Chapter 3
LOCHLAN
Fuck me, I’m gonna come.
I grit my teeth as Galina grinds and writhes and fucking soaks my dick with her pussy as she explodes all over me.
Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t fucking come.
Her head is thrown back, her red hair wrapped tight around my fist and her tight, pink nipple pulsing between my fingers.
I try to imagine scenes of blood and mayhem. Vehicular manslaughter. Horrifying freak carnival accidents leading to mass amputations.
To be clear, I’m not a deranged fuck who gets sexual gratification from that shit. That might be more Achilles’ thing. Definitely Adrik Volkov’s, the psycho.
No, I’m stuffing my head with images of death and violence because I do not want to come in my fucking pants like a goddamn chump.
Sorta tough to play the part of the badass masked motherfucker with about a thousand DMs from women, and several men, begging you to fuck them into a coma if you do that.
Mercifully, it works.
I exhale slowly, feeling my dick retreat from the brink of filling my pants with the entire contents of my balls.
I watch in dazed but amused silence as Galina struggles to her feet and shuffles back across the room to her clothes on wobbly legs.
A wide grin spreads across my face beneath the mask.
Speaking of being fucked into a coma…
I watch smugly as she pulls her dress back on. But when she reaches for panties, I get an idea.
Which is why I command her to walk back over to me and hand them to me.
What? I’m a jock. Trophies are kinda my thing.
I did not, however, expect this to be my thing.
And by “this”, I mean Galina Nikitin.
Not just because she’s a bubbly little sophomore and clearly a virgin, and I don’t do virgins.
Not even because my family pretty much steers clear of the Bratva, with the exception of the Tsarenko family, and Galina’s father is the head of one of the biggest, toughest Bratva organizations in New York.
I didn’t expect this because I didn’t expect any of what just happened to go down tonight. It's why I picked the room with the goddamn sign that said “no fucking admittance” to shoot some content tonight.
It’s been four days since I last posted a video.
Aside from the social media algorithm being a cruel master, my fans—all 849,000 and change of them, thank you very fucking much—get ravenous when I go longer than three days without posting.
Usually, I have my own space to shoot. But with me being second in the command chain of Para Bellum this year, I was busy here with the party.
I figured I’d sneak out, shoot a quick video for the fans, and fuck back off to the fun.
The first two parts of the plan went off without a hitch. I don’t typically use knives as props, but my viewers apparently loved my last video, in which I held a knife like it was my dick and wrote some crazy shit like “your hair x my fist”.
I mean, loved it.
Forty-five percent more engagement than average, and about twice as many thirsty comments. You'd think I'd use knives in all my videos now.
But no.
That was a rare occurrence, and I don’t plan on repeating it for a long time.
I’m not a fan of knives.
Not with my family history.
It takes the strength of a monk for me to leave the library without turning back, bending Galina over the nearest literally anything, and fucking her sweet pussy until my cum drips down her thighs.
But, again, I don’t do virgins. And I definitely don’t do virgins who have the head of the Nikitin bratva for a father.
I like my cock and balls attached to my body, thank you very much.
Thankfully, the party on the second floor has thinned a little by the time I do manage to leave the library and Galina, and I’m able to slip into an alcove and yank off my mask.
I run my fingers though my messy, slightly sweat-damp hair, shaking off the humid feeling that comes with wearing that damn mask too long.
I seriously have no idea how other MaskTok content creators do it. Let alone the guys in those metal bands who wear the things for like four hours a night.
I mean, fuck that.
I’m still shirtless, having left my hoodie back in the library, so I peek around the corner, make sure the coast is clear, then bolt for the stairs to the third floor.
Me walking around Kingsward Hall without a shirt on is hardly a rare occurrence. But people might have questions about the dozen extra tattoos on my body that aren’t usually there.
Thankfully, I get to my room without issue. But just before I walk in, I pause, and not just because my bedroom door is closed.
…it’s because I can hear some girl whimpering and moaning on the other side of that closed door.
Huh. I don’t love that someone else is fucking around in my bedroom. But I know no one in the world is dumb enough to be hooking up in there except my brother Ronan or one of my closest friends—Achilles, maybe Drago.
So whoever it is, they get a pass.
This time.
My little brother’s bedroom door is similarly locked, also with muffled moaning and groaning on the other side of it.
Jesus.
