Grayson’s cock pushes into me hard and deep, and thick ropes of come unceremoniously decorate my stomach. Like a trigger for his own orgasm, Grayson shouts into the void, and my pulsating hole contracts around him, dragging out his release.
As promised, he fills me up, only to pull out and watch in awe at the beautiful mess he created. He swipes at his come with his fingers and brings it to my mouth.
“Mine.”
I take hold of his wrist and push the digits past my lips, eagerly sucking on them, tasting us together; real and raw. My body begins to whir with a familiar hum when I catch the look of love in Grayson’s eyes.
It’s a look I used to think I imagined. Now I never want to go a single day without it.
“I love you,” I blurt out, the words releasing me of the misery and heartache I’ve held close for so long.
He gives me a show-stopping smile. “I love you too.”
He skates his knuckles down my cheek, and then squeezes himself beside me on the sofa.
Together and sated, my pulse slowly regulates, and my breathing eventually evens. With Grayson and I naked, every inch of me touching every inch of him. My world is perfect.
My world is right.
“I want you to do something for me.”
Sitting up on my elbows, I look down at him. “Anything.”
He reaches over me, and my carving knife comes into view. “I want us to match.”
I narrow my eyes at him in confusion. “You want a tattoo?”
“No. I want you to carve me. Permanently.”
I shake my head at him. “I don’t think I can do that.”
He presses his hand on my tattoo. “You can, Kai. And you will. For me.”
He points the blade at me. “I want it to be exactly the same as yours, with your name in the middle.”
I blow out a long breath. “Are you sure?”
“Sure as I’ll ever be.” He wiggles until he’s lying flat on his back, and I’m once again straddling him. “I want you to have my heart.”
“I have it, G. I don’t need this.”
He gently cradles my cheek. “Please, baby. Carve me with love.”
Enjoyed this forbidden tale of romance? Then check out Devilry by Marley Valentine. “Cole Huxley is everything I could fall in love with, except for one problem... I never wanted to fall for my professor.”
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King Thrushbeard
Cora Reilly
1
Whitney.
For a long time, our family name had carried weight. Old money. Social royalty. Influence.
But now that the first was dwindling, the others were at risk as well.
Dad righted his gray hair once more as if it was him who’d be offered to the highest bidder. The day I’d turned eighteen a few weeks ago, the meat show had begun.
“Our options are limited,” Dad reminded me. “You must give him a chance. We need this.”
Our options were limited because I’d already rejected three possible suitors, all of them from high-ranking families. Old money like our family but with the significant difference that they still had an almost never-ending supply of dollars at their disposal. It wasn’t only Dad’s fault. Grandpa’s unfortunate investment strategies had set off our downward spiral, but Dad’s bad luck at the stock market had definitely put the last nail in our coffin.
Now it was my responsibility to fix our soon-to-happen fall from grace. Sadly, not by clever investments or anything remotely palatable. No, I was supposed to marry a stinking rich man who’d supply our family with the necessary funds to build a fortune of our own once more.
The bell rang at the agreed-upon time. Mom, Dad, and I had already gathered in our splendid foyer, a relic from better days, and lined up like tin soldiers to welcome our guest, the long-awaited savior of our family. I smoothed my chic dress, an exclusive Patrizia Pepe piece I’d bought in a sale. It was last season, but I doubted a man would be acquainted with current fashion trends.
Mom sent me a look that was somewhere between warning and pleading.
Our despair had risen with each failed match, and by this time I almost regretted declining suitor number one. He’d been the least unattractive of the lot. Not attractive by any means, but definitely better than numbers two and three. His leering smile, however, had set my teeth on edge.
“We need this,” Dad reminded me again. He didn’t have to. Our roof was in need of repair and the wallpaper peeled off the walls in several of the upstairs rooms. The first floor was in splendid condition to keep up appearances in front of our visitors, but it was only a matter of time before we couldn’t pay for maintaining this part of the house either.
Our maid headed for the door. She was one of the last members of staff still on our payroll. Over the past three years, many of the rest had been let go with flimsy excuses. The first rumors about our financial crisis were already making the rounds. How much longer until we’d be shunned by our social circles? Maybe the much-anticipated coming of age party for Tinsley Constantine would be the last hurrah before our fall.
I braced myself when our maid opened the door, expecting the worst. Surprise washed over me when Mr. Peyton Chanler stepped into our foyer. He was the oldest of my suitors so far, twelve years older than me, but his age was something I needn’t have worried about. The man was fit.
His family wasn’t old money, but they had more new money than anyone could ever spend, even if its sources were sometimes dubious. But black-market involvement and seedy operations were something quite a few families, even the Constantines, were familiar with. Maybe Dad’s refusal to dip his toes into murkier water was the reason we were running out of funds.
Dad walked up to him for a handshake and some of the obligatory pleasantries. Mr. Chanler was tall, half a head taller than Dad, which meant he’d be towering over me by a head. He had short, dark brown hair which was in a careful disarray, not the smoothed-back style usually displayed in our circles. The most surprising thing was his beard. It wasn’t a neatly cut version but a more rugged beard reminiscent of the style so popular in Brooklyn’s hipster scene. I hated beards in every shape and form, usually just on principle, but with Mr. Chanler I hated it because it hid part of his striking face.
He was good-looking and he knew it. He carried himself with the confidence of someone with money and attractiveness, a lethal combination.
“Thank you for accepting our invitation,” Dad drawled.
I cringed. Usually, suitors were supposed to woo their possible wife, but Dad was practically throwing me at every rich bachelor with a name and money behind it.
“My father made the arrangements,” Mr. Chanler said, not even bothering to hide his reluctance over being here.
My pride reared its stubborn head. Maybe we were broke, but I wouldn’t beg anyone to marry me, not even if he had a body few men had time or ambition to maintain. His slacks and dark sweater did nothing to hide the muscles he’d undoubtedly worked very hard for. I couldn’t stop myself from wondering how he’d look without clothes.
Mom moved toward Mr. Chanler and gave him her most charming smile. He didn’t look impressed, only bored and a little wary. He was a man aware of the nature of this meeting. He had the money to buy the trophy wife who’d spread her legs until he found a discreet mistress.