King's Men (Savage Fall Duet Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  “To your knees,” he clarifies. “When you pictured selling yourself at Bolles, I’m sure you imagined finding some sappy, rich fuck who’d pet your hair and let you ride his cock. Didn’t you?”

  He tsks when I don’t answer, demanding a response.

  Did I? I rack my memories for the truth but come up short. Maybe I never intended to go through with it at all.

  “Don’t lie.” It’s like he’s in my head, seeing through my denials. “You thought I’d be fucking easy, didn’t you?”

  He’s closer, his feet thudding over the floor. For the first time, I notice he’s barefoot. His toes nudge my thigh, making me quake.

  “You expected someone to buy you out of pity. Cherish you. Crave you. But do you know what I want?” He sinks to his knees, snatching my chin in the palm of his hand. His bold stare rakes over my innermost thoughts the same way he ruined Brandt’s book, like my soul is a jumble of pages beneath his scrutiny, torn at his discretion. Satisfied with the damage, he nods to himself once. “Fuck, I’ll have you screaming for me. I’ll make you become what I want. I’ll change you, and mold you, and wipe away every trace of the fucking Hollings name. I own you.”

  His nostrils flare, breathing me in. A low sound rumbles from his chest, and he’s on his feet again. “Open your mouth.”

  No. Dread and alarm do a dizzying march down my spine.

  It’s funny. Daniel praised Sloane’s cock-sucking abilities when he thought I couldn’t hear. He made it sound like magic, her mouth. He relished every illicit little act.

  But Blake Lorenz won’t ever call me his champion cocksucker. He simply wants to defile any dignity I have left.

  “Oh yes, Snow,” he hisses when I hesitate, my teeth clenched. “Open your fucking mouth.”

  He shoves his pants down to his hips, revealing that he’s bare underneath. With his posture tense, he could seem as distant and cold as always. But one part of his anatomy strains toward me, practically pulsating with need.

  God, he looks even bigger in the unforgiving daylight. Impossibly huge, with distended veins encircling his length like ineffective chains. Somehow, he fit inside me, stretching me to take him. I don’t know how I didn’t rip apart at the fucking seams.

  “Suck,” he snaps, but the monosyllabic command seems to be the only one he’s capable of delivering. There’s no threat. No detailed description of what he wants. Flashing eyes and a clenched jaw tell me all I need. Suck.

  I touch him first, hesitantly, treating him like a weapon. Something requiring the utmost care to handle to avoid hurting myself. Hot, silken flesh vibrates against my fingers. One brush and he lurches on the tips of his toes, blowing out a breath. There’s a curse in there somewhere, mangled beyond recognizable speech. Suck. Fuck. Suck.

  My lips flutter apart and then together again. There’s no way he’ll fit inside. Not without choking me.

  Which is exactly what he wants.

  Before I can gather up the nerve to act on my own, his hand fists in my hair, dragging me forward. Up close, his musk floods my nostrils, filling my lungs. Sweat. Heat. A million nuanced, human stenches that should be repulsive. On him, the smell takes on a more insidious purpose, forming a noose that imprints his possession. He owns me—even my body can’t deny it, inhaling every ounce of him.

  A sharp tug on my hair brings me back to his command. “Open.”

  Left with no choice, I pry my lips apart as far as I dare, wedging my tongue between them. Should I taste him first? Swallow my pride to make room for his length? I don’t get the chance to pick an option.

  He lunges forward, shoving the swollen head of his cock against my mouth, forging inside. Reflexively, my tongue attempts to bar his path, swiping the crown, tasting musk.

  “Fuck.” Corded muscle ripples over his abdomen. The next second, his grip on my hair tightens and my mouth opens wider. Almost too quickly to register, he’s sliding inside.

  Having him between my legs burned. Having him bat his way toward my throat sears. Bitter shame washes over my skin as he uses me, bucking his hips, groaning with each thrust.

  “Shit…”

  My hands helplessly twitch against the floor, grappling for leverage. He’s going too deep. Too long. I’ll suffocate. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe! Just as panic sets in, he pulls back, allowing air down my aching throat. I suck it in only to cringe as he adjusts his grip, nudging his length against my bottom lip.