Is fucking everyone in this house but me getting laid right now?
Thankfully, Achilles’ bedroom is unoccupied. He and I are about the same size, so I grab a white t-shirt and a hoodie from his closet and throw them on. I’ll remove the fake tats later with the alcohol-based cleaner in my bathroom. For now, covering them is fine.
I stash my mask behind the tv in the private third floor lounge and make a mental note to grab it and the tripod and ring light I left behind the chair in the library downstairs later.
Then I’m officially on the prowl, because my dick is still rock fucking hard, my balls are starting to ache, and I need to fix that, immediately.
Getting laid right now, or any time I want, is not going to be a problem.
I mean, I’m me: six foot three, two hundred and twenty pounds of lean muscle, and, frankly, outrageously unfair genetics.
I’m also heir to the most powerful Irish mafia family in New York, a top rank in Para Bellum, the star wide receiver of the Privateers, and second in my class only to Achilles—and that’s just because I let him be number one.
Basically, I'm a god on the Knightsblood campus.
Case in point, I’m back downstairs at the main party for a grand total of eleven seconds before some blonde junior named Carrie attaches herself to my side. Her hands snake under my shirt and over my abs as she looks up at me with flushed cheeks, a coy smile, and "rail me" star-fucker eyes.
My aching balls cheer.
We make a pit stop in the kitchen so I can check in on my younger brother—guess that wasn’t him upstairs—who’s currently higher than a giraffe’s balls and giggling like a fucking cartoon character with Akira Mori and Asher Volkov as they share a giant Snoop Dogg-sized joint.
Then, I’m practically dragging Carrie upstairs with the intention of banging her against the first even semi-private flat surface I can find.
But you know what they say about the best laid…lol…plans.
My bedroom is still occupied. So is Ronan’s and Drago’s. And fucking in my cousin Achilles’ bed seems weird, so I skip his room and haul Carrie into the lounge instead.
But the second the door closes behind us, and she shoves me against it and tries to ram her tongue down my throat?
Houston, we have a fucking problem.
Specifically, a problem I have never experienced before.
What the fuck.
My dick has gone to sleep.
Carrie’s kinda annoying, to be honest. We’ve hooked up before and she does this baby-doll porn-voice that’s like nails on a goddamn chalkboard.
But still… She's writhing against me and grinding her pelvis into mine as she tries to apparently bite her way through my hoodie. I’m straight, twenty-two years old, in peak physical condition, and horny.
…And I cannot for the fucking life of me get hard.
At all.
I shove her down on the couch behind us, thinking that taking charge, which is more my speed, will remind Mr. Happy that it’s time to rise and fucking shine.
Nope. My cock gives me the limpest middle finger possible and hides.
This isn’t happening.
A gentleman might still, uh, take care of Carrie.
But…yeah. No. Also not happening.
Instead, I fake getting a phone call from my brother and get up from the couch to tell him that I’m “on my way”.
I apologize to Carrie, lie and promise a rain check, then dodge her tongue when she tries to shove it down my throat again and send her on her way.
After she’s gone, I groan and slump against the door. My gaze drops to my crotch, and I scowl as I grab the front of my jeans and tug them away from my abs so that I can make eye contact with my dick.
He needs to know how serious this is.
“The fuck was that, motherfucker?” I growl at him.
This is, honestly, a first.
He’s never let me down before. And he chooses tonight, when I’m walking bow-legged with an epic case of blue balls, to go on strike?
I’d choke him, except he’s got a history of being real into that. So I don't.
Instead, I march over to the bar in the corner and pour myself some Irish whiskey. Then I kick open the French doors to the terrace attached to the third-floor lounge and stalk outside.
A scowl spreads over my face as I lean my elbows on the stone balustrade and glare out over the twinkling Knightsblood campus. I bring the glass to my lips, letting the fiery burn of my Irish roots heat my throat.
“Yo! Kildare!!”
I grimace when I hear my name being yelled from below. A group of underclassmen jocks I half-recognize, a few with their arms slung over girls’ shoulders, are looking up at me with grinning, eager faces.
“Let’s go Privateeeeers!!” another one hollers, toasting me with the beer in his hand, which starts a whole avalanche of other cheers from his buddies and their dates.
There’s another round of whoops when one of the girls peels away from her guy and lifts her top, flashing me her bare tits and screaming something about letting her swallow my children.
Classy.