Stone Cold Queen: Sick Boys Book 2

by Smoke , Lucy

  Braxton lifts his head as I approach, and before I can even get within touching distance of her, he slides off his stool and stops between us. "Get your fucking ass out of my way, Brax," I warn him carefully. “I waited like you told me, but I’m done waiting now.”

  My words filter over his shoulders, and she stiffens at the sound of my voice. Her cheek turns, and she glances back. Wide blue and gray eyes meet mine. Her lips curve into a smirk as she spins completely around and holy. Fucking. Shit. She's trying to kill me. Put me in an early grave and bury me alive. I immediately harden in my pants.

  "Not getting in your way," Brax says slowly, trying to draw my attention back to him, but it's damn fucking hard to peel my eyes away from the amount of flesh she's sporting.

  Kill.

  Maim.

  Slaughter.

  I want to rip the eyeballs out of the skulls of every single person who's seen her tonight.

  She's dressed like she was this morning. Unlike the rest of the women currently dancing on the platform dance floor at my back or the bartenders flitting back and forth, pouring drinks and exchanging cards for alcohol, she's not dressed to seduce. Yet, she does. Seduce me, that is. Even in ripped jeans and a plain black t-shirt, she looks good enough to fucking eat. And the only thing I can think about when I see her like this—eyes glazed over, lips full and pouty, chin tipped up like such a fucking brat—is that she's mine.

  "I just wanted to warn you," Brax continues, his words only half filtering into my brain as my eyes eat her up. "She's not sober right now."

  "Brax," I choke out his name as she leans back against the bar, her elbows sliding towards the center of the counter and her tits pushing up as she arches her spine. They strain against the fabric of her t-shirt. "Get the fuck out of my way. Now."

  Braxton frowns at my facial expression before glancing back. When he sees what I'm seeing, he shakes his head. "Damn girl," he mutters. "I warned you not to play with the beast tonight."

  Avalon keeps her eyes glued to mine as she responds. "Oh, Brax," she replies, her words slurring only slightly despite the fact that it's obvious from her movements that she's fucking wasted. A sober Avalon would not shove her breasts up at me like that. A sober Avalon would not lick her lips and then devour me with her eyes like she is right now. Fuck. It's going to be a long night. Because she's not sober, and I won't touch her like this when she isn't. My cock is going to fucking hate me. "When are you going to learn," she finishes. "I am the beast."

  There couldn't be more truth to that statement in this moment. "Go," I tell him. "I got this." He shoots me a look and doesn't move. I growl. "I'm not going to fuck her," I grit out. He should know me well enough by now.

  He shrugs. "Call if you need something." Then he's gone, leaving just the two of us as I take a step towards her and then another and another until those pretty little breasts of hers are against my chest. I reach down, circling each wrist with my fingers, and pull her away from the bar.

  A blonde bartender hesitantly steps up to where she'd just been. She looks at me before quietly picking up the mess Brax and Ava had left behind and then flits off to wherever else she's needed.

  "I'm mad at you," Avalon grumbles as I release her wrists and then drop down, lifting her up and over my shoulder. It says something that all she does is hang there as I turn around and stride out of my own damn club. She doesn't even try to fight me or tell me to let her down.

  "You can be mad at me after I've gotten you out of those clothes and into bed," I tell her.

  Avalon lifts up slightly as we hit the doors and the warm night air hits us as the noise of the club behind us tapers off. "I'm not sleeping with you," she says matter of factly.

  I round the side of my SUV, pulled across several parking spaces towards the side of the lot because I hadn't even taken the second to find a proper parking space. I'd been too ready to get inside and get to my girl.

  "Yes, you are, baby," I say, my tone unremorseful as I prop open the passenger side door and then bend down, setting her back on her feet before hustling her into the car.

  "Don't call me that when I'm mad at you," she snaps.

  I roll my eyes and close the door behind her before adjusting myself against the front of my jeans. Fuck. Me. A drunk, bratty Avalon. One fucking bed because there was no way I was letting her sleep anywhere else. And a hard-on from hell. Tonight was going to last a freaking eternity.

