Shattered Throne: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 3), Lana Sky [summer reading list txt] 📗

catch up, piecing together exactly what he’s doing. Just when I think he can’t possibly do more, his fingers fearlessly navigate flesh and nerves to find a bundle of skin that makes me arch into his grasp.

It’s cruel what he does to me, playing my body like an instrument only he has ever learned to tune. I feel things I’ve never experienced—stomach-churning pressure aching between my legs. His tongue lashing like a whip. The sinful heat of his breath.

All at once.

I’m falling. Flying, all while being held by thick, trembling hands that grip me tight as if they never mean to let go.

Through all the chaos, some internal impulse warns me to breathe. Gulping for air, I look down and shudder.

His teeth glisten, tongue tracing his lips before he delves between my legs for another mind-bending swipe.

He feels so good. Too good.

Like the sting of alcohol times a million. I go limp, surrendering to the onslaught. My nerves overheat, my muscles spasming in anticipation of something… Something terrifying, the threat of which turns my belly into knots.

All I can do is grit my teeth and wait for the impact.

And it’s devastating when it comes.

My spine curls back on itself. I think I’d levitate if his weight wasn’t here to crush me down. I’m on fire, each stroke of his tongue a drop of gasoline, chased by a sharp grating pressure that makes me jump. His teeth, I think, raking and teasing.

Grinding and taunting.

My thoughts are a formless mass, my body rocking amid the pleasure. For a moment, it feels like it will never end.

And then it does, so suddenly it’s like being raised to the height of the moon and left to fall.

Dazed and heavy lidded, I glance down and realize why.

He’s rising onto his knees, cock in hand, an expression on his face like a man being slowly tortured. Without mercy or the hope of salvation, his torment must be. He groans, the sound so dangerous my head spins.

“I need to be inside you…”

I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the sound of his voice.

I never knew…

Now I do. This is what I’ve wanted. Him on his knees, begging me for relief. Needing me. Craving me.

If I tell him no, it will shatter him. Hurt him beyond physical means. He’s in the palm of my hand.

For now, a tiny voice whispers. But for how long?

I don’t think it matters.

I blink, and his mouth is on mine, his breaths heavy, his hands snatching my waist, dragging me beneath him. He feels too solid. Too heavy to ever make this work without crushing me. As if he’s reading my mind, his mouth finds my ear.

“It will hurt,” he warns, his tone unapologetic.

Pain between us is nothing new.

But when he presses against me, demanding entry, it burns. The sting takes my breath away—and then, in the next instance, a burst of pleasure comes like a wave to demolish everything in its path.

I was made for him. It’s the only way to explain how he fits. How good it feels when he moves, rocking his hips into mine. Then away.

Then harder.

I can’t make a sound to tell him what I feel. My mouth finds his ear anyway, my teeth snagging the lobe and biting down, converting my pleasure into his pain.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “You feel so damn good…”

His pace increases, each thrust deeper than the last. Deep. Deeper. Endless.

Suddenly, he throws his head back, throat cording around a groan as fire floods my belly in dangerous spurts.

And this is true destruction—what he did to me in the past was nothing.

At least then, he left my body whole.

This time, he destroys me from the inside out.

And I will never be the same again.

Corruption, in reality, turns out to be far different from how I envisioned it. I always imagined shame and chains. An existential dread and an overwhelming sense of defeat.

In actuality, all I feel is…

Tired.

So damn tired. His body is a support I never knew I’d needed. Almost like finding a raft after years spent swimming against an unforgiving current.

Salvation is surprisingly quiet. There is no fanfare. No heralding trumpets or soaring arias.

Just steady, slow breathing. Endless quiet. Warm lips that brush my earlobe with devastating softness, and a voice that grates, “You’ve gotten what you wanted.”

Have I?

No. The realization stings, threatening to shatter this fragile cocoon of peace. I ignore it, squeezing my eyes shut and turning further into the comforting heat beneath me.

His body is a symphony of muscle and bone, his heartbeat the steadying metronome at the center of it all. It hammers in a consistent, constant rhythm, revealing what he will never admit out loud.

I let myself be lulled into a daze by the beat, hoping to steal away a few more minutes at least. A little longer…

“We need to go.”

And just like that, the moment ends, his heavy sigh serving as the finale. Gently, he nudges me aside and stands, crossing the suite to enter the bathroom. I hear the distant spray of running water, and he returns a few minutes later with a wet rag in tow.

My pulse stammers. This isn’t fair. Not the way he crouches, grabbing my knee to ease my legs apart.

I don’t think he even understands what he’s doing. To him, he’s merely dragging the rag in between my thighs, washing away the blood and sweat and traces of him.

The truth is more destructive—he’s making it more real. I’ll never be able to smother the memories of his touch. His smell. The disarming gentleness with which he swipes the rag across my skin.

Once finished, he retreats to the entryway, salvaging the remains of our clothing.

My dress is beyond repair; the neckline torn.

“Here.” He drapes his suit jacket over me, wearing just the shirt, and slacks himself.

When we return to the car and leave the city, an eerie dichotomy becomes apparent. Part of Hell’s Gambit lives on, thriving as if never disrupted while the other half smolders. In a sick way, it reminds