  Instinct takes over. My tongue shoots out, cradling him in a way I never thought was possible. Anything to keep him from going so deep. Anything to finish him quicker.

  “Shit.” He shudders, wrenching on my hair only to tighten in the same breath, locking me in place.

  Damn my pride. I close my eyes and lavish attention on every inch of his length. I channel Sloane and the dirty magazines she used to recommend for “tips” after too many cocktails. According to her, men liked desperation. They liked it when you licked like a starving woman offered a Popsicle. Like you’d die without their taste on your tongue.

  Like the man in your mouth is the only one in the goddamn universe.

  The skill never worked for her, and it doesn’t work for me. The more attention I pay to his length, the harder he holds me, until I’m whimpering between eager licks.

  “Jesus…fuck…” Thunder. Every word rips from him, bellowed in between groans.

  His cock hardens. Twitching. Pulsating.

  With only one goal in mind, I find the weeping slit in his crown and tentatively suck.

  A monster roars. Suddenly, he shoves me away, but not fast enough. Hot liquid splashes over my cheek, scalding. Marking. Branding. Dazed, I don’t even know what the substance is until I see him gripping his cock in a fist. My fingers brush the drying liquid as more spurts lash my chest and the floor.

  “Fuck.” He staggers back and collapses onto a bench press, his pants still around his knees, his cock deflating. He frowns at the sight of his release glistening on the floor. After a cold glance in my direction, he snaps his fingers. “Clean—no. Lick,” he adds before I can even reach for my shift as a makeshift rag. “Lick…it up…” His pants echo in the resounding silence, clashing with my own croaking gasps.

  Lick.

  My tongue shoots along my bottom lip, tasting salt. I cringe at the flavor, expecting bitterness. But, God, it’s too rich to decipher in one go. Sloane told me once that cum smelled like bleach and tasted just as appealing.

  Blake Lorenz smells like hell in liquid form, taunting me to analyze every drop.

  “Lick it up,” he commands, quickly regaining control over his voice. Ice resonates in the guttural baritone, daring me to disobey.

  Hunched over on my knees, I slowly brace my hands against the floor. Then I find the nearest strip of milky fluid. I can’t though. I’m a Hollings, after all. That means something.

  But Blake’s harsh intake of air reminds me of exactly what it means: We’ll do anything for the family name. We’ll sell our souls for our company’s shares. We’ll let a monster violate us, body and soul. We’ll lick the evidence off the floor, washing away any trace of his weakness.

  I let my eyes close and sink forward, blindly flicking my tongue out. I taste dust at first. Old wood and painful memories. Then…

  Salt and musk form a strange mixture over my tongue. I cringe at the taste; it should be disgusting. However, when I swallow the first reluctant drop, my stomach doesn’t rebel. Inhaling deeply, I follow the trail of his scent, tasting more. Lick by lick, I wipe him off the floor.

  “Jesus Christ.” He grates the name into pained, tight syllables. “Don’t look so fucking eager.” What should sound mocking lands more like a plea.

  Don’t look so eager. Don’t shuffle forward with my ass in the air and my nose scraping the ground. Don’t hunt down every trace of him as ordered. Don’t swallow him down.

  I can hear his breathing, ragged and unsteady as I complete my task. Then my eyes open gradually and I find him still seated on the bench pre
ss, watching me through a lidded gaze. In the past few seconds, however, he managed to draw his pants up. Already, a bulge strains against the fabric.

  “It will always be like this between us,” he says. “You’re just a tight, little hole. A receptacle. I don’t give a shit whether or not you get off.” He frowns as he voices the claim, and something crosses his expression, drawing a gasp from my throat.

  On Brandt, I knew that look and what it meant. He wore it whenever he read a complex book or found a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Grim determination.

  Just as quickly, any semblance of him is gone as Blake lies back against the flat of the bench press, sliding beneath the barbells already in place. I’m not knowledgeable enough of the equipment to guess their size, and from this angle, I can’t see any markings. They’re huge, however, each one the width of my face.

  “Come here.”

  I unfurl my sore limbs, shuddering as discomfort throbs between my legs. A low, constant burn. If I were alone, I’d run my fingers along the flesh to investigate why. Something must be wrong. With every step, moisture slicks the movement of my thighs.