  22

  Avalon

  I wake with a pounding headache. Not anything like the night before. No—I know where this one comes from. This one is the result of lots and lots of fucking tequila. Before I can think better of it, a loud groan escapes my lips and then a whimper when even the sound of my own groan sends a splitting pain through my skull.

  José Cuervo can get fucked.

  "Bet you're regretting those tequila shots right about now, aren't you?" a familiar voice says.

  "I will kill you," I threaten in a low tone. "Slowly. Painfully. I'll make you wish for death."

  His only response is, "I have coffee."

  A few more hours of life is all he gets, I decide then, peeking my eyes open and gingerly sitting up as Dean walks towards the bed with a white mug in hand. My attention fixates on the low hanging gray sweatpants. Of course, he'd be wearing God's gift to women when I want to murder him because why make it easy on me?

  I take the mug from him, and the first sip is enough to push back some of the horrendous aching in my head. He holds out his other hand, producing two little blue pills. I glare at him and swipe the meds from him, popping them into my mouth quickly before taking another gulp of coffee to wash them down.

  Several moments of silence linger before finally, he speaks. "We need to talk, Avalon."

  "Yes," I say, agreeing. "We do." And I'm going first, I decide. "I can't move in with you," I state.

  Dark devilishly brown eyes meet mine. Dean's close enough that I can see the slightly different shades, some honey-colored, some blood red. Each of the strands of color are soil rich like muddied waters.

  "It's too late for that," he responds. "You're here. You're not leaving. It's safer."

  "Safer for who?" I demand, lowering my hands and the mug to my lap to keep myself from doing something stupid like throwing the steaming hot liquid in his face. I'm trembling with the effort to keep my anger under control. Before my talk with Brax, I would've just done it, but maybe I can use this as an excuse to push him for more information. It's time we stopped dancing around each other.

  "Just … safer," he hedges.

  "Dean." After a moment, I set the coffee mug to the side, on a mahogany nightstand. The entire room is masculine, I realize a bit belatedly. His room. I stayed the night in Dean's bedroom. I glance down and lift the comforter—it feels like a fucking dream against my fingertips, cool and soft. Definitely better than anything I've ever slept on, including the night we stayed in the hotel. My jeans are gone, but my underwear is, thankfully, still in place.

  "We didn't have sex last night, Ava," Dean says on a sigh. "You were drunk."

  I shrug. "You've threatened to take me against my will before," I say lightly.

  The glare he sends my way is scorching. "You and I both know you would never be unwilling with me, baby. Want me to prove it right now?"

  I toss the covers off and stand up. "Don't change the subject," I say. "We need to talk about why you feel the need to control me."

  "You're mine," he says like it's a fact, like it's suddenly some law written in ancient stone.

  "No." I glare back at him. "I'm not."

  He stands, moving to tower over me, as if somehow threatening me with his larger presence is going to make me back down, to agree to anything he says. Oh, Dean might be used to getting his way with others, but there's no fucking way he's going to get his way with me.

  "I am not a thing," I growl. "I am no one's fucking possession."

  "I didn't say that," he replies quickly.

  "You didn't have to,
" I accuse.

  For many long moments, we stare at each other, neither one of us backing down. The scariest part of this whole conversation is that all of my fury is because every time he says ‘mine,’ every time he claims me as his, it doesn’t sound wrong. I fight and scratch and claw to stay away from that feeling, but the fact is, I don’t necessarily hate it. Oh, I absolutely can’t fucking stand the thought of being someone’s possession, but being Dean’s … it’s not an unwelcome feeling, and that’s what pisses me off the most.

  Fuck this, I think, turning and heading for the door. I need a break. I need to step away. Maybe later I can come back, and we can be fucking adults about this. But not right now.

  "Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he demands. The sound of his feet, quiet against the carpet, follows me.

  I make it to the door, and my hand falls on the knob for a split second before I'm ripped away and shoved against the wall. His arms come down hard on either side of me as he cages me in.

  "I said, where the fuck do you think you're going?" he asks again, his face inches from mine.

