His Pretty Little Queen: A Dark Mafia, Age Gap Romance (Kids of The District Book 5)
His Pretty Little Queen: Chapter 33

“I NEED YOU, little deer. Open your mouth.”

I’m woken by his fingers sliding down the slit between my lips and the dangerous need in his voice. I’m on my side. My head is by the edge of the bed. I can tell it is late by the humming of the air conditioner as it breaks through the quiet.

With my eyes still closed, a moan slips from me as I part my lips for him, accepting his finger between my teeth.

He dips two long forefingers down the length of my tongue, provoking my mouth to salivate around the salty digits. He’s slow. Tense. His breaths are heavy but controlled.

I don’t gag, instead undulating my tongue up and against them, showing off my skills, wanting his praise.

“That’s my good little girl,” he growls, his voice sounding deeper, harder, cold. The way he said it didn’t sound the same as before. It sounded disconnected. “Keep your eyes closed. Don’t defy me tonight.”

Something feels wrong.

His fingers leave my mouth wanting when he slides his hand back to take a firm hold of the nape of my neck. At the feel of his cock rubbing wetly against my lips, I force them wider to accept his entire smooth crown.

Chills rush along my spine.

The flavours of his skin, a salty, male musk that causes my mouth to water, fills me with arousal that seeps down to my toes. I curl them as he slowly deepens his penetration. But he is too controlled. Too slow. My arousal is suddenly mixed with the twitching of nerves as dark, formidable energy circles me and him, and—

I nearly gag, so I concentrate. My throat closing around the crown, and my breathing becoming hard and strained through my nose. He’s dark tonight. An aura to him that has my thighs clenching, my skin flushing with a fever, and my heart galloping between my ears.

I don’t dare open my eyes, don’t risk a glance, focusing on the slow penetration in the depth of my throat. I lift my hands to brace myself on his thighs by my face—

“No!” he snaps hoarsely, and my heart stalls before it quickens. “Hands down. Don’t touch me.”

I would have preferred a slap to the face. My strength and self-confidence are squashed at the bite in his timbre. I cower slightly but fight my innate response to pull away, ask what’s going on and beg him to let me in this time.

Tell me he loves me. That it’s okay, sweet girl. I love you. I’m just angry… Something happened…

Always about me. I’m not a fucking Harlow. Weak and needy, chasing after boys that don’t want me, desperate for the crumbs. I’m more than that, and I need to rise above my own self-doubt, ignore the way his tone shrinks me, and stifle the insecurities that wrestle to consume me.

I have to fight my old self.

Be the woman he believes me to be, the one he needs, because Clay Butcher won’t forever live alone with the darkness inside him. I will cradle him and his evil.

My tongue pulses below a thick vein, trailing it as he slides in and out slowly. The pace is killing me. Hurting. It is so methodical. Lifeless.

I squeeze my eyes, fighting to keep them closed when I’m desperate to open them. To see his face. See the pain I hear in his voice flash within his eyes, the hurt that is plain in his distance.

I whimper my sadness but accept the way he’s using my mouth; accept the way he is…

He groans. “Oh. Fuck.”

I ball my hands into fists by my chest.

Needing more, needing more passion, so I start to suck and mouth him. His teeth clench in response, the sound of them grinding loud even through my drumming pulse.

He doesn’t deny me the pace I desire, groaning, “Very well, little deer. Make me come.”

I work my neck and head, taking him deep, drawing out, the smooth, plush head flopping and bobbing. I dive down again, my movements desperate and needy while his tight grip on my neck is unyielding and distant.

Tears squeeze out of my closed eyes, quickly streaming down my face, wetting me and his cock.

“You think you can handle my evil, sweet girl?” he taunts, and it hurts, but his anger isn’t for me. His need is. I know it, I know it, I chant.

Oh. God.

What has happened tonight, Sir?

Where are you?

Frightened by his remoteness, by his cruel, provocative air, I use my mouth to prove I can handle any part of him, all of him, even as my heart aches and my tears fall. I can handle his evil. I can.

His breath suddenly jerks, his hips buck, and he squeezes my nape until I whimper under the pressure. He holds my mouth wide around his root, the length of him down my throat, his cum pulsing out hard and fast.

“Suck it all out of me, little deer,” he hisses. “You want it. Swallow all my fucking evil like a good girl.”

The first sign of passion between all his stony detachment comes out as his body shakes, his teeth snap on a growl, and I swallow around the deep penetration, accepting him and his evil, drinking both in.

Barely finished; he stills.

I fight to breathe.

Keep my hands in fists.

Obediently squeeze my eyes.

Silently, he backs away, his cock sliding from the depths of my throat, leaving me gasping.

I sit up with a start, drawing in air and allowing myself to sob, unable to restrain it. I blink the tears. It’s dim in the room, but I cover my face anyway, peeking through the gaps in my fingers, and seeing his blurry silhouette walk from the bedroom through the pools of my tears.