Crown of Lies (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #2)

19. Killian

19

KILLIAN

I know she’s close—I can feel her whole body trembling with anticipation and need. And I could let her come. I want to let her come.

But it’s hardly ever that simple with Quinn, and right now I know I’m the only one who can really, fully give her what she needs.

She’s always so strong, so in control, but right now, she’s mine to command. And it’s not that I want to break her—it’s that I need to put her back together. The Quinn I know is in there somewhere, hidden beneath the trauma and the doubt. I just have to reach her.

So I hold her hips as tight as I can, my grip leaving no room for question. She knows I won’t let her fall, that I’ve got her. But I need her to feel this, to feel me.

“Look at you,” I whisper, my voice rough with desire. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. So willing to give yourself to me.”

I pull her to me, my hands eager and rough as I tug at her clothes. Her shirt comes off first, and I pause, taking in the sight of her. Her skin is marked—a tattoo, a brand, from Atlas.

I can’t help but reach out, my fingers tracing the ink, and she shivers at my touch. But there’s no time for gentleness now. I need her, and she needs this.

My hands move to her pants, yanking them down along with her panties, needing to feel her, all of her.

“Jesus, look at you,” I breathe, taking in the sight of her naked and wanting. “So fucking wet you’re dripping. Glistening.”

Seeing her like this sends a rush of possession through me. I should claim her, mark her just like Atlas did.

But not now, not in that way. Not tonight, anyway.

I push her down, my hands on her shoulders, guiding her to her knees. Her breath hitches, and I know she’s expecting me to take her, but I want to tease, to draw this out, to make her feel everything.

“Look at me, Quinn,” I demand, and her eyes, glassy with arousal, find mine as she looks back over her shoulder. I slap her ass, loving the sound of the sharp crack filling the room, and her eyes spark with something new—a hint of the fire I know she has burning within her.

“More,” she breathes, and I deliver, landing another slap, this time between her legs. She cries out, her eyes shutting tight, and then they fly open, her gaze meeting mine, full of heat and need.

“Please,” she whispers, and it’s both a plea and a demand. She wants this, needs it, and I’m the only one who can give it to her.

“You like that, don’t you?” I ask, my voice low and rough. “You like it when I slap that greedy little clit.”

The sharp sting of another slap snaps her back to me, and I love that sound—that little cry that’s part pain, part pleasure. It echoes in the room, and for now, it’s our song.

“So fucking needy. But you know I’m in control here, don’t you?”

She nods, her eyes shining with a mixture of desire and something more, something deeper. She knows what’s coming, and she’s ready for it.

I push her farther, forcing her down onto her elbows, and she takes the hint, staying put. I reach for the rope I keep tucked away for moments just like this. It’s soft and worn, but still rough enough to burn as it holds her in place.

Her eyes go wide as I bind her wrists, keeping the rope tight but not too constricting. I know just how much she can take. Then I move to her ankles, securing her in place, leaving her ass up in the air and that dripping pussy practically begging to be used.

“Look at you, all tied up and ready to be fucked. You’re mine now, siren. All mine.”

She can’t hide the want in her eyes, and her body is a giveaway—arching toward me, needing this as much as I do.

“Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

“You. I want you, Killian. I need you to?—”

I don’t let her finish, driving into her in one swift motion. She cries out, her body tightening around me, and I know I’m hitting that sweet spot. I pull out and thrust again, harder this time, loving the way she takes me, how her body opens for me.

“That’s it, take it. You’re doing so good. Taking this fucking cock like that’s what you were made to do.”

There’s no mercy in my pace. Each thrust a little harder than the last, a little deeper. She’s gasping for each breath and her body is starting to tremble all over again, but this time in a good way. The best possible way.

I know she’s close, but I want to draw this moment out as long as I can.

“You want to come, siren? You can come for me.”

“I—I can’t. It’s too much. I need a second. Please, Killian.”

I slam into her, silencing her words with the force of my thrusts. I know what she needs, and it’s not gentleness or time to think. It’s me, my body claiming hers, taking away her control, and giving it back to her all at once.

“That’s it, let go. Come for me, siren. Let it all go.”

My words push her over the edge, and she shudders, crying out my name as her body tightens, milking me, her legs shaking with the force of her release.

I don’t stop, pulling her up roughly to kiss her. She tastes like need and something wilder—a taste I crave. My hands are everywhere—tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, mapping the curves of her body.

I slow my movements to keep myself from coming as I tease and torment, taking her by the hips again and lifting her up and down on me.

“Good. So fucking good. But you can still stop it. You know that, right? If you didn’t want this, you could end it. Say your safe word, and I’d stop. I’d have to. You know that, don’t you?”

She nods. Her eyes are glassy but her gaze is still locked on to mine. “I don’t want to stop. I want you. I choose you. I’m not going to say that word.”

