Wicked Idol: A Hellfire Club Novel

by Becker Gray

  I set her on the counter, my hands already diving under her skirt to pull off her panties. I worked them off her hips and legs, stuffing them in my pocket. Like hell was she getting those back.

  “Hold up your skirt and spread your legs,” I told her as I got to my knees. I was just tall enough that when I knelt, her pussy was right where I wanted it. And so, when she finally did as I asked and pulled up her skirt, I was presented with a view that would keep my right hand busy for years.

  I’d been able to glimpse her before, in the moonlight, but it was nothing like this. Nothing like being able to see her in broad daylight. Nothing like seeing where she was pink and slick and ready for me. Nothing like being able to see her silky, scarlet curls. Yes, it was a stereotype that guys love redheaded pussy, and yes, it was still hot as hell, stereotype or not.

  I didn’t warm her up. I didn’t kiss my way up her thigh. I didn’t give her chaste, closed-mouth kisses against her seam. Instead, I dove in like a starving man and clamped my hands over her hips to keep her still as I stroked into her with my tongue.

  “Fuck, babe,” I murmured into her, barely able to stop devouring her in order to get the words out. “You taste so good.” Even better than I remembered. Even better than I’d dreamed.

  She was so sweet here, so very Iris—and it was a taste I was worried I’d never get enough of, given the rock-hard state of my dick.

  She tried to arch as my tongue flicked over her clit, but I wouldn’t let her. I held her fast and started going in earnest—fluttering, caressing, sucking—full on burying my face into her. My nose was in her curls and my lips were wet with her, and when I chanced a look up at her, she was already looking down at me with a look that fired my blood right up.

  She was looking at me like I was some kind of king.

  Like I was some kind of idol.

  “Keaton,” she whispered.

  “Keep still and keep that skirt up,” I ordered, going in again, abandoning myself to every dirty kiss and lick I’d fantasized about giving this pretty ginger pussy. She was so soft and so warm here.

  She was heaven, and I was going to give her heaven in return.

  I carefully worked a single finger inside, keeping my mouth at the swollen bud above her opening, feeling her thighs tense around my head. She was getting close, her body practically thrumming as she got wetter and tighter—and wetter and tighter still.

  Fuck. I’d jerked off to the thought of this so many times, it was nearly impossible to keep myself from reaching down and freeing my cock, like a perverted Pavlovian response to having my mouth between her legs.

  Soon, I promised my aching erection. So soon.

  But Iris first.

  I used my free hand to hold her hip even tighter—and just in time, too, because as her climax broke against my mouth, she sank her fingers into my hair and rocked against me, trembling so hard I wondered if she’d tremble right off the edge of the counter. I wondered if I’d have to catch her and then lay her down right there on my kitchen floor and sink into her slick warmth.

  Because if she literally fell off the counter because I made her come so hard, there was no way I was making it all the way to my bed. No fucking way.

  Luckily for us both, I managed to keep her braced up on her perch while I finished the job, making sure to kiss her pussy through every last flutter and squeeze. And then when she was all done, I withdrew my finger and stood, scooping her into my arms without a word.

  “Keaton,” she sighed dreamily, resting her head against my shoulder.

  “You’re always so sweet after you come for me.”

  “Is that why you do it?” she asked, her tone half drowsy, half teasing. “So I’ll be nice?”

  I smirked down at her. “I like it when you’re mouthy too, you know.”

  “Oh, is that so?”

  We were in my room now, and thank God, because I was so hard I could feel my heartbeat in my dick. Need for her had bunched itself into a hot ball at the base of my spine, and the pressure was painful, threatening to snap my resolve.

  “You know it is,” I told her as I set her on my bed and then crawled over her. The light was slowly fading into the lavender light of evening, and my big shadow dwarfed her small frame on the bed. “Whenever we fight, I end up begging to put my mouth on you.”

  She gave me a doubtful look. “I’d say you’re more bossy than begging.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, take off your shirt.”

