Rina Kent is a New York Times, USA Today, international and No. 1 Amazon bestselling author of everything enemies-to-lovers romance.
She’s known to write unapologetic anti-heroes and villains because she often fell in love with men no one roots for herself. Her books are sprinkled with a touch of darkness, a pinch of angst and an unhealthy dose of intensity.
She spends her private days in London laughing like an evil mastermind about adding mayhem to her expanding universe. When she’s not writing, Rina travels, hikes and spoils cats in a pure Cat-Lady fashion.
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To the ones who would kiss the villain . . . but only in fiction
AUTHOR NOTE
Hello, reader friend,
If you’re new to my books, you might not know that I write darker stories that can be intense, unsettling, and even disturbing. My characters and their journeys defy societal norms and aren’t meant for everyone.
The following paragraph contains content warnings and specific kinks that may spoil plot details. If you have no triggers, feel free to skip it.
Kiss the Villain includes themes of consensual non-con, dub-con, self-harm, violence, and mild homophobia. It also contains mentions of off-page suicide, rape, child sexual assault, and domestic abuse. Specific kinks featured in this book include degradation, mild consensual feminization, mild BDSM, and praise. Please be mindful of your triggers before diving in.
For more things Rina Kent, visit rinakent.com.
PLAYLIST
Power—Isak Danielson He’s My Man—Luvcat Daddy Issues—The Neighbourhood Strangers—Ethel Cain Apocalypse—Cigarettes After Sex Addicted to the Wicked & Twisted—Palaye Royale The Summoning—Sleep Token Teacher’s Pet—Melanie Martinez Swim—Chase Atlantic Want Me—Stephen Dawes Bad Omens—5 Seconds of Summer Pain Killer—Grabbitz Sail—AWOLNATION nameless—Stevie Howie Green Eyes—Coldplay Into The Fire (Acoustic Version)—Asking Alexandria Something Blue—VOILA Birds of a Feather—Billie Eilish Livin’ in a World Without You—The Rasmus
You can find the complete playlist on Spotify.
CHAPTER 1 GARETH
TONIGHT, I’M GOING TO HURT SOMEONE.
I don’t care who as long as they wiggle and writhe like worms beneath my shoes.
Or more accurately, a snake.
Just kidding. I do care who.
It can’t be just anyone. The target of my night of mayhem needs to be a miscreant who’s as bad as me.
Or worse.
On paper, everyone is worse than me, though, so there’s that, I guess.
No one would expect The King’s U—or TKU—college’s resident genius law student to infiltrate the Serpents’ mansion during one of their grand parties.
Or to target none other than the head of the Serpents, Yulian Dimitriev.
The son of the leader of the Chicago Bratva.
But I’ve always been up for a little challenge.
So here I am, walking amid the overflowing extravagance of their lively mansion, sliding between hot, drugged, and drunk bodies. Despite being a Heathen—the other secret club on King’s U’s grounds and the Serpents’ deadly rival.
RINA KENT
We’ve been at each other’s throats since the start of school on this godforsaken island on the coast of the dreary, dark, and depressing United Kingdom.
And while we love causing trouble, the one who actually started the war was Yulian, who was just itching to have his head bashed in and splintered to pieces.
Obviously, we returned the initial blow, and ever since then, it’s been a struggle to determine who holds more power.
Just kidding again. We’re unrivaled.
However, the Serpents are up there as well. Especially Yulian.
Our fights are always the talk of the campus, and the underground fights draw more crowds than intended.
Truth is, everyone loves a bit of anarchy.
A touch of chaos and violence.
A drip of blood here. A crack of bones there.
The crazier the better. The more unhinged the scene, the more entertaining it is to the audience.
But that audience is appalled about the idea of getting close, throwing a punch, tasting that blood, or touching that broken bone.
It’s shockingly disgusting.
Severely deviant.
Outrageously inhumane.
Vile.
Atrocious.
Horrifying.
I chant the same mantra in public—even among my friends. They know me as Gareth ‘The Fixer.’ Gareth, who makes sure no one gets killed and that the police are taken care of.
Golden-boy Gareth with the highest GPA, who had Ivy League colleges foaming at the mouth to have him join their ranks.
Gareth, who possesses the cleanest reputation and a future lined with open doors.
No one suspects that when they think I’m closed off in my room studying, I’m actually here, roaming behind enemy lines with the Serpents.
Doing what none of them, not even my brother, Killian, would ever do.
And I’ve been so meticulous about it, too. First, I needed to receive an invitation, and those are only issued by the upper echelon, i.e., Yulian and his gang of useless followers. But they also allow their invitees to bring plus-ones.
So I seduced one of the girls Yulian’s been flirting with, pretending the book she was reading was interesting—it wasn’t, just another piece of mind-numbing analytical bullshit written by a self-righteous idiot—and it got the convo going.
I was pretty sure she was Yulian’s girlfriend since she was always hanging on to his arm and deep-throating him with her tongue around campus, but she sure didn’t look like it when she had her foot on my crotch under the table in the library—disgusting, by the way, don’t ever put your dirty shoes anywhere near me.
One incinerated pair of jeans later, I had the invitation I’d endured the urge to slit her throat for.
I’ve totally ignored her since I got here, though. The mask helps in keeping my preferred identity tucked away. Invisible.
I adjust my white skeleton mask that has two large,
RINA KENT
black-painted holes where my eyes are—the Serpents’ version of our neon stitch masks. While ours are differentiated by color, theirs can be distinguished by the symbols engraved on them.
Normal members, like who I’m pretending to be, wear a simple white skeleton mask.
The leaders wear black skeleton masks.
Yulian, whose movements I’ve been following from across the room, is also wearing a black skeleton mask, but his has engraved golden serpents shooting out from where his eyes are.
No surprise there, as he always loves standing out. The freakier the better.
His mansion is everything one would expect, though. An overwhelming display of power, wealth, and control. The grand hall stretches out before me in cold, decadent shades of ivory.
The chandeliers hang from the ceiling, dripping with crystals, emitting a dim, ethereal glow over the marble floors that shine like glass. Velvet drapes line the walls, their deep-red swaths casting a crimson hue on TKU’s students.
Noisy chatter and loud music fill the air, but it all feels distant, muffled, because I’m standing on the outside of something I don’t care to be part of.
I move through the crowd with ease, a faceless figure among the Serpents, blending in with the rest of them. My posture straight and movements confident, I slip further between them, unnoticed.
That’s what I’ve always been.
Invisible.
Unremarkable.
Since I grew up in the overpowering shadow of my younger brother, I automatically became smaller.
Barely discernible next to him.
Completely overshadowed by his attention-seeking habits.
You’re such a good boy, Gaz.
I never have to worry about you.
I’m so glad you’re this dependable, son.
Responsible.
Reliable.
Perfect. Perfect.
P. E. R. F. E. C. T.
Those are the words I grew up hearing from my parents, my grandpa, my teachers, and my entire entourage, really.
