Page 103 of Wicked Vile King
"Giving you what you need," I say, turning his words back against him.
His hips jerk up into my hand, his breath coming a little faster than before.
"What should your pet do for you?" I ask him, and he smiles, his teeth strikingly white. His tongue flicks out, tasting a canine, before he smirks.
"Ride me," he says.
I line him up, and it's awkward, my knees slipping in the wetness, before I lower myself down onto him.
He hisses.
"Like that?" I ask.
It's so big this way.
"Harder," he grunts, grabbing my hips and guiding me.
Down and around, up and over, I ride him, my knees slipping in the mess, his grip unforgiving against my hipbones, his gaze locked on me.
"Fuck," he groans, his hands guiding me faster and faster until I'm bouncing on him.
His fingers bruise my hips. Blood splatters. There's a wet sound of skin against skin, and he brings his hand up to my clit, thrumming it.
The room smells like pennies and sin anddeath. I ride him as he lifts his hips, fucking me just as hard as I fuck him. My knee hits a puddle, and I slip, but with one hand, he keeps me steady, his fingers squeezing my flesh as he pounds into me from below, his other hand still furiously massaging my clit.
He thrusts into me once, twice, and then the world detonates into white.
"Goddamn, pet," he grunts, holding me even tighter, jerking up and emptying inside of me in short, brutal thrusts.
I still see the stars as I collapse, folding over on top of him, my heart clobbering in my chest. He reaches up and brushes his fingers across my back, breathing fast beneath me.
"Still okay?" he murmurs, his fingers brushing across my shoulder blades.
"Perfect," I reply.
He plants a kiss against the crown of my hair, and his hand on my back stills.
"Do you think one event in your life can make you what you are?" he asks after a beat of silence.
"I don't know," I answer honestly, listening to his heart rate slow.
"I think it did me," he murmurs.
"What do you mean?" I say.
"I still see them," he answers, his words slow and thick. "Women, men, children. I see them at night when I sleep and when Butcher locks me up and gives me the crazy meds."
I lean up a little, looking at him, and Saint looks back at me, unblinking.
"I was four," he says with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. "My father had a business deal that went wrong. He's always had questionable business connections, but I guess they were pissed, right? Because they lost out on a bunch of money, and they thought they could force him to pay what they wanted if they took his kid. They underestimated how much of a prick my father is though."
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement.
"They took me at a baseball game. I was there for my brother or something, I can't remember, but they killed a kid for getting in the way, blasted his brains across the sidewalk. And my father didn't even pay, he never did, not a fucking dime. I sat on a soiled mattress in that goddamned basement for three weeks, watching the wannabe mobsters traffic women and kids through that shithole. The place didn't even have a toilet. They would make you piss in a bucket, and I remember they never fucking cleaned it, not the entire time I was there."
He swallows again.
"Most of the kids weren't even much older than me at the time, and if they got sick or too old or whatever, the main guy there—this bald fuck—would slit their throats, cut 'em up, and stuff 'em into metal barrels." He looks back at me. "I saw seventeen people die over twenty days, and the only reason I got out of there was because the fucker accidentally set a kitchen fire upstairs and the fire department was called."