  She rolled her eyes at me but smiled to herself all the same as she pulled off her sweater and then started unbuttoning the white shirt underneath. I mirrored her as I rose up to my knees, opening my shirt and then tearing it off. I kicked off my shoes and pants, wearing nothing but boxer briefs as I palmed my erection and looked down at the living wet dream in my bed.

  She was in nothing but her bra and her skirt now, and when she parted her legs, it was obvious there was nothing underneath. Nothing between my hot gaze and her waiting pussy.

  “Bra off,” I said hoarsely. “I want to be able to suck on your tits.”

  The smile on her face turned into an expression so hungry I nearly came in my boxer briefs. “Oh, really,” she said softly. She reached behind her back, and in a few seconds, I could see her perfect breasts—pert and freckled and tipped with nipples already straining to be sucked on. “I think I want that too.”

  She gathered her skirt up in her fingers, pulling the hem all the way up past her naked pussy.

  “I think I want everything,” she whispered.

  Looking at her made me feel like I’d been kicked in the chest. Those sweet tits, her soft stomach, that place between her legs that I could still taste on my lips . . .

  Those bright blue eyes, looking up at me with hunger and trust, and still glazed with satisfaction from the orgasm I just gave her . . .

  And her hair, all flame-colored satin, tousled over my pillow as it should fucking be. Her hair should be spilled over my pillow every night for the next eight months. For the next million months.

  I could barely fucking stand it, how good and right it was to have her like this.

  Once I could breathe again, I reached over to my end table and pulled a condom from the drawer, tearing the packet open with my teeth.

  “You’ve done this before, Big Red?” I asked as I tugged my boxer briefs down and rolled the condom over my thick length.

  I figured she probably hadn’t; she’d had virgin written all over her from the start. And normally I didn’t care about that kind of caveman shit—sex was sex, didn’t matter if it was the first time or the ninetieth—but it did matter that we went at the right pace.

  Her eyes were hot on my dick as I worked the latex down. A flush was working its way up from her chest to her neck. “No,” she murmured. “This is—you’re my first.”

  It shouldn’t matter, I told myself again. It didn’t matter.

  But that she was trusting me with this—trusting me to make it good for her—it made something behind my ribs go tight and sharp.

  “I promise you won’t regret it,” I swore, leaning back over her. I kissed her thoroughly as I reached down to sweep the head of my cock through her seam, rubbing her up and down with my tip until she started moving underneath me and chasing it.

  I kissed her neck and then a soft breast as I finally nudged myself inside—just the tiniest amount. Just the tip.

  I held my breath. Christ she was tight. And warm. And so slippery wet. She stiffened underneath me, pulling in a breath, and I bent to take a taut nipple into my mouth, sucking and working it until she relaxed again.

  And then I pushed in.

  Not much—just an inch—but it was enough to send her hands flying to my shoulders. Her eyes were round when I looked down at her, and her lower lip was caught between her teeth.

  I froze. “Does it hurt too much?” I asked. It was almost hurting me—she was that tight and warm inside. My balls were already drawing up to my body, eager to re
lease into her, and I had to clench everything in my stomach and thighs and ass to keep from blowing my load right then and there.

  She shook her head after a minute. “No. No, it feels better now.” She ran her eyes down my chest and abdomen, her stare going dark with lust as she looked down at where my cock was wedged into her. “Just go slow if you can,” she said in a husky voice.

  “Anything,” I promised her. “Anything you need.” Although going slow felt like a Herculean task right now. Everything in my body was screaming to thrust, to rut, to pump into her until I exploded.

  I reached down to gently massage her clit as I pushed in a little bit more, my entire body trembling with the restraint.

  “God,” she breathed. “It’s—it’s so much. Are you all the way in yet?”

  I almost laughed, and the noise came out pained. Nearly animal-like. “No, babe. Not even halfway.”

  “How?”