And I love it.
I like that none of them caught a whiff of this side of me. The side riddled with urges and voids, and a thirst so deep, Kill would look like a saint if they realized.
Except for Grandpa.
Grandpa is different.
So back to those urges—the reason I’m wasting my time with these people. The air is thick with perfume, alcohol, and something else, something darker, like desperation and pain. It wraps around my throat like a noose, and I suck it deep into my lungs.
Like a hit of the strongest shit on the market.
Shit I slipped into Yulian’s drink earlier when I casually passed by him while he was talking to one of his goons.
I made sure to be facing away from the camera so that if they checked the security footage later, they wouldn’t find
anything. Sure, they could track my movements throughout the evening, but I’m a step ahead on that front as well.
Not only did I make sure to avoid all cameras, but I also wore brown contacts, so even if they managed to get a picture of my eyes, it’d be misleading.
Yulian stumbles and grabs onto the staircase for balance. None of the other drunk fools pay him any attention.
My lips pull in a smirk behind the mask.
The drug is kicking in.
Soon, he’ll be losing all his strength.
Don’t misunderstand. I might want to ruin the Serpents’ leader, but I’m not foolish enough to think I can handle him.
Not only is he big—almost as large and tall as my cousin Nikolai—but he’s also cunning and surrounded by his people and guards who’ll maim me on the spot.
I had to be smart about this.
I was never that good with my fists, which is why I learned archery and use arrows to shoot people at our initiations.
Pity I couldn’t slip my bow in here.
He’d look cute with an arrow between his eyes and blood dripping down his face.
What a missed opportunity.
But my plans are more wicked. I’ll humiliate him in a way that will get him blacklisted, not only on the island, but even back home.
His dad might put a bullet in his head. That would be fun.
My smile widens at the thought.
With Yulian gone, the Serpents will be over. Unlike us,
who have a more balanced power structure, Yulian has been carrying this entire clusterfuck on his back this whole time.
Sure enough, Yulian trudges up the stairs slowly, holding on to the railing.
I wish I had a camera to record this scene. The guys’ minds would be blown if they knew what I’ve done and what I’ll be doing.
But then again, they won’t.
No one will.
Unlike my brother, I don’t like showing off my masterpieces.
I blend in with a group that’s heading upstairs and then break away and slide through other partygoers who are searching for a room where they can fuck the horniness out of each other.
It’s beyond me how people can be such…animals. Letting their urges get the better of them, succumbing to dumb decisions and lackluster fucks they’ll definitely regret come morning.
Don’t get me wrong. Fucking is good, but only when I decide it’s time to. I only get in the mood when I make the conscious decision to fuck, and never due to external stimuli.
Mostly, I love the power, the choking, seeing them writhe beneath me. I love it more when they have this little pained look in their eyes when it gets to be too much, and I wish I could keep hurting them. Turn their skin red. See their fucking tears. Blood. Their goddamn insides.
But alas, I can’t have rumors that I’m a sadist going around. I’m known to be a good fuck with a huge dick who
eats girls out until they come. I make sure they always come first, too. I also set the mood and ensure they stay hydrated and sleep well.
I’m the best fuck any girl can have, and I come with a ten out of ten recommendation rate.
So to keep that image, I can’t exactly act on instinct.
Doesn’t bother me, though. I’ve mastered the act of wearing a mask at all times—sex included.
Even with the people closest to me.
There’s an external persona and an internal one.
The main version is the genius, well-mannered Gareth who’s loved by everyone and would make a perfect politician.
The secondary version, coincidentally my true self, is Gareth, who I only let loose when the void gets too wide and I need to purge some dark energy.
Yulian happens to be the fortunate scapegoat.
Or unfortunate, depending on how you look at it.
I follow from afar and watch as he stumbles into a room. Whether or not it’s his, I don’t know.
Doesn’t matter either.
I remain still near the corner for a few minutes.
Invisible.
It’s a superpower I lost over the years as I grew up and became noticeable, mostly due to my looks. An accidental thing that happened because two good-looking people fell into something called love and decided to spawn some clones.
The clones were me and my brother—definitely not what my parents wanted.
They think Killian is the only anomaly with the Carson name, but that’s only because they never met me.
Not really.
When I saw how they both freaked out about Kill’s stupid harmless fun with killing mice, I stood around the corner and listened.
I listened to Dad blame himself, his genes, and that person who should not be named. I heard Mom cry and beg him to stop.
I heard the mess.
The desperation.
The impression that their perfect little family was shattered.
And I decided I wouldn’t be like Kill.
I wouldn’t flaunt my demons or publicize my emptiness. I wouldn’t even let them figure out something was wrong or, worse, get so concerned that they’d take me to a doctor and have me diagnosed like they did with that idiot brother of mine.
I decided to be their unblemished boy. The pictureperfect son they actually never had and never will.
A spotless, unparalleled emulation of what I imagine a younger version of my dad would’ve been like.
Because that’s who I would’ve turned out like if I hadn’t been born me.
After a quick glance at my surroundings to make sure no one is paying attention, I walk to the room Yulian went into. My fingers are steady as I turn the doorknob, do a quick once-over to make sure no one is inside, and then go inside. With a small smile, I flatten my back against the door and lock it.
That was so easy, I’m slightly offended, but that doesn’t stop my blood from roaring in my veins, a thunderous surge that resurrects me.
I’ve always loved the hunt, the way the creatures scurry in the shadows, the thrill of the unknown creeping in with every breath.
My heart booms and my demons claw at their chains, their rage spilling from the depths of the void, their bloodlust painting the room in my mind red.
My favorite color.
Yulian’s room of choice is dim, the air thick with a stale, artificial chill. The walls are lined with dark wood paneling, casting shadows that stretch into the corners, making the space feel smaller than it is.
As I move closer, I catch a glimpse of a desk and shelves filled with books and knickknacks. But the only real thing that stands out is the black leather sofa in the center of the room, on top of which Yulian is sprawled. The sorry fuck probably couldn’t make it to a room with a bed, too drugged out of his goddamn mind.
A mask still covering his face, he’s dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. My eyes flit to his pulse point—the first thing I notice about people.
It’s beating steadily, the point throbbing against the skin in a hypnotizing view. It’s silent, but I can hear the deep, rhythmic pulsating.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
And I want to cut it off.
To slice my knife through it and watch as it grows quiet. Motionless. Nonexistent.
I flick my thumb at the edge of my upper lip but quickly
drop my hand before I can bite the skin and draw my own blood.
It’s been a while since I got rid of that habit and I certainly won’t let it rush back in now that I’m in full control of my being.
As much as I want to kill Yulian, I won’t.
The one rule I have for myself is no killing.
It’s not out of any moral code I mentally don’t possess. In fact, I believe it’d do the human race good to get rid of the stupid wastes of space that keep diluting the average IQ.
It’s the knowledge that I won’t be able to stop and will eventually get caught.
