I hate it even more that he’s right.
twenty-one
Nikolaj
Idon’tbotherfinishingthecoffee.
I set the cup aside, crowd him until the counter presses into the small of his back, and catch his chin between my fingers because I want every bit of that grin wiped clean.
“You remember what happens when you gloat too long?” I ask, voice low, thumb dragging across his lower lip.
He keeps smiling, the reckless kind that says he already knows I’m going to make good on every threat. “You lecture me about hubris, then you do something unforgivably filthy to prove a point.”
“Right.” I twist my grip and tilt his head back, making him look at me dead-on. “Guess which part comes next.”
His pupils blow wide. The grin falters, then shifts—less smug, more hungry. “You’re the king, Nikolaj. In here, anyway.”
Wrong answer; it sparks instead of soothes. The word king has never sounded more like a dare.
I shove the coffee mug farther away with a clatter, curl my hand into the waistband of his boxers, and spin him.
His hips hit the marble edge; the breath leaves him in a grunt that punches right into my pulse. I flatten him over the counter, palm splayed between his shoulders to keep him there.
“No crowns right now,” I growl against the nape of his neck. “Just you learning how it feels when you talk too much before breakfast.”
He laughs—breathy, cocky—then tries to push back like he’s testing the hold. I tighten down. “Behave,” I warn.
“Make me.”
Challenge accepted.
I yank his wrists behind his back, pin them with one hand, and shove the boxers low with the other. He sucks in air, hips jerking when the cold marble kisses hot skin. The muscles across his shoulders bunch beneath my palm, tattoos flexing like wings ready to tear free, and for a beat I just look—at the bruises I left last night dusting along his hips, at the imprint of my teeth just below the line of his ribs.
Evidence. Proof.Mine.
“Still so proud,” I whisper. “But you’ll give me what I want.”
“Take it,” he dares.
My mouth trails lower, finding him lush and ready, and I eat him open with ruthless patience—nothing hurried, nothing gentle, every stroke purposeful until the marble squeaks beneath his palms and he’s cursing in languages we both bled for.
His breath racks against the countertop—sharp, shaky, and edged with the same defiance that kept him alive long enough to reach me again. I savor the tremor coursing through him, the way his hips cant back as if to shorten a distance that’s already gone.
“Eight years,” I murmur against the ridged line of scar tissue along his spine. I trace it with my tongue, a slow apology and apromise rolled into one. “Tell me you didn’t dream of this. Tell me you didn’t wake up wanting my mouth on every inch you tried to forget.”
He hisses something vicious in Italian, and I drink it down like penance. The marble groans beneath his grip, the tendons in his forearms snapping taut as he fights the instinct to yield first. Pride always was his favorite poison.
“Thought so,” I breathe, dragging my teeth just high enough to make him jolt. “Wait here for me. If you move, I stop.”
“You fucking bastard,” he moans, and I can do nothing but chuckle at my impatient little slut.
I walk over to the counter, where I spotted the coconut oil, then I head back to where Vincenzo is waiting for me with his ass bared.
I slather some between my fingers, then say, “Hold on to the counter, My King. You’ll need it.”
His reply dies in his throat when I begin—slow, relentless, coaxing him open one patient sweep at a time. I don’t rush; I want the memory of this to haunt the next summit, and every gilded throne room he walks into wearing that unshakable crown. I want him ruined on cold marble and in morning light, just for me.
He tries, once, to wrestle control back—rocks against me, gasps my name like a warning—but I catch his hip and pin him, a low growl vibrating through my chest. It’s enough.