  I bent down to suck on the firm berry of a nipple. “Because I’m big and you’re tiny. Now, shhh. Let me make you feel good.”

  It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, working my way into her virgin slickness without losing control. There was no word for how that velvet grip felt around my dick, for how slick and hot she was, for the way her silken walls caressed me. I gritted my teeth, I clenched my jaw—I even closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see all that fiery hair or those sweet, cinnamon freckles—and then somehow, miraculously, I made it all the way to the root without hurting her or embarrassing myself.

  Once I was sunk to the hilt, I managed—with some deep breathing and counting backwards—to get a hold of myself enough that I could open my eyes and look down at her. When I did, I nearly regretted it, because she was so fucking beautiful like this, all flushed and flutter-eyed, her lips parted and her nipples still hard and begging for my mouth again.

  I braced myself on one hand and started circling her needy clit with my thumb, not moving my hips at all. I just rubbed and circled with her impaled on me, and then bit by bit, little by little, she started to move. She started to fuck herself on my erection, chasing the pleasure, circling her hips and rocking against the pressure on her swollen bud.

  “Oh god,” she whispered, her hands pushing back into my hair and pulling tight. I hissed in response, only barely able to keep from coming then. “Oh god, Keaton—it’s like—it feels so—”

  What it felt like I never did learn, because she shattered beneath me with a long, delicious cry that had my hips churning between her thighs before I even realized what was happening. Her body went tight and quivery around me, squeezing me, milking me, and it was as if her body was trying to pull the orgasm right out of my cock, like it was yanking it clean out of my soul.

  I fell over her, sliding my arms beneath her slender frame and giving her my weight as I gave in. All these weeks of wanting her, of needing her, of jerking off constantly because she made me crazed with lust—it all came out now, ripping through my body with the force of a storm. I buried my face in her hair and pumped the condom full of my orgasm, rocked to the core by each and every jolting pulse. Slain by every jagged surge of pleasure as I emptied my need into her body.

  Wrecked with how beautiful she was, even now—sweaty and tousled and looking exactly like a girl who’d just been thoroughly fucked.

  When the orgasm finally slowed and then abated, we shared a long, lazy kiss. And when I pulled away to take care of the condom, she murmured, “You did it, you know.”

  “Did what?”

  She smiled a smile that could shame the sun. “You made it good for me.”

  My chest went all tight again, for reasons I didn’t understand—or didn’t want to understand. “Yeah?”

  Then that smile turned incendiary, and she reached for me as I walked back from the small wastebasket by my desk. She licked her lips in a way that had me getting hard all over again. “Now, let me see if I can think of something to make good for you.”

  “Iris,” I groaned, already climbing back on the bed, because—what, I’m going to say no?

  “Shh,” she teased, getting up and crawling down my body. “Let me make you feel good.”

  And then her slender fingers were on me, and good was nowhere even close to how I felt.

  14

  Iris

  “Do you think we’ve got enough?”

  Keaton was scrolling through my camera as we stood on a sidewalk in Chinatown, combing through all the pictures we’d taken today. We’d snapped expansive views from the observation deck at 30 Rock; we’d captured the bustle and rush of Grand Central Terminal. We’d found Grove Court—the almost eerily out-of-time nook of ivy-covered, white-shuttered brick—and we’d gotten shots of the Brooklyn Bridge from every possible angle. We’d used up all that delicious autumn light, and now evening was creeping in, along with a stiff, chilly breeze.

  “I think we’ve got everything we need,” he said, lingering over a picture I’d taken from the observation deck this morning. I’d taken it right as the sun was breaking through a fluff of thick clouds, and it managed to catch the way its newly released rays broke over the skyline like gilded waves upon a jagged, glassy shore.

  “This looks like something out of a movie,” he said, grinning up at me. “You’re brilliant, babe. I’m fucking an actual genius.”

  I grinned back, but the grin was short-lived.

  The words brilliant and genius went down like compliments should—smooth and sweet.