Yes, I could avoid prison for a while. Not only am I a first-year law student who’s studying law to manipulate it, but also, my dad’s side of the family owns one of the largest and most successful law firms in the States, Carson & Carson.
My grandfather loves me more than his own son and would get me a ‘not guilty’ verdict no matter how many shady methods he had to use.
But how long would that last?
I’d still kill.
It would be impossible not to.
Especially after…him.
I know because bloodlust is the only urge I can’t fully control. I watch people’s pulse points and I wish I could turn them red. To see them choke on their own blood and let it fill the void inside me. I look into their eyes and I want them empty. I fantasize about dead eyes looking at me, knowing I’m the god who ended their lives.
It happens a lot during sex as they’re moaning while I wrap my hand around their throats, and I want to squeeze that pulse point to nothingness.
I want their pleasure to turn into death. It’d be poetic, really. To end their lives in their happiest moment.
Unfortunately, that would ruin this whole image I’ve spent my entire life curating, and I do care about my image more than my need to see people die.
So, sadly, I can’t kill Yulian.
I pause as I run my gaze over him again, the music thumping from downstairs barely audible.
Was he always this tall? I know he’s big like that brute Nikolai, and they often go at each other in the fight club, but I thought he was closer to my six foot three than Nikolai’s six foot four.
And he’s not standing, so he shouldn’t look this tall.
With a mental shrug, I stroll toward him and pull a knife from my calf sheath.
Step one: Undress him.
But I won’t be undressing a guy personally—I don’t even like undressing girls—which is why I brought the knife to cut his clothes off.
Step two: Empty the vial containing lube that looks and feels like semen over him.
Step three: Take a picture of my cock in my hand as if I just came on him.
Step four: Blast it all over the internet with his face on full display.
Step five: Retreat to my public persona, knowing I’m the one who brought his ruin.
Might punch and kick him a few times after, just to
release this aggression that’s been bubbling in my veins lately.
I pull on the hem of his shirt with a finger, not wanting to touch his skin. Preferably at all. Begrudgingly, once or twice for necessity.
The sharp knife cuts through the fabric and I pause as the two pieces of the torn shirt fall to either side of him, revealing a muscular chest, an eight-pack, and a very wrong tattoo.
Due to all the fighting he participates in, I’ve often seen Yulian half naked. While his back is tattooed with all sorts of shit, he only has one small tattoo on his chest—a line of scripture in Russian.
That’s not what I see right now.
The guy lying in front of me, his chest exposed, has a massive 3D black snake coiling across his abs, its scales rising and twisting like they’re alive, winding down to his side with menacing grace. Its mouth is open, fangs bared, inches from his heart like it’s ready to sink in and tear into him.
I take a step back.
Unless Yulian got a new tattoo in the last forty-eight hours, this isn’t him.
My mind races. How?
I clearly heard his voice when I slipped him the drug, and I kept my eyes on him from then on.
Except for when he went up the stairs first. Fuck.
If this is a trap, I’m not waiting around to find out. My legs carry me toward the door in quick, silent steps.
The moment I grab the knob, a metal barrel is placed against my temple, and a gun clicks.
A deep, unfamiliar voice whispers in my ear, “It’s bad form to get a man excited and then leave. How about we fix that?”
CHAPTER 2 GARETH
THE REASON I’VE KEPT MY MASK ON FOR ALMOST twenty-two years isn’t due to a coincidence.
Or a lack of observation by my parents, teachers, or any of the adults in my life.
It’s not an accident or something I’ve grown into.
It’s a conscious decision I made when I was younger, and I’ve done everything necessary to make sure the image stays in place.
Mostly because I plot ahead.
Way ahead.
I don’t move without having plans for all the variables in the equation. Multiple plans. So if one fails, I have several more to fall back on.
But tonight, I didn’t count on Yulian being substituted.
It’s not like him. At all. If he’d figured out I roofied his drink, he would’ve faced me head-on and tried to bash my head in.
He’s not a coward, and he definitely loves using his fists.
So it’s not Yulian who’s behind this mishap. It’s the guy holding a gun to my temple, his chest emanating repulsive heat at my back.
RINA KENT
He better not touch me.
I consider opening the door and leaving anyway, but I only plan to die in my sixties, so being killed now would be getting in the way of that plan.
Letting my hand fall, I turn around in one swift movement and swing my knife, aiming at his throat.
A silenced shot pierces my ear and the knife flies from my hand. My wrist jerks and I let it rest at my side as drops of blood fall on the beige carpet.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Motherfucker shot the handle of the knife, and while the bullet didn’t hit me, it grazed me.
Pain throbs on the side of my hand, and I briefly close my eyes, trying not to become consumed with the pain. If I do, I’ll have this urge to inflict it ten times worse.
“Look what you’ve done.” Yulian’s impostor’s deep voice rings out like a calm mock. “That wasn’t necessary, now, was it?”
When I open my eyes, he’s close.
Closer than anyone should get to my person after attacking me. Because I’m staring at his pulse point, and I want to bite and rip the flesh out like a rabid dog.
My jaw clenches and I shove the demons back where they came from and stare at him.
Not at his chest or the peculiar snake tattoo, but at the mask with golden serpents that should only be Yulian’s.
Was this a trap?
“Now, how about we pick up where we left off?” His breath, a mixture of whiskey and mint, penetrates my
senses through my mask’s holes. It takes all my control not to slam my head into his so he’ll back the fuck off.
The silencer attached to his gun lifts my mask and lingers at my mouth, the cold metal brushing against my warm skin for a beat too long. It presses into my lips, the chill sinking into my flesh, but it fails to trigger any emotions.
I don’t possess the notion of fear. That switch just doesn’t exist in my brain. Not even when being held at gunpoint.
Anger, however? Yeah, that one I have in spades, and it’s mounting the more this motherfucker holds a gun to my face.
I remain still, though, breathing as steadily as possible.
Any sudden movement could lead to my death, and due to the silencer, no one at this party would be the wiser. This fucking waste of space proved that he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, and I don’t want to try my luck.
The silencer leaves my lips and he flips off my mask, letting it clatter on the floor.
Here we go again.
My least favorite shit.
Unmasking.
Showing my beautifully proportionate face. Shiny blond hair and ‘enchanting green eyes,’ as many describe them—though they look brown right now.
I’ve often been called the personification of a Prince Charming with my classically handsome face, dimpled smile, and welcoming appearance. They’re all weapons in my arsenal.
The man pauses as he watches me. They all do. Men and women alike. I’m just that irresistible.
RINA KENT
This one in particular doesn’t look like he wants to fuck me, though. His gray eyes, the color of rainstorms and hurricanes, remain impassive as he flips my face back and forth with the gun.
As if he’s looking for something. What, I don’t know, and I’m not interested to find out.
Because I don’t like those eyes.
Call it hate at first sight.
Why?
They lack color, and it’s not only because of the cloudy gray. They truly seem dead, and he’s not—dead, I mean. He should have some respect for the dead and stop those eyes from being so empty. That way, I can fantasize about turning them lifeless.
