8
Calamity
Penelope lets out a gasp even as her head collides with the door at the force of my thrust. It feels just as good as I imagined to be inside her, but it's secondary. I'm beyond seeing red, angry with her for having the gall to confront me in front of the others, as though there haven't been enough whispers circulating King territory about me. I'm only leader for as long as I can show strength enough to hold that position.
And I'm not about to let a damn Cruz dictate to me in my town.
I dig my fingers into the outer curve of her thigh, dragging her hips into a more ideal position, letting out a groan when she flexes around my cock. She feels like goddamn nirvana, and I hate her for it. I want her to hurt. I want every drag of my cock to be laced with the reminder of how much I despise what has been done. But she's a tough little firebrand and meets me on the downstroke with a moan, apparently over her initial surprise enough to sway her body against mine in a move so sensual it should be illegal.
"Calamity," she moans.
The sound of my name on those gorgeous lips only makes me drive into her harder. I want to hear it again, in just the same fashion. The title is hard won. It took me almost a month to wrench my first name from her. No more Gardel this or Gardel that.
The door rattles as I thrust into her again, hard, drawing out another moan. So much for my rules. Hard to convince her to beg for my cock when she's had it already. And now that I've gotten a taste of what it feels like to be inside of her, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to stop myself from doing it again.
She whips her arms around my neck, anchoring herself firmly against me, meeting me stroke for stroke. I don't want to look at her, just lose myself in the feel of her tight heat. This wasn't initially about her pleasure. But my eyes are almost magnetically drawn to hers. I've grown so accustomed to watching her pleasure play out across that striking face that the action is ingrained.
She's staring back at me, those dark, alluring eyes wide with surprise and also slightly glazed with pleasure. I can't seem to tear my eyes away, though I ought to. This feels somehow more intimate than the grip of her pussy on my cock. I'm used to fucking, no thought or emotion required. This is too much like making love for my comfort. The last woman I locked eyes with this way was Trinity.
Unbidden, the image of her comes to mind. It is eerie just how much they resemble each other. I hate her for that, too. For walking into my life like the phantom image of the only woman I have ever loved.
With a growl, I tug her from the wall and slide from her. It feels like tearing a limb off, the need to be inside her is so strong. I push her roughly toward the bed, bending her double over the mattress before hoisting that pastel skirt up to her hips, exposing her bare ass. I haul back and smack her. She bucks and lets out a small moan as the sting resonates through her. It's so gratifying that I do it again, and then again until both cheeks are tinged a rosy pink.
When I slide into her again, she grips me tight, glistening pink pussy welcoming me enthusiastically, I half-expect her to tell me no or to demand what my problem is. I want that anger. It's less gratifying to take out the fury on a target who is pliant and waiting for it. Unless that was the ploy all along? Piss me off so she can earn a hard hate fuck? If that's the case, I should draw away from her and let her take care of the unmet desire all on her own.
But I won't. The feeling of being inside of her has me on the edge already, and I've never been one to lack stamina. She presses back into me, embracing the punishing pace. And despite my best efforts, I can't maintain the anger for long. She looks too much likeher. My eyes skim over her, taking in the taut, rosy peaks of her breasts, the dramatic curve of her waist, the full roundness of her hips. Every inch of her perfect, almost as if she'd been crafted to taunt me specifically.
I almost snort as a snippet of long-ago reading flits into my head, a little too poetic and à propos for the situation at hand. There had been a time Trinity teased me, calling me her scholar.
Why this is hell, nor am I out of it. Think’s thou that I, who saw the face of God, and tasted the eternal joys of heaven, am not tormented with ten thousand hells in being deprived of everlasting bliss?
Faust, who'd sold his soul for a bag of pointless tricks and damned himself. An ironic parallel could be drawn, I suppose. Willful blindness and trust had lost me one of the few things that made life worth living. I've torn my domain into shreds because I lost her. And now here is this woman, who is too appealing and spirited for her own good, who seems determined to find me appealing, although I'm a monster.
I tangle my hand in her hair, draw her head back and latch onto the smooth column of her throat with my teeth, aiming to bruise.
She reminds me of who I was. Of who I could still be if the circumstances were different. I hate her for it. I try to remind myself of that as I drive into her.
I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.
And I hate that part of me is softening toward this prickly little flower. A rose that's beautiful but will cut you to ribbons if you touch it wrong.
A tantalizing symphony of moans comes from her. I lean over her, pressing my front against the supple muscle of her back, reaching between her legs to toy with the bud at the apex of her sex. She keens and then yelps my name.
"Again."
"Calamity," she pants.
"Again, Penelope. Scream it."
"Calamity!"
And her body is arching off the bed, her whole body trembling with the force of her orgasm. Seeing her like that, hair mussed, eyes glazed over in pleasure sends me crashing over the edge. My hips buck one last time before I still inside her with a hoarse sound of pleasure. She's shivering as the aftershocks rock over her.
Then I hear a sniffle. She ducks her head, but not before I catch a glistening tear streak down her cheek.
Fuck. She's crying? Did I hurt her? That was the aim. But now I feel like utter shit for it. It's not truly her I'm angry with. I'm about to ask what I've done when she speaks.
"Who's Trinity?" she asks thickly.