  “Stand there.” He nods to the space mere inches from the left circular weight. When I stop before it, he shakes his head. “Closer.”

  Close enough to practically straddle it…

  As if I don’t exist, he grips the weight and lifts it, exhaling with the effort, but he doesn’t lift it nearly as high as he could. Just enough for the cold metal to graze the space between my legs with every subsequent flex of his arms. Finally, the icy surface brushes my core and I flinch at the invasive touch.

  Apparently, this is all I’m good for. Not his fingers or his hands, but a callous act he has no real control over.

  My cheeks flame, but I keep my chin in the air, my gaze fixed on the wall across from him. Teeth gritted, I suffer every brief nudge of the weight. He grunts with the effort of maintaining such a shallow range. Soon, the metal starts to sway, brushing harder, jolting me onto the tips of my toes.

  I struggle for balance, alarmed when he hisses a harsh breath. Risking my sanity, I glance down and witness him glaring at something below me: the round edge of the barbell, shining with fluid.

  “Fuck.” He breathes out, and the weight clatters loudly into its frame. His gaze is a physical touch, clawing its way along my innermost parts. “Fuck me, you shouldn’t—” He bites off whatever he meant to say. Metal creaks as he adjusts his position and lifts the weights from their cradle again.

  This time, the press of metal is slow. Deliberate. Insistent. It grinds into my abused flesh, drawing a gasp from my lips. Again. My teeth chatter, my head rearing back against my shoulders.

  “Fuck, that little sound,” he snarls in disapproval, and I sink my teeth into my lower lip to smother all trace of noise.

  With a rasp of creaking metal, the weight ascends again, slamming into me hard enough to disrupt my balance. I yelp as pain shoots through my abdomen, followed by an echo of fire.

  “Grab it,” he spits out, still working to lower the weight to his chest and lift it again. “Grab the sides.”

  I obey without question, wrapping my hands against the bars of metal forming the frame of the equipment. When the weight rises again, he’s cruel, lifting it so high that I could sit on it, grinding friction into my folds.

  “Fuck.”

  Metal clangs, so I look down and find him glowering, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle in his jaw jumps. His gaze traces me shamelessly, hunting every bead of sweat dripping down my forehead and every trembling bit of muscle. Suddenly, he takes one hand off the barbell and beckons me closer. Using the bench for leverage, I have no choice but to arch toward him, grinding my teeth at the raw heat in his touch.

  “Goddamn it.” Metal sways and he’s on his feet, shoving me against the wall near the bench. “Turn around. Bend over.”

  The only nearby source of support just so happens to be the windowsill. I grasp it with shaking fingers as a hand on my lower back shoves me down, bending my body at the mercy of the figure closing in on unsteady feet. He bats my legs apart with his foot and slides one leg in the resulting space as grasping fingers find my hips, arching me toward him.

  I hunch into myself, sinking my teeth into my wrist as he prods my entrance with something intimidatingly large. One thrust has me spreading painfully open, taking him inch by inch.

  Our breaths echo in sporadic tandem, harsh and broken. He fights to shove himself inside, but my body clenches against him, grasping at empty space.

  “Shit… It’s like you were made for this, Snow,” he growls into my ear. “So fucking tight.”

  Made for this. For him. His palm cups my hip, branding possession into my flesh. He thrusts again, going even deeper than before, ripping me apart.

  “Jesus Christ.” His teeth nip at my ear as he twitches inside me. My inner muscles spasm at the invasion, clamping down so tight that it’s like he’s fused to me, dominating every nerve. “Don’t,” he warns when I smother my whimpers into the palms of my hands. “I want to hear you.”

  He flexes his hips, sliding out and then ramming back in. Harder. My moan spills from me, too loud to swallow down. Again. Harsh groans echo mine as his hands brace against the windowsill for leverage, crushing his weight against me.

  Beyond the window, Hollings Estate spreads out, hues of green and wintery grays. The sight is a mocking reminder of everything the man fucking me represents. Money. Power. Green and ice.