His gun lifts my chin and I struggle to continue staring at him and not the ceiling. “Such a pretty face for a grotesque personality.”
Grotesque.
Did this motherfucking piece of shit call me grotesque?
Me? The best-looking person I know?
Maybe I need to rip his pulse the fuck off, after all.
“It looks like you despise my wording.” A smile slips into his tone and I find something else I hate.
The deep rumble in his voice. The dispassionate, neutral, and absolutely monotonous way he speaks, as if he can’t be bothered to inject any emotions into it.
It rings again as his breath skims my mouth. “But I wouldn’t have used it if it weren’t true.”
I stare at him like he’s a robot—and maybe he is.
“Allow me to elaborate. You came here with a vile plan up your sleeve. It started with drugging Yulian’s
drink and patiently waiting for him to break away from the others. I waited to see what you intended to do with him, but you stopped midway. So the suspense is killing me.”
I start to lift my thumb to my mouth, then allow my hand to remain down.
He’s been watching me.
While I was focused on Yulian, this fucking asshole was watching me.
The audacity to stalk the stalker.
The damn fucking nerve.
“Are you one of his guards?” I speak for the first time tonight. “You don’t sound Russian.”
Most of Yulian’s guards, like ours, are supplied by the Russian mafia and usually have a very thick accent.
He doesn’t.
If anything, he’s more refined and has a slow, precise way of speaking. He also sounds and seems older than me, so he could be a retired military member turned security guard. Though his speech is a bit too sophisticated for someone with a stereotypical military background.
“Why?” That mocking edge returns to his voice. “You prefer Russians?”
“I prefer to leave if you don’t mind.” I smile, putting my charming persona on display, along with my seemingly irresistible dimples.
It doesn’t affect the prick whatsoever. There’s no loosening of his gun nor any change in those unsightly dead eyes of his.
He cocks his head to the side, leaning so close that my nostrils flood with his revolting male scent, like amber with
a hint of something woodsy. “Not before you tell me what you had in mind for Yulian.”
“Just some harmless fun.”
“No harmless fun includes drugging and cutting clothes.” His gun digs harder into my skin, the pain making me grind my teeth. “You know what I think?”
“Not interested. Thanks.”
He ignores my words and steps into my space. “I think you planned something disgusting.”
I peer down and pause. He’s half naked. He must’ve discarded the tatters of his shirt and is now only wearing black slacks. He’s tall, with a couple inches on me, and definitely broader. The snake looks menacing coupled with his mask, and I want to unmask him, too. To see the face of the man who dares to hunt me.
“Something that fits that grotesque personality of yours,” he continues, shoving his gun against my mouth.
I let my lips fall open so that he doesn’t break my teeth, all the while considering if my plan to die at sixty is that important, because I’m starting to think being shot would be worth it if I get to punch this motherfucker who called me grotesque.
Twice.
The muzzle of the gun rests against my tongue and he rams it farther until it slams against the back of my throat, and I stay calm as my breath is confiscated.
The surest way to start choking? Losing your cool— which is something foreign to me. It’s not even a thing I can pretend or mask.
“No gag reflex. Interesting.” His rough voice smothers the ringing in my ears.
And then something strange happens.
Those gray eyes? The ones that haven’t changed and resemble a dead person’s?
They’re not completely empty now. Something shifts, the slightest bit, and I see a flash of light. A gleam in the darkness.
It’s so fast and fleeting, I’d question my eyes if I had the ability to doubt myself.
“But do you know what’s more interesting?” He pulls the gun from my mouth and taps it on my lips, smearing them with my own saliva, then thoroughly wipes it on my shirt, close to my heart.
On purpose.
To make me see that I disgust him, hence the excessive wiping, and he’s doing it near my heart so that I know he could shoot at any second. He even has his finger on the trigger.
Sick motherfucker.
He’s proficient at messing with people and pushing their buttons, it seems. If it were anyone else, they’d be trembling at the very least and begging to be released at most.
Too bad for him that I don’t do that.
But he better watch his back after I get out of here.
“Want to know what’s more interesting?” he asks again with his gun to my throat.
“I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”
“Such a little brat.”
“Oh my, what gave me away?”
“Watch it.” He presses the gun in further, and I swallow because it’s blocking my trachea.
His eyes watch the movement, mechanically, like I’m a boring game, before sliding back to mine. “You’re not fighting. Why?”
“If I do, will you let me leave this tiresome event?”
A dark chuckle spills from him. “No. But it might make the event less tiresome.”
“That’ll only be possible if you tell me what you want.”
“What makes you think I want something?”
“Surely you didn’t point that gun and play a whole intimidation game for nothing? That’d be an epic waste of your time, and mine.”
“Wasting both our time is the last thing I want.” His gun skims my belt at the same time as he stresses thing.
I grow still.
It couldn’t be.
My fingers start to wrap around the gun, but he slips it out of my hand and jams it against my head. “Touch it again and I’ll spill your brains on the floor.”
“It’s not a shotgun. No brains will be spilled.”
“You believe yourself to be funny?”
“No, I just dislike inaccurate information.”
His gun slides down again, this time over my belt, and my hand twitches, but I don’t reach for it.
Instead, I say in my clearest voice, “Stop.”
“A word Yulian wouldn’t have been able to say if you’d had your way with him.”
I pause.
Was that anger?
Hatred?
Both?
It’s the first time I’ve heard any emotion in his voice
and it’s because of…Yulian?
What is he? His boyfriend?
I didn’t know Yulian swung in that direction. Maybe he plays for both teams?
“How far did you plan to go?” The man slips the gun beneath the waistband of my jeans, the tip grazing my stomach.
“I said. Stop.”
“And I asked you a question.” The tip of the silencer trails down to my groin.
And he’s touching me now. His fucking hand that’s wrapped around the gun is on my lower stomach, over the shirt, yes, but that doesn’t negate the fact that this fucking piece of shit is touching me.
Putting his revolting hand that’ll be broken on me.
“Did you plan to ram this limp dick inside him after you drugged him?” He speaks against my face, his mask almost pressing against my cheek, but at least his body is at a distance.
Except for the fucking hand, its warmth unbearable.
“So that’s what all this is about?” I force a smile.
“You’re jealous I almost fucked Yulian, who’ll never look in your worthless direction?”
He jams his gun against my cock and I grunt, pain erupting through me.
But at least my theory is confirmed. I’d find the information interesting under different circumstances.
Now, I have to bite my tongue to suppress the pain.
Motherfucker has hurt me more in the course of one night than anyone in my entire life.
I’m going to find out who he is and have him killed. I
might not do it myself, but he needs to be eliminated for daring to get on my last nerve.
And touching me.
He’s still fucking touching me.
“So you won’t even pretend otherwise?” His voice darkens, deepening. “Oh, well.”
He pulls the gun out and takes a step back. Is he going to shoot me now—
“On your knees.”