  "I'm going to get clothes," I snap. "And to get away from you. Get off." I shove his arms, trying to get through, but he doesn't budge. “Dean.” I level my eyes with his. I feel dangerous. Two seconds away from going ballistic, and I don’t necessarily fucking care that he’s standing right in the path of hurricane me.

  As if he senses just how close to the edge I am, Dean rips me away from the wall, turns me around, and shoves me face-first back into it. A wave of fury, combined with … is that … lust? No. It can’t be. I can’t be fucking turned on right now. There’s no way in hell. But I am. I’m irrevocably hot, and even though the anger is there, the rage just simmering beneath the surface, my lust is separate. Sitting there, waiting.

  My chest pumps up and down as he leans in close, his chest to my back. Warm. Smooth. Naked. It wouldn’t take much to rid him of his sweatpants—I bet he’s not even wearing damn underwear—and for him to pull down my panties. Two seconds, maybe less, and he can be pounding away freely, making me come apart under that metal head cock of his.

  My pussy is a very, very sick girl.

  Dean must know exactly what I’m thinking because as he pushes against me, his cock rubs against my asscheeks. He’s hard, and fuck, if that doesn’t make my insides melt. I got drunk, and now, despite the slowly fading hangover headache, I want to do something else stupid. I want to fuck Dean Carter into oblivion.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he breathes hotly into my ear.

  Enough, I think. I’m not going to be passive anymore. I whip myself around and stare straight up into his eyes. Wicked, devious, sinful eyes…

  I force myself to laugh lightly as I shove my hands between us and push against his chest. “You think you can stop me?” I challenge, arching a brow.

  Dean’s fingers reach down and circle my wrists, and suddenly, I’m pinned against the wall with my arms drawn up over my head. I don’t fight—not yet. I’m waiting to see what else he’ll do.

  “You’re moving in here not just because you belong here, baby,” he says. I shiver as he slides his lips down my cheek until he presses them to the corner of my mouth. “But because when I say you’re fucking mine, I mean it.” I stiffen, but he doesn’t let that stop him. “I know that scares you,” he says. “I know you’re not sure if you can trust me, so I’ll just have to spend a long time proving it to you. But I will make one thing clear, if I want to lock you up in a tower and make sure no other bastard can ever put his hands on you again, then I will.”

  I scowl, jerking at my wrists. The muscles in his arms and shoulders contract as he works to hold me still. His head tilts to the side, and then he grins—a viciously evil kind of grin that drenches my fucking panties. There’s something about a man who has a little bit of depravity in his veins and a glimmer of psycho in his gaze that just really gets to me.

  “Mine,” he repeats, knowing I hate that word, even as he pulls his head back and pushes his chest and groin forward until they’re pressed into mine. “Deny it all you want, baby, but your ass is property of Dean fucking Carter, and nothing’s going to change that.”

  “Wanna bet?” I snap back. I can’t help it. It’s the rebellious bitch in me. I don’t like being told what to do. At the same time, though, the thought of belonging to him doesn’t leave a bad aftertaste in my mind.

  “Yeah,” he replies, “I’ll bet everything I have against the fucking world that before this is all over, you’re going to be screaming my name.”

  With that, Dean slams his head down and his mouth captures mine. His tongue presses forward, parting my lips and sliding inside. Hot and wet and oh so fucking sensual, he consumes me—ravages me like a goddamn Viking going to war. I struggle in his hold, shoving my breasts forward as I bow my back and fight against the bonds of his hand holding my wrists.

  His kiss turns violent. The sweet sensuality of him evaporating, burning down around me, and from the ashes of it rises our mutual need to dominate. Him because it’s just who he fucking is and me because I’m not sure if I can trust anyone to hold such power over me. It’s probably why I fucking hate him. Or maybe that, too, is a lie.

  When his lips shove too close and his tongue recedes on a new pass of his thrust and retreat method—he kisses like he fucks—I don’t hesitate. I bite down hard enough to draw blood. The copper tang slides over my tongue, and Dean yanks his head back. His free hand, which had been resting on the wall beside my head, comes up, and he brushes his thumb across his bottom lip. We both glance down when it comes away wet and red.