  And fire…

  It licks at the spaces he has yet to fill, searing, aching. My hips writhe, chasing relief. Fullness. No. Friction. No…

  “Goddamn it, if you come…” A growl resonates in my bones as he clasps my hips to lock me in place.

  His next thrust jars me forward, forcing my face against the glass. Dust mingles with his flavor on my tongue. Through blurred vision, I make out my reflection. Wide-eyed, hair slicked back, breaths heaving. And the man behind me reveals himself in glimpses and snatches of polished glass.

  “B-Brandt—”

  “Not him.” Twitching fingers encircle my throat in warning. “You say any name”—he bucks his hips to drive in his next command—“it’s fucking mine. You say my name.”

  His. My thoughts scatter, and I can’t say a damn thing. I can only moan, and shudder, and claw at the peeling paint and unyielding wood.

  “That’s right,” he snarls as my body convulses. “You fucking come for me. Only me.”

  He drags out every unbearable, grating bit of friction to the point where I lose my voice, forced to croak wordlessly as my vision fades in and out of focus. He doesn’t come inside me—I know that much; more hot spurts land against my ass and drip onto the floor. I’m left boneless as he pulls out and lets me collapse to my knees.

  “Shit, I should hate fucking you,” he admits, his voice hoarse. “Looking at you should make my cock so fucking limp, but it’s like…” He groans in exasperation, and I imagine him raking his hands through his hair. “It’s like you’re in my fucking skin.”

  He backs away from me, dragging his feet over the floor. I sense him approach the door and then pause near the threshold.

  “I want my dinner waiting when I come back,” he says between pants, fighting to regain control.

  Back from where? I’m not given an answer before he leaves. The door doesn’t slam behind him, left to swing on rusty hinges, ushering in the cool afternoon air.

  Crouched on my knees, I can’t move, even as I hear him march up the trail, toward the main house. His silence is my true punishment. In its wake, there’s nothing to disguise my shuddering moans as my body still rides waves of torturous, electric sensations. There’s no reprieve from the feeling of his seed drying on my back.

  There’s no mercy.

  Sixteen

  I’m freezing when I finally find the strength to move. Gray overcast light has replaced the hot sun, streaking through the dust floating in the still air. Shivering in my nakedness, I hunt for my
shift only to hesitate before putting it on. I’m covered in Blake Lorenz. His essence has dried over my skin, leaving a sticky residue. The thought of soiling my childhood frock is too repulsive to bear. So I clutch the fabric in a fist and cradle it to my chest as I walk the path, wearing nothing but shame.

  He’s gone. I know it even before I enter the house to endless quiet. Charles isn’t lurking in the hall, and shadow makes for tempting cover—too tempting to resist.

  I shower first, wasting time by scrubbing myself clean of every drop of sweat and lust. I rub each limb raw until my skin is left pink in the aftermath. That’s when I allow myself to pull my dress on and creep back down the stairs, toward Papa’s study.

  The specter of Blake Lorenz lurks in every flicker of shadow or creak of old wood. This time, I head straight to the desk and open the bottom drawer. The ledger lies untouched, a tempting lure. Could it hold the answer to winning back at least part of my family’s fortune? I’m desperate enough to try.

  My fingers shake as I clumsily flip the cover open. Subsequent pages reveal little, at least nothing I can make sense of. Just pages of numbers and names that don’t register. Accounts?

  I tear through the pages with increasing desperation. More numbers. More names. Wait…

  I stop on a page, my fingers frozen over the ink. At the top of it is a neat row of more abstract figures and unknown names. I picture the writer settling in this chair, going about his work. Until it happens. His nostrils flare, catching wind of a scent that shouldn’t be there. His grip tightens over his pen, leaving a streak of ink across the paper. I imagine him instantly settling on a culprit of the smell. Irritated, he writes their name. Over and over.

  Snowy.

  Snow.

  SNOW.

  SNOW. SNOW. SNOW.

  I read my name at least a thousand times as dread builds in a pulse at the back of my skull. Some deep impulse urges me to turn the page. I must. I can’t. My thumb dances, quivering with indecision. Finally, I turn it and what I find has me jerking back, almost out of the room. My heart pounds, surging blood through my veins. I blink, but the carefully etched words never disappear. They’re vibrant as if ground into the page, almost tearing it.