“I’m good. Shoot me while I’m standing.”
“I’m not going to shoot you, little monster. At least, not yet.” He places a hand on my shoulder and shoves me down so hard, my knees meet the ground with a thud and pain rips through my bones.
“What do you think—”
“Shh.” He taps the gun on my mouth. “I don’t want to hear your revolting voice.”
The fuck is wrong with this asshole? My voice is deep, composed, and always gets the girls hot and bothered. I have a beautiful voice. Everyone knows that.
Every. Fucking. One.
So how dare he?
With the gun to my mouth, he unbuckles his belt with his free hand, and I stare in a rare, dumbfounded moment as he pulls out his half-erect cock.
Did this creep get hard by threatening me? Bringing me to my knees?
The veins on the back of his large hand bulge as he fists his cock.
And it’s a big cock. A bit bigger than mine, to my dismay, and I have a pretty monstrous one.
The thing he has in his hand should be castrated eunuch style.
“Don’t just look.” He slaps the side of my mouth with the underside of his cock, his masculine smell invading my nostrils. “Make those revolting lips useful and suck.”
“That’d be a fuck no. Thanks.” I start to get up, but the grip of his gun hits the top of my head and I fall back down.
“I’m sorry. Did it sound like I was asking? Open your fucking mouth so I can use you like a nameless whore.”
My head and knees throb, but I have a high pain tolerance, so physical discomfort has never really fazed me.
It’s what he called me.
A whore.
Me, Gareth fucking Carson, a whore?
This bitch has pushed every limit and will now die. Thanks for coming to my show.
I open my mouth wide. The thought of letting someone use me, let alone a damn fucking man, disgusts me to my core, and it’s hard not to think about throwing up.
It’s physically excruciating to be in this position and allow a cock into my mouth.
But that’s okay because it’ll only last a second.
The man thrusts his dick in my mouth. “I expected more resistance, but you seem eager to suck cock like a dirty little slut.”
I look him in the eye as I clamp my teeth on his girth. I’m about to bite his limp dick off when he grabs a handful of my hair and tugs me back so hard, my neck nearly breaks. His cock slips out of my mouth as he points the gun beneath my jaw. “Do that again and I’ll fuck your ass raw. And I’ll make sure you bleed before I blow your head off.”
I glare up at him. “Or you can just let me go, and I’ll consider not reporting you for sexual assault.”
He laughs, the sound unhinged. “The same sexual assault you planned for Yulian? The one I actually have evidence for?”
“One I didn’t go through with.”
“But you would’ve if given the chance.”
“Does a wrong cancel a wrong?”
“No.” The motherfucker slaps my mouth with his cock as he digs his fingers into my cheeks—putting his repulsive fingers on me again. “But it sure feels good.”
He forces my mouth open, and I let him. Mostly because his gun is now pointing at the top of my head, and I can’t die and have this prick move along with his life as if nothing happened.
I also will not be fucked in this lifetime. Will never relinquish that type of control to someone else, and certainly not to him, as I’m sure he’d make it as unpleasant as possible.
Because his motive is revenge for what I intended to do to Yulian. A tit for tat. A way to make me taste my own medicine.
His cock forces its way into my mouth and I try to stay calm. That’s my strongest suit, so it shouldn’t be this hard. I shouldn’t have to literally boil with the need to bite him off again. Harder.
Rip his cock off.
“Watch those teeth,” he says when my teeth graze his cock. “And be a bit more proactive. Suck. Show me how much of a whore you are.”
I glare up at him.
If he thinks I’m going to give him a blow job, he’s in for a rude awakening.
He must see it in my eyes as well, because he releases my cheeks and pulls at my hair. “You don’t want to? I suppose it doesn’t matter because I’ll be using this hole however I see fit.”
I glare harder. Just get it over with, motherfucker.
Let’s hope he’s not like me and actually finishes fast like the rest of the limp-dicked assholes.
“You need to stop looking at me like that. The way you hate me makes my cock hard.”
I feel it, the veins in his shaft pulsing, his size growing bigger in my mouth until my jaw hurts.
And then he does something.
He thrusts so deep inside, it hits the back of my throat, bringing my face too close to his groin.
I can’t breathe.
Moisture stings my eyes and I hold on to my cool.
But I still can’t breathe.
It’s amazing how the human body is designed for survival. My hands slap on his thighs, trying to push him away, but my strength only allows me to grab onto him.
The edges of my vision blur, accompanied by a hum in my ears, and he starts developing a twin.
“That’s more like it. I love the sight of those eyes dripping with tears.” He pulls back, and I barely choke on an inhale before he rams back in again, my head banging against the door. “Seeing you in such a mess is a fucking turn-on.”
And the sick motherfucker means it.
His dick grows thicker and heavier in my mouth as he
thrusts in and out, using my tongue for friction, not caring about the saliva, snot, and tears that trail down my chin.
“You’re surprisingly good at taking cock.” He shoves me against his groin and keeps me there.
Choking me.
Making me touch him.
His zipper scratches my chin, and I claw at his thighs, my fingers desperately clinging to the fabric, his skin, anywhere I can touch.
“Or more accurately.” He thrusts, knocking my head against the door. “You’re good at being used.”
This bitch is going to suffocate me to death.
I’m going to die with a cock in my mouth.
With a man using me.
In a snap decision, I move my lax tongue, licking the underside of his cock, thinking about the blow jobs I get on the regular, then suck. Mostly how I like to be sucked but don’t voice it, because girls can’t or prefer not to do it.
They don’t go hard and deep, to the point where it hurts a little.
I think he likes it, because his violent thrusts stop.
My hands wrap around the base of his cock, smudging him with some of the blood, sucking deeper, licking with more passion, wanting to empty him of every last drop of cum.
The man whose days are numbered pulls my hair tighter. “The fuck you think you’re doing?”
He doesn’t like it—the way I’m giving him a blow job. I can hear the bewildered anger in his voice. I can also hear the roughness and the masked desire.
So I squeeze his cock in my hand, jerking him and then
pulling it in my mouth that’s all full of saliva now, making the sounds sloppy.
The idea that I’m on my knees, sucking off a man, is enough to make any other guy spiral, but I push it down.
Because those empty eyes are narrowing, but he doesn’t stop me as I deep-throat him, taking him in as far as possible and using my throat’s movement to bring him over the edge.
His abs coil and contract.
A grunt falls from his lips.
His veins pulse and throb in my mouth.
That’s it. He’s at my mercy now, even though I’m on my knees and his cock is in my mouth.
The sense of power gets me high, and I suck and lick, draping my lips along the crown in harsh strokes and a fast rhythm that I’d like if I were being given head.
I don’t think about the humiliating position or him towering over me or even the gun.
I only think about the power in my hands. The way his breathing grows uncoordinated, his fingers pulling at my hair.
My spine jerks, my cock growing heavy in my jeans. No.
I’m not getting hard due to sucking cock.
That is not fucking possible.
