3. King
KING
Three days.
Three days since the rally, and I still can't get the taste of her out of my head.
I'm sitting at the bar in the clubhouse, a whiskey in front of me that I've barely touched, watching my brothers play pool and pretending I'm not losing my goddamn mind. The music's loud, the beer's flowing, and there's a blonde in a tight dress who's been trying to catch my eye for the last hour.
I don't even know her name. Don't care to learn it.
She's been circling closer all night, finding excuses to brush against me, leaning in to laugh at things that aren't funny. The old me would've taken what she was offering. Easy, uncomplicated, a warm body to burn off some tension with and forget by morning.
But every time I look at her, all I see is auburn hair and brown eyes and a mouth that moaned my name into the dark.
Demi.
Fuck.
"You look like shit," Rogue says, dropping onto the stool beside me.
"Thanks."
"Seriously. You've been in a mood since Ironwood. Want to tell me what's going on, or do I have to guess?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Uh huh." He signals the prospect behind the bar for a beer, then swings back to face me. "So you're just sitting here ignoring the blonde who's been eye-fucking you for the last hour because...?"
"Maybe I'm not interested."
Rogue takes a long pull from his bottle. "You're always interested. That's kind of your thing."
I don't answer. My jaw tightens, and I take a drink of my whiskey just to have something to do with my hands.
Rogue watches me for a long moment. I can feel him putting pieces together, and I don't like it.
"This is about her, isn't it?" His voice drops. "Rocky's daughter."
"Leave it alone."
"King—"
"I said leave it alone."
He holds up both hands, backing off. But his eyes say this conversation isn't over. Just postponed.
The blonde — Candy, apparently — chooses that moment to make her move. She slides up to my other side, pressing her tits against my arm, and gives me a smile that's pure invitation.
"You look lonely over here," she purrs. "Want some company?"
I look at her. Really look at her. She's pretty. Willing. Everything I should want.
I feel absolutely nothing.
"Not tonight," I say.
Her smile falters. "You sure? I could make it worth your while."
"I'm sure."
She stares at me for a second, clearly not used to rejection, then huffs and walks away. Rogue watches her go with raised eyebrows.
"Okay, now I know something's wrong."
"Drop it, Rogue."
"You just turned down a sure thing. A hot sure thing. The King I know doesn't—"
"The King you know needs you to shut the fuck up." I drain my whiskey and slam the glass down. "I'm going to my office. Don't follow me."
I don't wait for a response. I push off the stool and head for the back hallway, leaving the noise and the music and Rogue's too-knowing eyes behind.
My office is at the end of the hall — a room that used to belong to the president before me and still smells faintly of cigars, no matter how many times I've cleaned it. I shut the door behind me and lean against it, closing my eyes.
Three days.
I've replayed that kiss a thousand times. The way she tasted. The sounds she made. The way her body melted into mine like she'd been waiting her whole life for me to touch her. I told her to go back to her father, and it was the hardest thing I've ever done.
I should've fucked her against that tree. Should've buried myself inside her and made her scream loud enough for the whole rally to hear. Let them all know who she belonged to.
But I didn't. Because I'm supposed to be smart. Because starting a war over a woman — even a woman like her — would be the stupidest thing I've ever done.
And yet here I am, three days later, still thinking about her. Still wanting her. Still hard every time her face flashes through my mind.
I cross to my desk and pour myself another whiskey. The burn helps. Clears my head, just a little.
This has to stop. Whatever this is — obsession, infatuation, temporary insanity — I need to get over it. She's Rocky's daughter. Road Kings. Off-limits in every way that matters.
I take a drink and stare at the wall, willing myself to think about anything else.
Club business. Shipments. The beef with the Diablos down south. Anything.
But all I see is her. Auburn hair catching firelight. Lips swollen from my kiss. The way she said good when I told her I couldn't stay away.
Like she wanted me to come back.
Like she'd be waiting when I did.
A knock at the door snaps me out of it.
"I told you not to follow me," I call out.
The door opens anyway.
And everything stops.