  That depravity I’d seen in him earlier glows with excitement. “You want to fucking play it like that then?” he asks.

  “I—” I don’t get to finish my sentence. My wrists are released so abruptly, they barely have a chance to fall away from the wall before I’m being jerked forward, flipped around once more, and shoved back into the wall. My cheek mashes against it, the smell of paint in my nose, as Dean palms my head, holding it still. My hands automatically come up to push against the cool surface.

  “Don’t move,” he orders.

  I freeze immediately. I don’t know why I comply. I don’t have to listen to him. I’m not his lackey. I’m not even his girlfriend or whatever he seems to think I am—no matter what he claims. When his palm slowly loosens against my skull, I push back slightly just to prove that, and he growls. The sound must have some sort of direct link to my pussy because that heartless bitch fucking pulses as the sound slips over my ears.

  “I swear to fuck, Ava, if you move again, you’re going to regret it.” I recognize that tone—it’s like dangerous fucking silk—and it makes my core clench. “Don’t. Fucking. Move,” he repeats.

  This time, I actually obey. I feel the cool wall beneath my cheek, and I let my eyes slide closed. They’re only shut for a second before I feel his fingers at the waistband of my panties. I turn my head completely to the side.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demand, though, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

  He rips his fingers out of my panties and then grabs them and yanks then down to my thighs, where they stay—keeping my legs pressed together. Then his hand is gone and back again, crashing down on my ass. My lips pop open, and against my will, a moan slips free. “What the fuck did I say, Ava?” Dean snarls, slapping me a second time.

  I gasp and arch into the pain. Holy fuck. I did not expect that. My whole body trembles with the feelings now coursing through my body, trying to make sense of it. Did I actually like that? I fucking did. Damn, didn’t know I was such a pervert. I groan.

  Dean’s hands pull me back, and I stumble, my lower legs pinned together by my panties. He doesn’t say anything else as he quickly divests me of my shirt, ripping it up and over my head before sending it flying somewhere else in the room. His fingers quickly undo the back clasps of my bra and that’s gone as well. Everything except my panties is gone—flung a
way, though I don’t see where and at this moment, I don’t give a flying fuck.

  His hand finds my head once more, fingers sifting through the strands of my hair, making me arch back even more as need races through me. The heat of his chest feels like a furnace against my spine as his skin touches mine finally. Fucking finally.

  He presses his nose against my upper back and slowly drags it up until he inhales at the base of my skull. “Don’t test me, baby,” he warns against the nape of my neck. “I’m not feeling particularly gentle.”

  Neither am I. Slowly, in incredibly small movements, I turn my head and look back over my shoulder until his eyes meet mine. “I don’t need gentle, Dean,” I reply. “I’ve never had it, and I’ve gotten along just fine, so I’ve never fucking needed it.”

  He chuckles and fuck if the sound doesn’t have a direct tie to my pussy. My clit practically pulses with the need to be stroked. “You and I both know that’s not completely true,” he replies. “You’re so full of shit, and you’re lucky I like that about you sometimes, baby. But right now? Right now, I appreciate your badass. ’Cause I’m going to show her exactly what her man can do.”

  With that, he reaches down and guides the head of his cock to my weeping slit and shoves home, driving all of the oxygen in my lungs out as he bottoms out deep inside me. It’s tight. I can hardly spread my legs, but that just makes it feel like a fight. Like he’s battling to get inside me. Some perverse part of me digs that. Even as he fucks me, shoving my face into the wall, pounding me with his dick—I can’t help but snatch those last words from the air and hold them close.

  Her man—my man. That’s it. That’s why I don’t feel like lighting him on fire when he calls me his. Because if I am his, then he’s mine. And I want him to be, I realize. I want to own Dean Carter and stamp my name on his forehead so that every girl from here to St. Augustine knows he’s taken. I want my own “property of” tattoo on his ass, and the fact that he acknowledges my possession sends me reeling into an orgasm that rockets up through my pussy and shocks my brain as everything around me but the sensations—the feeling of a cock driving in and out of my hole—explodes.