I never get hard if I don’t put myself in the mood. It just doesn’t happen.
“What a fucking natural slut.” The man jams his shoe on my jeans, over my hardening cock, and I grunt against his dick. “Too much of a slut, it seems.”
“Fuck you,” I mumble, but it ends on a groan as he
slides his shoe up and down, the friction drawing tingles down my spine.
“You got hard by being used. What a little masochist. Want a hand with that? It looks painful.”
I’d rather he shoot me.
But I do something better.
As he toys with my cock, I do that swallowing thing with my throat on his crown. The one that made him grunt earlier.
And his movements stop.
He grabs my head with both hands, the gun resting against the back of my neck as he thrusts into my mouth a few more times, his rough grunts filling the space.
There’s no other word for it. He uses me.
The wet sound of his cock mixing with my saliva and his precum is deafening. And I hate it, or I really hope I do, because my cock has grown into a full erection now.
From being face-fucked.
Am I turned on?
No way in fuck. I don’t get turned on due to someone else’s actions.
This better be a nightmare.
“You’re such a natural at taking cock, little monster.” His groan vibrates through me and settles in my balls.
“This hot, warm mouth is dying to be filled with my cum.”
I want to shake my head, but I can’t, and I’m painfully hard now.
Like it’s not even a joke. For the first time in my life, my erection hurts.
“I’m coming down this goddamn throat and stuffing you full of my cum.” He jerks a few times and a salty
taste explodes at the back of my throat and a sticky liquid escapes on either side of my chin.
As he pulls out and tucks himself in, I turn to the side to spit, but he grips my chin, touching me again. “Swallow every last drop. Waste any and I’ll move to your other hole.”
I glare at him and a smirk pulls on the corner of his lips beneath the mask. “But then again, you might like that, too, considering how you’re so goddamn hard beneath my shoe.”
I swallow as he pushes his shoe further and I’m leaking precum. A grunt echoes in the air and I realize it’s come from me.
Fuck. Have I ever been this hard before?
If he rubs a bit more, I might come in my pants. What the fuck?
I should think his shoe is dirty, not want him to move it up and down.
He gathers the cum on my chin and presses his index and middle fingers on my lips. “Open.”
When I do, he shoves them inside, curling them against my tongue, pushing all the way to the back of my throat. All the while applying incremental pressure to my cock.
My balls are so heavy, they’ll burst, and I’m still leaking in my fucking boxers. My spine jerks as I rock back and forth on my knees.
“What a little freak. You’re close just due to pain?” He pulls his fingers from my mouth at the same time as his shoe is gone.
And so is the pressure.
All that remains is damn fucking frustration and
the infamous blue balls situation I’ve never experienced before.
He leans down and squeezes my cheeks between his tall, lean fingers. My lips part of their own accord and he spits right between them.
He spits in my mouth.
“Little monsters like you don’t deserve to come.” He pats my cheek twice. “Useful hole, though.”
And then he shoves me aside as if I’m a sack of potatoes, opens the door, and leaves.
CHAPTER 3 GARETH
THE URGE TO SEE BLOOD SPILL BEFORE MY EYES has been constant and unshakable since I left the Serpents’ mansion.
It’s been throbbing beneath the wound in my hand, the ache in my jaw, and the disgusting taste I still can’t purge no matter how many times I brush my teeth and gargle and even swallow mouthwash.
It’s trapped between my skin and that urge for pain.
The demons in the void have been pulsing, fucking palpitating for something.
Pain, yes, but that doesn’t seem to be enough no matter how many times I jam my knife into my hand wound, twisting and twirling the blade until my blood forms a pool at the shower drain.
I stare as the bright red spreads, its intensity faltering, slowly diluting to a murky, sickly hue before it’s washed away by the water. It swirls around like it’s trying to cling to something, but it’s powerless, fading, draining into nothingness.
The constrictive feeling perching on my chest doesn’t, though. Turn into nothingness, I mean. It’s like a heavy
burning ball sitting on my chest, a constant fucking weight I can barely breathe through.
It’s spreading, the burn, to the back of my throat, my hair, my abdomen, my cheeks.
Everywhere he fucking touched me.
I scrubbed my face until it turned red. Even my shoulders, my stomach, my dick. I’ve been scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing everywhere he put his filthy fucking fingers—even through my clothes. And when that didn’t work, I turned to my knife. Another knife, not the one he shot the fuck out of my hand.
This isn’t working either, it seems, and I need to stop before I damage my nerves and can’t use my hand properly. I need it to kill that motherfucker.
Throwing the knife down, I step out of the shower, my blood mixing with the water and forming rivulets down my fingers before it drips to the floor.
Like a constant.
Drip. Red.
Drip. Red.
Drip. Red.
I like the view of red on the white tiles. The irregular shape of the blood droplets. The way they get darker with each drop.
It’s calming, in a sense, which makes it an addiction risk. If I get used to this sight, I’ll want to see it again and again, in more significant quantities. Like a drug.
But I don’t do addictions.
And I stopped one from becoming dangerous over six years ago.
So I’m stable now. I should be stable.
I drag my attention from the blood and stand in front of the mirror. The antifog surface shows a crystal image of water dripping down my hair, onto my impassive face, my abs, and to my half-erect cock.
It’s been in this state since that piece of shit left me with blue balls, and I refuse to touch myself.
This isn’t arousal due to anything he’s done, and it’s only a mere miscalculation in my fucking system.
I swear to fuck, if my dick keeps being a hindrance, I’ll castrate it.
That internal threat doesn’t get the little bitch to get the fuck down.
With a sigh, I throw a towel over my head, wrap another around my waist, and bandage my hand. The blood still soaks through, forming a blotch.
Maybe I need stitches.
What a fucking mess.
I pause after I walk into my room while toweling my hair.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in a detached tone, not bothering to feign annoyance at seeing my brother sitting on my bed.
He’s the last person I want to engage with right now.
Killian’s arms are speared behind his head as he leans against the headboard, his legs crossed at his ankles as he watches me.
He’s about two and a half years younger than me but is a fourth-year med student because he loves showing off his intellect and made sure to skip ahead. I did skip one year, but that was all.
Standing out like he does is the furthest thing from what I want.
A gleam shines in his dark-blue eyes. We barely look like siblings. He has Mom’s eyes and Dad’s dark hair. I have Mom’s blond hair and Dad’s green eyes.
And he hates those eyes—Dad’s and mine, I mean. Something about not being Dad’s favorite.
Well, he should’ve never stood out.
“I’m just checking in on you.” He grins. “Saw blood on your car’s steering wheel.”
So I might have started the knife thing when I got into the car, using the spare one in the glove box. Now, I feel bad for Medusa—my car. I need to give her a thorough clean and apologize for putting her through this.
I raise a brow. “And why were you looking at my car?”
“So I could tamper with your brakes as I previously promised.”
“I see.” I walk toward my desk, not in the mood to engage in our usual conversation where he threatens to eliminate me and I pretend to be scared or that he creeps me the fuck out.