  But I had no idea how to parse my response to the last part. When he said the word fucking like that, rough and proud and suggestive all at once, I wanted to tackle him to the sidewalk and rip his pants off. But I also couldn’t help the sharp stab in my chest at hearing it.

  Was fucking all this was to him?

  What else did you expect, Iris? Did you expect him to tell you he was in love with you?

  No. No.

  No, of course not. That would be both stupid and ridiculous, and I was neither. I knew sex didn’t equal love. Even an idiot could see that Keaton Constantine wasn’t the loving type—and I definitely wasn’t in love with him, anyway. I mean, hell, hadn’t I only just decided I didn’t hate him? Of course I wasn’t in love with him.

  It’s just . . . looking at him right now with that grin and that lock of hair falling over his forehead . . . feeling the tenderness between my legs and the flutter of my pulse at his nearness—I couldn’t say that the idea of love sounded that awfully stupid. He was sexy and secretly talented, he was cocky and bossy and also the kind of guy that would do anything to help a friend.

  Would it be so terrible? To fall in love with him?

  It would if he didn’t love you back.

  Because that—it would break me.

  Of that I had no doubt.

  “I still can’t believe this is your home,” I said as we walked back inside the Constantine penthouse. When we’d woken up this morning after having sex two more times last night, I’d demanded a tour—which he’d given and which also ended with us having sex on a rug in front of a fireplace faced with some fancy green marble imported from Italy.

  It wasn’t that I hadn’t been in expensive houses before—attending boarding school and having boarding-school friends invariably meant staying over at places that were infinitely nicer than a headmaster’s residence—but the Constantine penthouse was still far beyond anything I’d ever seen.

  The huge windows looking out onto the city, and the soaring ceilings, and the glass and steel staircases that looked like works of art . . . it all screamed money. And not just any kind of money, but like, big money. Russian oligarch money. Own-multiple-private-islands money.

  Keaton Constantine wasn’t just the king of Pembroke.

  When it came his time, he was going to be king of the world.

  And it didn’t do anything to make me feel better about where things stood between us. Why would a king want a freckled new girl with parental baggage? Of course he wouldn’t.

  And you don’t want him either
, remember? You’re bound for Paris—the sex stuff is just a fun stop along the way.

  “I can’t believe I still haven’t gotten to see you naked in my pool,” Keaton said as he came up behind me and pulled me into his arms. He was hard again, and the rigid heft of his erection pressed into my backside like a luscious promise.

  I should have been too tender to think about sex again, but when he nipped at my earlobe and slid a hand down to cup my pussy over my dress, my entire body went hot and shivery. The sore place between my legs ached for more.

  I pushed into his touch, and he made a noise deep in his chest, like a growl. “You ready for more, baby?”

  “How about,” I said, looking at the darkened sky outside, “we try out your pool?”

  His grip didn’t loosen on me, like he was torn between fucking me bent over a nearby sofa or finally getting his Iris pool fantasy.

  With a heavy breath, he finally released me.

  “No clothes, Iris,” he said huskily. “I want you bare.”

  God, when he used that voice . . . I quivered. It frightened me how much control he had over my body, over my reactions, just by being him. It frightened me to think he might have that kind of control over my heart—that he could set it to racing with happiness or thudding with anxious pain. I couldn’t let that happen.

  I wouldn’t.

  Resolved, I stepped away from him and cast a coy glance over my shoulder as I started walking towards the terrace, lit only by the glow of the city and the underwater lights set deep in the pool. I pulled off my dress as I walked. And then my bra. And then my panties. Until I was in nothing but goosebumps and the little ankle boots I’d worn around the city today.

  Keaton prowled after me as I went, his eyes glittering in the shadows and his hands clenching into fists, as if to keep himself from grabbing me. I bent at the waist to unzip the little zippers on the boots, giving him a show, and when I stood back up with bare feet and glanced back at him, he looked downright dangerous.

  “Careful, Iris,” he warned.