Brutal Blueblood

know.
“A-ask you to make me come?” Her voice was choked with pleasure; she seemed to love it when I pressed all the way in so I could grind my palm against her clit.
“Yes, Tanith,” I said. “It’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about for four fucking months. Making you flush until you’re burning with it. Having this pussy whenever I want. Watching your eyes when I make you feel good.”
I didn’t know why I said the last part. It was something I could barely even admit to myself. But something about the way those aqua eyes had dilated with pleasure, about the way she’d gasped and shivered and panted on the yacht as I showed her exactly what kissing could be like . . . it’d gotten to me. I became obsessed with it, with all the tiny expressions and sounds she made as I touched her, even more obsessed with that than I was with actually getting to shag her.
More dangerous was that I was also obsessed with everything else about her. With her sharp, insightful writing, and her goddess namesake, and the way she laughed, even when she was being sarcastic. With the way her blond hair had caught the lights strung above the ice-skating rink, and the way she’d spent her days in Ibiza touring dusty tombs instead of drinking herself into a stupor like everyone else.
I admitted something to myself then, something I’d realized that night on the yacht but had talked myself out of believing.
She must be mine.
Had to be.
There was no way beyond scratching this itch but to have her with me, near me, against me, for as long as it took.
And she would see it too. She would see I was a fucking Montgomery, and she would be lucky to have me as her boyfriend—she would be grateful. I wouldn’t merely give her as many orgasms as her body could endure; I’d give her so much else too. She’d benefit from my money and my power and my family connections.
I would make all her dreams come true.
How no other bloke at Pembroke had noticed her before now astounded me. That I hadn’t noticed her before this summer astounded me too. Why hadn’t I realized this brainy little blonde would be the one to make me crazy? Why hadn’t I known I needed to get inside her until I saw her on that yacht, all pensive and alone under the starlight?
Fuck me, but I’d wasted so much time. All I could do now was not waste another goddamned second.
As if she knew where my thoughts were going, her hands dropped to my suit trousers.
I grunted and shifted to give her better access. When she unzipped me, I felt the purr of the zipper down in my fucking bone marrow.
“I want to feel you too,” she whispered, almost sounding shy, and I remembered what she said on the yacht that night.
I’ve only had one kiss.
“You ever played with a cock before, goddess?” I murmured, capturing her lips with mine before pulling away to look down at where she was touching me. “You ever held one and felt it ache and pulse for you?”
“No, I—oh.” The last word she said on an exhale as she pulled the waistband of my boxer briefs down to expose my erection. The monster stretched nearly to my hip, thick and dusky with blood. The swollen crown of it was already glistening with precome, ready to fuck.
“You’re shaking,” she whispered, looking up at me, and I realized I was. I was shaking.
Shaking because of her.
“Are you okay?” she asked, looking concerned.
I let out a rough, breathy laugh. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Do you—do people do this? Shake?”
“I’ve never . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to admit how much she affected me. But she had to know. She had to see how twisted up she made me. “Only when they’re with someone that they want so much it hurts.”
She licked her lips, her sea-blue eyes pinned to mine. “I don’t want you to hurt,” she murmured and gave me a tentative squeeze with her hand.
My knees buckled, and I slumped forward, bracing myself with one hand on the wall beside her head.
She did it again, and I was shaking so hard now I thought I might vibrate all the way apart into horny, unsatisfied dust.
“What do you want?” she asked. She was shaking now, too, breathing hard, and her free hand had gone between her legs. She was fucking touching herself while she stroked me.
I was going to have a heart attack before this was over.
“Do you want to”—she paused, taking in a deep breath—“have sex with me?”
Yes. Fuck yes.
Yes, I wanted that very much.
I wanted to fuck her into next week. I wanted to carry her back to the Montgomery townhouse, throw her on a bed, and then rut between her legs like an animal. I wanted to set her on all fours and then lick her from hole to hole—I wanted to put my tongue inside her everywhere. I wanted her to ride my face while she sucked me, and then I wanted to bend her over the bed and see how deep I could leave my come inside her. I wanted us both bruised, bitten, and marked with sucking kisses. I wanted us both with our hair tangled and smelling like each other. I wanted my seed drying in beautiful patterns on her skin.
I wanted to give her the kind of orgasms that made her ashamed after.
The moment the images entered my mind, a quiet panic followed them.
I was never like this. I fucked efficiently, cleanly. I didn’t like marks or scents or territorial shit like coming inside a girl without a condom. I didn’t want dirty.
I kept my sex contained. I found a girl who was willing, got her off quickly, came into a condom, and then made her leave. But this would not be contained. It would not be efficient or clean. I would need days and days and weeks