She's standing in my doorway. Demi. Rocky's daughter. Here, in my clubhouse, in my territory, like she walked straight out of my fantasies and into my reality.
She's wearing jeans that hug every curve and a leather jacket over a low-cut top that makes my mouth go dry. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and there's a look in her eyes that tells me she knows exactly how dangerous this is.
She came anyway.
"How the hell did you get in here?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
"Told the prospect at the door I was here to see the president." She steps inside, closing the door behind her. The click of the lock is loud in the silence. "He didn't ask questions."
"He should have."
"Probably." She leans against the door, watching me. "Lucky for me, he didn't recognize a Road King's daughter."
I don't move. I don't trust myself to move. If I take a step toward her right now, I'm not going to stop.
"Why are you here, Demi?"
"You know why."
Three words. Three fucking words, and my self-control cracks right down the middle.
"You shouldn't be here." I set my glass down carefully, deliberately. "Your father finds out you set foot in this clubhouse—"
"He won't."
"If anyone saw you—"
"No one saw me." She pushes off the door and walks toward me, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving mine. "I was careful."
"This is insane."
"I know."
"You're risking everything."
"I know." She stops in front of my desk, close enough to touch. "I don't care."
The air between us feels combustible. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to grab her, to take what she's offering, to stop pretending I have any willpower left when it comes to this woman.
"You should care," I say, and my voice is barely recognizable. "I'm not a good man, Demi. I'm not going to be gentle with you. And once I have you, I'm not going to let you go."
"Good." She holds my gaze, unflinching. "I don't want gentle. And I didn't come here to talk."
Something snaps.
I'm around the desk before I can think, my hands fisting in her jacket, hauling her against me. Her gasp is the sweetest sound I've ever heard.
"You want to play with fire?" I growl against her mouth. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."
And then I kiss her.
It's not soft. It's not tender. It's pure, raw need — months of wanting, days of obsessing, all of it pouring into her mouth at once. She moans and I swallow the sound, my tongue sweeping against hers, claiming her, consuming her.
Her hands grab my cut, pulling me closer, and I fucking love that she's greedy for it. Greedy for me.
I walk her backward until her ass hits the edge of my desk, then I lift her onto it in one motion, stepping between her thighs. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me in, and the heat of her pressed against my cock makes me groan into her mouth.
"You have any idea what you do to me?" I pull back just enough to look at her — flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes dark with want. "Any idea how many times I've thought about this?"
"Tell me."
"Every fucking night since that rally." I grip her hips, grinding her against me, and watch her eyes flutter. "I've been hard thinking about you. Jerking off to the memory of that kiss, imagining what you'd taste like everywhere else."
Her breath catches. "King— I need—"
"I know what you need." I fist my hand in her hair, tilting her head back. "And you're going to get it."
"I'm not shy." Her voice is breathless but defiant. "I just want you to stop talking and fuck me."
Christ.
I crush my mouth to hers again, kissing her until she's whimpering, until her hips are rocking against me desperately. My hands find the hem of her top and yank it up, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over her head.
Black lace bra. Of course. Like she dressed for this. Like she knew exactly how tonight was going to go.
"You planned this," I say, tracing my finger along the edge of the lace.
"Maybe." She arches into my touch. "Maybe I've been thinking about this just as much as you have."
I unclip the bra and toss it aside, and then her tits are bare and perfect and I can't think about anything except getting my mouth on them. I dip my head and take one nipple between my lips, sucking hard, and she cries out, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
"Oh god—"
"Not god." I switch to the other breast, biting gently before soothing it with my tongue. "Just me. And you're going to be saying my name a lot louder than that before I'm done with you."
Her laugh is breathless, shaky. "Promises, promises."
I pull back and look at her — half-naked on my desk, lips swollen, chest heaving. The Sergeant-at-Arms of a rival club's daughter. The woman I should stay far, far away from.
And all I can think is mine.
"Lie back," I tell her.
She does, bracing herself on her elbows, watching me with those dark eyes as I reach for the button of her jeans.
