The Sins that Ruin (Obsidian Knights Secret Society #3)

9. Malone

NINE

The look on her face is enough to make me come. Jesus Christ.

The horror, the need, the way she looks at me like she’s going to do what I said and then plot a way to murder me.

It’s so fucking hot.

I can barely stand it.

She starts to move off my leg. But I give her a little shove, and as she stumbles, I rise out of my chair and clamp my hand on her wrist, holding her upright. More importantly, keeping her from doing what I just demanded.

“Actually,” I say, turning her into me and lifting the back of her skirt, or what fucking passes as a skirt, so they can see the soft curves of her ass, but nothing else, except maybe some wetness on her thighs, “I’m not in the mood to share.”

“Too fucking bad about that,” John DeMarco says in his thick Bronx accent. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that fucking ass. Look at it.”

I wait until she goes stiff against me, and then I stroke her ass cheeks, sliding a finger between them to burrow into the heat, the slick tightness of her cunt. Just enough to make her jolt, just enough to make me want to eat the fuck out of her on the floor like an animal.

Then she shifts. I know what she’s doing before she does it.

Scarlett grinds her stiletto heel down on my shoe. They’re special steel-toed dress shoes, which she obviously doesn’t know. And I pull my finger free of her pussy, slide my other arm around her waist, and stick my finger in her mouth. “Suck it, Red.”

Her eyes glitter with hatred but she does as I command. Then I hold that burning gaze for another second before turning my eyes back toward the table of hungry vultures who are foaming at the mouth to see what I do next.

“This part of the club remains closed for your enjoyment, gentlemen. A show will start soon, but I think I’m going to take my fiancée home now.” I offer a shit-eating grin. “We just got engaged, so I hope you’ll cut me some slack.”

I nod at the door and security passes my signal along.

These fucks will enjoy the fruits of the club, the for-hire girls, the specialty show, and all the booze and blow they want.

They’ll be watched closely, and if any of the criminals and mafia bosses and made men who are in here so much as touch one of the girls without her permission, they won’t be found in any recognizable condition.

If they’re found at all.

This is all part of the game, a bullshit meeting for guns and drugs that’ll spread the word of the newest player’s powers and prowess, and the fact that he just bagged one hot number.

Most won’t know her name.

Yet.

They don’t move in the same circles her father does. The circles I need to enter. But they have affiliates, and assholes like these guys gossip over things like this. Not the deals on the table, not anything that might be construed as sensitive or off the record—the kind of criminal in here has a code which makes them easy to manipulate. But it’s the fact that I’m engaged, and even in this patent leather getup, she looks like class.

“Move it,” I say to Scarlett. “Or I’ll leave you here.”

“Maybe I’d prefer them to you.”

Her words are so soft, almost lost beneath the music as I lead her out and down the halls to the private exit.

My car is waiting, and the minute the driver sees me, the motor purrs. We’re pretty close to SoHo, so when I slide into the back seat next to her, I tell him to take the scenic route to give me more time. I roll up the partition and motion to the mini bar.

“Scotch, Red.”

She slants me a glare, a grunting sound deep in her throat. But she sloshes the booze into a glass and shoves it at me. I take it before it spills on the suit. I like the shirt more than the suit, but the flashiness of it is perfect JM. It’s also muted just enough where I know she’s twisting herself in knots trying to work me out.

“Do you always drag girls to seedy places like that to showboat them for no reason?”

“Do you always try to hide your pain and punishment fetish behind bitchy comments?”

“I don’t have a fetish,” she snaps. “Unless you count me wanting to kill you a fetish.”

I take a sip of my drink. “Depends. Does it make you hot? Wet? Do you orgasm over the fantasy?”

“Not yet,” she says, crossing her legs and folding her arms on the seat opposite me as she turns away. “But the night is young.”

“It is, isn’t it?” I down the drink and hand her the glass. “You can have a drink if you want.”

“Be still my beating heart.”

She refills my glass and hands it over, and then pours herself rum and gulps it down quickly.

I smile. “I thought you might be a pain in the ass. A good fuck, but annoying to have around. I’m reassessing that.”

She looks at me, her eyes flashing with disdain. “So charming. Don’t delude yourself into thinking I want you.”

“That’s a lie. I just felt how wet you are.”

“Latex is hot. I was sweating.”

“Maybe that’s what it is. Let’s find out. Hike up your dress and spread those thighs, get a breeze going.”

“I’m not your whore.”

“I didn’t ask you to be my whore. I told you to cool down that overheated pussy. You know, because of the fucking latex.”

She sucks in a breath. “You’re such a bastard.”

“And you’re racking up points for punishment. I could turn the car around and leave you to those men. They’re not nice.”

“Neither are you.”

“But you like me—” I stop and smile. “Like me fucking you. Like me ordering you around. So do what I said and air out that hot pussy.”

She hesitates, but she clearly picks up on the command. And fuck me, Scarlett does what I ask, the humiliation bright in her cheeks, and she looks like she wants to cry.

But as she parts those pretty, slender thighs wider, her waxed pussy there for my viewing pleasure, there’s a slight hitch to her breath. And it’s a hitch that has nothing to do with tears and everything to do with the bead of girl cum that rolls from her pussy lips.

Because I read the wavery brightness in her eyes as the wrong kind of tears. She doesn’t want to want me but fuck, does she want me.