Hearing those words, that admission—it sends another possessive rush through me. She’s choosing this, giving herself to me, willingly, eagerly. I speed up, needing to feel her tighten around me again.

I pull out of her suddenly, and her eyes spark with confusion. But she doesn’t question me.

Her ass is up, cheeks still rosy red from the smacks I’ve already given them and the relentless pounding since then. Without warning, I bring my hand down again on that perfect ass, making her yelp.

She looks back at me with nothing but pure need in her eyes. Need for release. Need for this.

So I give it to her—my hand coming down again and again until the sound fills the room. Her broken sobs mix with the sharpness of my palm against her sensitive skin. I land another slap, and another, until both cheeks are a deep, angry red and I can feel the heat radiating off her in waves.

Her sobs turn into incoherent pleas, but I know she’s not asking me to stop. She’s begging me to keep going, to break her down, to take away the heaviness she carries and replace it with something lighter, something she can bear.

I shift, moving between her legs, loving the way she parts for me willingly, eagerly. I thrust into her, gripping her hips tightly again and knowing I’ll leave marks there too.

Good.

With each thrust, I feel her getting closer to the edge. She’s shaking, sobbing, but I don’t stop. Her pleasure is my pleasure, and I’m going to wring every last drop of it from her body.

Her walls clench around me, milking me, and I know she’s close. I reach for her clit and rub in tight circles as I drive into her again and again.

“Fucking come for me.” I nip at her ear, thrusting all the way into her. “Let go.”

And she does. With a moan that’s almost a scream, she shatters, her upper body flattening to the bed as she cries out her release.

The sensation of her pussy milking me is too much. I come hard, filling her up and keeping my cock buried deep inside her.

When I finally pull out, I watch as my cum spills out of her. Possessiveness grips me, and I push it right back inside. Where it belongs. She whimpers, her body clearly sensitive and overstimulated, but she takes it, accepts it, welcomes it.

I carefully untie the ropes, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. She collapses onto the bed as soon as she’s free, her body completely spent. I scoop her up and pull her onto my lap, cradling her against my chest and letting her curl into me, nestling her head under my chin.

Her body is still trembling slightly, aftershocks still rippling through her. I stroke her hair, my fingers running through the soft strands as I murmur soothing words.

“You did so well, little siren. So damn well. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

Gradually, her shudders subside. She melts against me, her breath evening out as she relaxes completely in my arms. It strikes me how soft and vulnerable she is in this moment—such a difference from how she usually acts around me.

As I hold her, my mind drifts to the times I fucked her as The Phantom. Back then, I always had to leave right after she passed out, cleaning her up quickly before disappearing into the night. I never got to experience this part—the aftermath, the intimacy of holding her as she comes down from the high.

I’m surprised to find I like this maybe even more than the sex itself. There’s something profoundly satisfying about being here for her in this moment of vulnerability, providing comfort and safety after pushing her to her limits.

The room is quiet except for our breathing, which has finally slowed to a steady rhythm. I’m not sure what to say or do next, so I simply exist with her in this moment, stroking her hair and letting her take comfort in my presence.

Time passes, although I couldn’t say how much. Eventually, she stirs slightly in my arms. Her fingers trace along my forearm, pausing on a jagged scar near my wrist.

“What’s this from?” she asks, her voice hoarse after so much moaning and crying out.

I glance down at the mark. “My mother,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. “She caught me sneaking food from the kitchen when I was seven. Threw a plate at me. It shattered, and a piece caught me here.”

Her finger moves to another scar, this one on my bicep. Her touch is gentle, questioning.

“That one? Cigarette burn. My mother again. I spilled her drink by accident.”

I feel her body relax further against mine as I speak. She traces another scar on my shoulder, and I tell her about that one too. The stories are awful, but I’ve distanced myself from the pain. I tell her each incident matter-of-factly, as if describing something that happened to someone else.

“You have a lot of scars,” she says after a while, stating the obvious.

I nod, my hand still stroking her hair. “Yeah, I do. It’s why I’ve never wanted to get tattoos or seen the point of them. I already have marks on my body. What do I need more for?”

She shifts slightly, her gaze meeting mine. For a moment, time seems to stand still. There’s something in her eyes, something warm and inviting that I’ve never noticed before. For just a split second, I feel the urge to lean down and kiss her. It’s a strange sensation, one I’ve never felt the need for before.

Instead, I brush her hair back from her face, my fingers lingering on her cheek. She leans into my touch, her eyes never leaving mine.

After a moment, she settles back down, resting her head on my chest. I can feel her breath against my skin, slow and steady. My arms tighten around her instinctively, holding her close.

We stay like that, silent and still, for what feels like it could be eternity but still not quite long enough. Right now, in this moment, it’s just us.