I pop it open, drag down the zipper, and start pulling the denim down her legs.
She lifts her hips to help, and a moment later she's in nothing but a scrap of black lace that's already soaked through.
I can see how wet she is. Can smell her arousal, musky and sweet. My cock strains against my jeans, painfully hard.
"This wet for me?" I trace my finger over the damp lace, and she shudders. "All this for the man who's supposed to be your enemy?"
"You were never my enemy." Her voice is barely a whisper. "You've been under my skin for months."
"Good." I hook my fingers in the lace and drag it down her legs. "Because I'm about to be a lot deeper than that."
I sink to my knees in front of the desk, spreading her thighs wider, and take a moment to just look at her. Pink and glistening and so fucking perfect I could die happy right here.
"King—" she starts.
I lean in and lick her from entrance to clit in one long stroke, and whatever she was going to say dissolves into a moan.
She tastes even better than I imagined. Sweet, tangy, addictive. I grip her thighs and bury my face in her pussy, eating her like I've been starving for it, because I have. I circle her clit with my tongue, then suck it between my lips, and her hips buck off the desk.
"Fuck— oh fuck—" Her hips buck off the desk.
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot, and her whole body arches. She's so tight, clenching around me, and all I can think about is how good she's going to feel wrapped around my cock.
"That's it," I murmur against her, pumping my fingers while my tongue works her clit. "Let me hear you."
She's not quiet. She moans, she whimpers, my name falling from her lips over and over. When I add a third finger and suck harder on her clit, her thighs clamp around my head and she comes with a scream, her pussy pulsing around my fingers.
I work her through it, licking and sucking until she's trembling, until she's pushing weakly at my head.
"Too much— I can't—"
"You can." I stand up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and reach for my belt. "And you're going to. I'm nowhere near done with you."
Her eyes drop to my hands as I unbuckle my belt and shove my jeans down. My cock springs free, hard and aching, and I watch her lick her lips.
"Like what you see?"
"Get inside me and find out."
I don't need to be told twice.
I grab her hips and drag her to the edge of the desk, lining myself up. The head of my cock presses against her entrance, slick with her arousal, and I have to grit my teeth against the urge to slam in all at once.
"Look at me," I tell her.
She does. Those brown eyes lock onto mine, and I see everything — want, trust, defiance. She knows exactly what she's doing. And she wants it anyway.
I push inside her, one slow, relentless inch at a time.
Fuck.
She's tight. So fucking tight, her pussy stretching around me, gripping me like she was made for this. Made for me.
Her head falls back as I bottom out inside her, her nails digging into my forearms. I hold there, letting her adjust. "You can take it. You're going to take all of it."
I start to move. Slow at first, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Letting her feel every inch.
"This is what you wanted?" I grip her hips, holding her in place. "The enemy president's cock inside you? Your daddy's worst nightmare making you scream?"
"Yes." She's breathless, rocking her hips to meet my thrusts. "Yes, fuck, please—"
"Please what?"
"Harder."
I snap my hips forward, driving into her deep, and she cries out. I set a brutal pace, fucking her hard and fast, the desk scraping against the floor with every thrust.
"You're mine now," I growl. "You understand? I don't care whose daughter you are. I don't care who comes looking. You walked into my clubhouse and spread your legs for me, and that makes you mine."
"Yours." She's barely coherent, her pussy clenching around me. "I'm yours, I'm—"
"Come for me." I reach between us, circling her clit with my thumb while I pound into her. "Come on my cock, Demi. Let me feel it."
She shatters.
Her whole body convulses, her pussy gripping me so tight I see stars. She screams — actually screams — and the sound of it pushes me over the edge. I bury myself deep and come harder than I ever have in my life, spilling inside her, claiming her from the inside out.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. We're both breathing hard, sweat-slicked, tangled together on my desk in the wreckage of everything we just destroyed.
I look down at her — flushed, wrecked, still pulsing around my cock — and I don't feel an ounce of regret.
"This changes everything," she whispers.
"I know." I drag my thumb across her swollen lip. "Still don't give a shit."