.

“You’re a masterful sadist.” Kingsley sighed contentedly.

“Merci beaucoup,” she said, putting on a feigned French accent. Kingsley laughed.

“Did you come out of retirement just to f*ck me?” “To f*ck you…and f*ck with him by coming out of retirement to work at your club.”

“Him? Oh, him.” Kingsley knew immediately who “him” was—the billionaire whose divorce had landed Mistress Felicia in jail for two months. “Is he the jealous type?”

“Very much so. And he hates the idea of me with anyone else, even if I won’t see him anymore. But you know what they say, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” She lightly traced the welts she’d left on his chest. “As you can see.”

“The female of the species is always deadlier than the male.”

“Always?” Felicia asked.

Kingsley sat up in bed, a realization hitting him like Felicia’s crop on his back.

“Always,” he repeated. He turned around and kissed her. “I have to go. With your permission, Ma?tresse.”

“Tell me where you’re going, and I’ll consider it.”