“Part your cunt for me. You still look overheated down there.”

A soft sound fills the back of the limo, and the air’s heavy around us.

I can’t pull my eyes away.

“You have the prettiest fucking cunt I’ve ever seen.”

“Malone…”

“Yes?”

“Please…”

This time I lift my gaze. “Please what?”

She can’t say it. The words are there, making noise in the space, a vibration that strokes over me, and I lower my zipper because if she wants me to give her an orgasm, she can fucking ask. Beg.

“If you can’t do it, then I’ll tell you what I want, Red. You, between my thighs with my cock down your throat. You’re going to only use your mouth, and you’re going to make me come and swallow fucking everything.”

She closes her legs and slides down to the floor of the car, crawling to me until she’s between my legs. With a shaking hand, she slowly reaches for my aching cock that I’ve pulled out. It’s so fucking hard it hurts, and I fucking love it.

It’s a good hurt, a needful one, and I say, “No touching.”

She moves her head closer, and as the car bounces hard over a bump in the road, she falls forward, her hands hitting my thighs. I take the advantage Manhattan just gave me and guide her head down until her hot wet mouth slides down the length of my cock.

I force her head in place, making her mouth stretch around me, and I honestly don’t know what’s better. Me guiding her to follow my command, the picture of her head bobbing as she takes me deep, or the feel of her mouth wrapped tight around my cock.

Shit, they’re all fucking beyond spectacular. I sip my drink as she sucks me down. I wind her hair around my other hand, using her as my own personal pleasure center. I slowly begin to thrust into her mouth until I’m hitting the back of her throat. When she chokes and gags on me, I almost come.

Her mouth is tight and wet and she sucks me hard. The stroke of her tongue on the underside makes me shudder. I pull her up and then push her all the way down, but she resists.

At first, I think it’s her fighting me so she can breathe, so I loosen my hold—I’m not ready to do breath play with her yet.

While I think about all the things I want to do to her—tie her up and blindfold her, or maybe fuck her face in an alley where anyone can see us—she dives back down on me.

A thrill so bright slices down into my bones.

Scarlett’s not fighting, she’s just out of sync.

I let her dive down, I let her fuck her throat on my cock. My balls climb and tighten, and the urge to grab the pleasure of release is there, so close, that I grab her head and push her, holding her as I let go, filling her mouth.

Oh, fuck, oh my fucking God, her mouth, her throat, they’re so fucking good. I hold her in place. She starts to struggle as she swallows the hot spurts of cum, my cock jerking as the release crashes over me. When I finally let go of her head, I pull her up to my lap so she has to climb on me.

My hand’s still tight in her hair as I bring her close and kiss her. It’s all-consuming, filled with the promise of filth and heat and sex. I can taste the rum and the sweetness that’s Scarlett, as well as the tang of my cum on her tongue. Christ, I’m still half-hard and ready for more.

I want to throw her down and fuck her senseless, but I only said scenic route. That won’t give me the amount of time I need to claim her sweet pussy. We’ll be back at the penthouse soon.

Besides, I don’t actually want to fuck her in the back of a limo like a rich teenage douchebag. I want her strapped to my bed, writhing and begging for my cock.

She kisses me back, a desperate sob of a kiss, one of need, of the pent-up frustrations that I didn’t fuck her, of loathing toward herself and me, and the chaotic fallout of her version of sub.

I don’t want a normal sub.

Most times, they’ll do. They have in the past.

The pain queens and women with all kinds of kinks and fetishes.

I’ve had them all. I gravitate to them.

But I know why I felt a pull to this one in particular, my enemy’s daughter, a girl I don’t like on principle because of her DNA, one who hates the fuck out of me, maybe almost as much as she lusts for me.

She’s her own kind of sub. A little bit of everything. She’s chaos personified because she isn’t playing when she drops to her knees, when she snaps her snarky comments at me, when she gives in, and when she fights.

She’s the whole package.

I keep kissing her and it’s feral and wild and so damn hot. I bite her lower lip and she moans, pulling on my hair.

“When we get back, I’m going to fuck you,” I say, rocking her wet cunt against my fully hard cock. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll have problems walking tomorrow.”

She responds by biting my neck. It’s hard, a shot of pain that I fucking love. I know she’s caught up in a mix of lust and need, and that headiness of wanting to give and to take so she can fling herself into orgasmic bliss. And in all of that she also wants to hurt me, punish me, make me bleed for that need and lust and want.

The mix of it all is perfection.

What I really want to do when I say “fuck her” is to bring her to the edge of her sanity—tie her up, whip and clamp her, test the perimeters of what kind of hard-core she can take.

I have the equipment. I ordered it all in, special to use on her. I have my own stuff at my actual home, but I never mix the game with real life. My whips and clamps are custom. This shit’s off the rack, an expensive, high-end rack, but…

Yeah, I could fucking go hard-core on her pretty ass.

But I don’t think I will.

What’s that fucking saying about honey over vinegar? In this case, I think I’ll get more if I go unexpectedly soft in that department, a soft-core interlude after me taking her hard anally, making her parade in latex in front of monsters and then coming down her throat.

I know exactly what I’m going to do tonight.

After that, I’ll get more from her than if I go all in right now. She’ll give herself to me fully and then? I’m going to enjoy the absolute fuck out of her before I bring her father down and destroy her life.