He doesn’t. He’s me in a different, less glamorous font.
I just don’t like to be lumped in the same box as him.
At this time, I’d usually be studying or putting on the show that I’m doing so, but now I need Kill to leave so I can sleep.
“You see?” He jumps up from the bed and stalks toward me with a slight narrowing of his eyes. “That’s all you have to say?”
Now, there’s good news and bad news about Kill’s presence.
Good news: my hard-on is gone. Thank fuck.
Bad news: he’s suspicious of me.
“I just had a bad night.” An understatement. “Can I get a rain check on your shenanigans?”
“Bad night in what sense?” He motions at my bandaged hand. “Who did that?”
A dead man walking. “It was an accident.”
“Who was responsible for the accident?”
“Why are you asking?” I let my lips form in a smile. “You’ll avenge my honor?”
“Our honor. Can’t have you disgracing my last name.”
I throw my hair towel at him. “Just stop being a red flag and we won’t have that problem.”
“You’re bleeding again.” He shakes the bloodstained towel in his hand. “You probably need stitches. I’ll take a look if you beg me to.”
“No, thanks.”
He walks out of the room, but before I can release a breath, he comes back in with his medical kit.
I rub my eyes with the heel of my palm. “Did you not hear the ‘no, thanks’ part?”
“Nah, I’d have to care about your opinion to hear your words.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed opposite him, the box between us. The quicker he’s done, the sooner he’ll be out of my face.
Besides, I do need stitches.
Because of that motherfucker in the Serpents’ mansion. He didn’t stab the knife in the wound, but it’s his fault.
My spine jerks upright at the thought of him, and disturbing images flash through my head.
Thankfully, Killian’s voice cuts through them like an
arrow as he examines the gaping wound at the side of my hand. “The fuck type of accident is this?”
“Either stitch it or fuck off.”
“Getting snappy today,” he says with that slight narrowing of his eyes.
I inhale deeply, because I’m losing my cool, and I don’t do that.
A groan escapes me when he douses the wound with something that burns before digging his gloved finger inside. “That fucking hurts.”
“Should’ve thought of that before you got yourself in whatever fuckery you indulged in tonight.”
Indulged.
I don’t like his use of that word, almost as if he has everything figured out and knows I do indulge in all sorts of shit he shouldn’t be aware of.
“You know.” He works on the sutures at an impressive speed. “My career choice has nothing to do with fixing you the fuck up. I only chose this to see inside people without killing them. Your insides bring me no satisfaction due to how ugly they are.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t okay me. Just don’t let me see inside you again and hurt my eyes with the view.”
“Is this your version of being worried?”
“Not even if you die.”
“Who’ll handle your tiresome personality then?”
“Actually, you’re right. Don’t die, so I can have a punching bag at all times.”
I let my lips curl in a tired smile as I stare at the ceiling. Little fucker can be effortlessly entertaining.
“Hey, Kill.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you know if Yulian is into guys?”
He lifts his head. “Why?”
“I’m trying to figure out a plan to bring him down, and I heard rumors that I want to confirm before plotting.”
There’s nothing suspicious about what I’m saying. While I take a background position in the Heathens, I’m mostly the brain behind many of our operations.
“If by guys, you mean Vaughn, then yeah. Yulian definitely wants to fuck him. Or be fucked by him, I’m not sure.”
“Our Vaughn?” I ask, honestly surprised.
“Is there another Vaughn?”
“The New York Bratva Pakhan’s son, Vaughn?”
“Again, do we know another one? You hit your head or something?”
Vaughn is the fifth member of the Heathens. An absent member. He’s around Kill’s age and chose not to come to this island or go to this college, opting to stay in New York. It was solely his choice.
He was vehemently against studying with us, no matter how many times Nikolai and Jeremy asked him to.
But he still joins the fun at initiations, mostly to hunt people.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I say. “Vaughn is straight. Hasn’t he had a girlfriend for years?”
“The girlfriend Yulian seduced and fucked, then sent Vaughn the video of her screaming his name while riding him? They’ll probably break up. That is, if he doesn’t kill her. You know how much he hates sharing.”
“When did that happen?”
“Last week? Right before we got back to school.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I heard it when I happened to pass by Vaughn talking about it to Jeremy and promising to kill Yulian.”
Happened to pass by in Kill’s vocabulary is eavesdropping. He loves gathering the most random shit about people. Big or small. He thinks it’ll help him crack them open and see inside them. Figuratively or literally.
I, on the other hand, find most people depressingly dull and would rather not gather any unnecessary details.
Vaughn is anything but dull, though, especially with this latest development.
“What do you think his plan with Yulian is? He’s on the other side of the ocean, so he can’t do much about him.”
My brother shrugs. “Not sure yet, but he’s putting in a last-minute transfer request to come here next term, which is playing into Yulian’s hand, if you ask me.”
“Because Yulian is the reason Vaughn didn’t want to study here in the first place,” I say, not a question, but a fact.
The pieces of the puzzle are starting to come together.
The way Yulian always, and I mean always, only fights Kill, Jeremy, or Nikolai in the ring.
Those are the only three he’s had any interest in fighting. He also makes sure someone is filming. I thought it was a sense of pride, but this is different.
He’s probably been sending those to Vaughn.
Our friend, on the other hand, has chosen not to engage in Yulian’s antics, hence the girlfriend and the staying in New York thing.
But he obviously hasn’t been able to completely stay away. I’ve always thought it’s because we’re his friends, since we grew up together, so he wants to pay us a visit now and again, but maybe that’s not all of it.
“Exactly.” Kill finishes and releases my hand as he grins. “Not sure what type of foreplay those two are into, but shit will be interesting. The sons of the leaders of the two most notorious Russian mafia branches? I sense trouble and I’m here for it.”
I say nothing and kick Kill out. As I close the door, I lean against it and let my lips pull in a smile.
This is a variable I didn’t expect.
The motherfucker from tonight is such a fool. Yulian is obviously obsessed with Vaughn in some way, and that means the man who’s probably a bodyguard is struggling with some form of unrequited lust, or even better, love.
I’d feel sorry for him if I knew how.
I thought I’d find him and kill him, but now, I have an upgraded plan—make him suffer.
In the most painful way possible.
I’ll make him wish he never met me.
Let alone touched me.
“This is so fucking boring.” My cousin Nikolai wraps an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders as we walk to campus.
“Give me something, Jer. A battle, a war, a little toy to fuck with.”
“We have the initiation coming. Try to hold it in until then,” Jeremy says in a calm, unbothered tone.
He’s the Heathens’ leader, the son of the New York
Bratva’s strategist, and has quite a few similarities with his father. Like me, he doesn’t act without a plan, but unlike me, he’s openly ruthless when need be.
“It’s not piss, Jer. I can’t just hold it in,” Nikolai grumbles out loud, drawing people’s attention due to his big frame and the full-sleeve tattoos peeking from beneath his T-shirt.
He’s my maternal cousin—our moms are identical twin sisters—and the most chaotic person I know. He’s the most violent among us and gets off on crunching people’s bones, but he’s also random as fuck.
While my mom is a Russian mafia princess, she separated from the organization long before I was born. Aunt Rai and her husband, however, are two of their leaders. That gives Nikolai, like Jeremy and Vaughn, a legacy to continue and his parents’ shoes to fill.
Kill and I are just here for the ride. A revival of our distant Russian roots, perhaps. In my case, I need a venting outlet, which I’m sure is the same for Kill.
“Just get your dick wet, Niko,” my brother says, walking on Niko’s left. “That usually takes care of the aggression, even if temporarily.”
“Satan’s heir, you evil genius.” Niko releases Jeremy and headlocks my brother.
“Stating the obvious, I see,” Kill says in his usual arrogant tone that will one day get him murdered decapitation style.
Niko keeps talking about his dick, and I’m glad we’re not in the house or he’d be indulging in exhibitionism.
I fall behind to match Jeremy’s steps. “Vaughn is coming to the initiation, right?”
“Is there a reason he wouldn’t?”
“Just checking.”
Jeremy glances at my bandage, then back at my face. “How about getting your hand properly checked? Kill said the wound is deep.”
“You know he likes to exaggerate things.”
“I saw the blood in the car. Didn’t seem exaggerated.”
“Just a little accident, Jer.”
“I expect Niko and Kill to get into little accidents. Hell, even Vaughn, but not you, Gaz.”
Jeremy stops and I’m forced to do the same. Since he’s the oldest among us, he annoyingly takes the leadership position seriously.
Way too seriously for my taste.
“Won’t happen again.” From now on, I’ll be the one inflicting pain.
“Better not. You’re the only levelheaded person I trust to keep things under control.”
“Don’t worry.” As long as I’m under control, that is.
“You won’t tell me what actually happened?”
“Not important.” I tap his shoulder, wearing my most charming smile. “See you later.”
I let them go to their respective classes and head to mine. Kill goes to the med school building, and Jeremy and Nikolai, who are in business school, go to that building.
The walk to my first class is constantly interrupted by students and professors greeting me, talking to me, wanting as much of my attention as they can get.
They’re like sponges, sucking on and soaking up my words and smiles and empty compliments just so they’ll grow bigger and more inflated.
While I usually don’t mind, their constant noise is worsening the headache I woke up with today.
Sleep evaded me for most of last night, and when I did nod off, I dreamed of a man in a skeleton mask with gold serpents wrapping his fingers around my dick and squeezing until it hurt.
I remember thinking that I don’t find men attractive. And his veiny hand around my cock shouldn’t make it so hard that it’s leaking precum.
But then he was jerking me off, roughly, until it hurt— the way I like it but have never had it.
And I grunted, in the nightmare, about to come, but then he was shoving a pillow over my head and suffocating me to death.
I woke up in a puddle of sweat and with another fucking hard-on.
Thank God Niko barged into my room and threw a bucket of ice water on me just for fun—effectively killing the tent—or we would’ve had a problem.
The headache is getting worse despite the painkillers I took. My hand wound still throbs and my jaw aches so bad, it was impossible to eat, so I only had coffee and a strawberry for breakfast.
This is one of those days where I wish I hadn’t chosen overachiever, A+ student as my mask, because every single person is pissing me the fuck off.
As soon as I walk into the lecture hall, I’m once again surrounded by my classmates, as if they’re bees and I’m damn fucking honey. They’re all buzzing and talking nonstop around me once I take my seat, and I just want them to shut the fuck up already. All their blabbering is
causing my head to pound worse.
“Where were you last night, Gaz?” a guy whose name I’ve forgotten asks.
A brunette slides to my side, shoving her tits against my arm. Morgan. I only remember because I fucked her a few times and she always brought one of her friends to join. A booty call of sorts.
She grins up at me, her mouth too big for her pretty face, and the lack of symmetry bugs me. “I thought we’d have one of those fun study nights.”
Fun, as in I’d fuck her and her friend while they pretend to kiss and lick each other’s pussies to turn me on.
It never really works.
I only get hard on demand.
Except for last night, a demon whispers from the void, and I’m about to gag him bondage style.
I smile and slightly shift away. “Next time, beautiful.”
She blushes, but she still doesn’t remove her tits and even slides them up and down my arm, and I want to break her fucking neck.
I don’t usually get this prickly about people touching me. Yes, I hate it, but I can manage to mask it so well, no one can tell.
Right now, however, I struggle not to shove her away. I lift my thumb to my mouth, slightly flick it at the corner, then drop it back down when my phone buzzes on the table.
Cherry: Hi, handsome *heart emoji*
Would you look at that. My brother’s ex–fuck buddy, who sucked my cock just to continue chasing him.
She was so ready to ride my cock as well, but I happen to draw the line at sharing holes with my brother. It’d be nice to mess with him, though.
Pretty sure he has a girl he’s been stalking at the neighboring Royal Elite University. Now, if both she and Cherry could make it to the initiation, how entertaining would that be?
Not as entertaining as Vaughn and Yulian—the latter of whom won’t refuse an invitation if given one—but close enough.
As the others keep buzzing around me, I reply to Cherry.
Me: Hi, beautiful. Miss your face.
Cherry: Not more than me. I get so wet thinking of your huge cock every night and I have to use this toy I got. It’s not as big as you, though *pouting GIF*
Ew.
Me: You’re killing me. I’m getting hard in class.
Nope. My dick is as dead as a corpse, actually.
Cherry: Yum.
Me: Listen. You know there’s that initiation coming up, right? Want to join?
Cherry: OMG, really?
What a tool. She must think I’m a simp who’s drooling over her and she can use me as she sees fit. In fact, Cherry
has been hinting at the initiation for a while. Only an idiot wouldn’t notice her blatant attempts to get invited.
Me: Really. Tell you what, I’ll even protect you and make sure you get to the finish line. How does that sound?
Cherry: Sounds amazing! You’re the best.
Don’t go stating the obvious now.
“…what do you think, Gaz?”
I lift my head at Morgan’s voice—who’s still rubbing her tits all over me.
The shirt will be burned later.
“Depends, really,” I say, even though I have no clue what the fuck they’re talking about.
“I mean, he has a great reputation.” One of the guys, Meyers, picks up the conversation. “And since criminal law is an important part of the core curriculum, this will be fun.”
“Heard he’s hot as fuck,” a girl chimes in. “I call dibs.”
“Get in line,” her friend says.
“I’m the one who shared the information about him first,” Morgan protests.
Ah. The professor.
I swear to fuck I lose brain cells whenever I listen to their gossip.
Whoever this professor is, they’ll fall under my spell like the lot of them. I’m charming, smart, and an A+ student, which is porn for professors. But, like, professionally. None of my classmates even try to beat me in grades anymore. Not even Zara Jones, Morgan’s friend and the
