God of Fury (Legacy of Gods, #5)

by Rina Kent

I’ve just never been good with choices. Don’t appreciate them. Don’t care for them. Would rather not be presented with one.

It’s fine. I can do this. Breathe. You’re in control.

The Heathens are the leading club of The King’s U college. A uni that reeks of mafia money and la nouveau bourgeoisie, where all American students flock like birds of a feather.

We have our own malicious club at Royal Elite University—or REU—where I’m working on my master’s degree in art. It’s called the Elites and is led by none other than my headache of a twin brother, Landon.

I, Brandon King, belong to one of the most influential families in the UK, if not the most influential, but I still don’t get people’s obsession with selected elites.

Yellow Mask can only be Nikolai Sokolov.

the craziest twat who ever walked the earth.

“Bossy. I like it. But you know what I like more? Your posh little accent. Question. Does it sound the same when you say crude things?”

“Anyone ever tell you how fucking hot you feel when struggling for control? I could swallow you alive and leave no crumbs.”

“Stay fucking still unless you’re in the mood to take care of the boner you’re giving me.”

ever since that boner incident, Kolya has become the sluttiest, most adventurous cock anyone would ever meet. He’s resourceful, to put it mildly, and a flat-out whore if we’re being fucking blunt. Part of his extended arsenal is being easy to satisfy. Give him a willing hole and he’s weeping in joy—literally.

So imagine my goddamn bafflement when he woke up today and chose the silent treatment. I presented an especially sexually frustrated Kolya with his favorite flavors. At the same time. A dick and a pussy? Fucking jackpot, if you ask me.

Imagine my fucking surprise when he walked right in like a lost lamb. A straight lost lamb.

What I didn’t expect was his subtle aggressiveness and hints of submissiveness peeking from beneath the mask of rigorous control that he wears like a second skin.

Maybe destroy his fantasies about being straight in the meantime. I’ve never played around with straight men, but this was too tempting to pass up.

Gender doesn’t matter as long as they have a hole I can use.”

I don’t think he’s genuinely attracted to people in any shape or form. He just loves the power.

My gaze keeps flitting to the round globes of his ass, though, all peachy and shit. If he’s straighter than straight, it’s such a shame to leave that ass empty.

“Oh cool, you remember! Nice to officially meet you, Brandon. Or, hold on! I actually found you a perfect nickname. Lotus flower. You know, because you managed to bloom so beautifully while surrounded by the muddy swamp that is Landon. Isn’t that so fucking poetic?”

“Sure thing, Prince Charming. Go back to your favorite hobby of running away. If you do that fast enough, you might reach your second favorite hobby—denial—in record time.”

Uncut. Fucking perfect.”

How can a savage be so…attractive? It’s the alcohol. Please tell me this is only because I’m hammered.

My balls fill to the brim and I get no warning as my cum splutters all over Nikolai’s T-shirt and even shoots up his neck and jaw.

A fever-like sensation spreads all over my body as I watch him darting his tongue out and chasing the cum on his lips and chin, licking every droplet clean. There’s no other expression for what he does next. He uses my hand as he thrusts himself against my slowly depleting cock, faster, harder, until a shiver goes through me.

My lips part and he jams his middle and ring fingers inside, all the way to the back of my throat, forcing me to taste him. No, it’s not only him. It’s us. Good grief. This is so sick. Then why aren’t you fighting?

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” he mutters, his throat working beneath my fingers. “Your nightmare.” “I hate you.” “I don’t.” “You’re fucking crazy.” “About you,” I whisper against his lips and claim them with a guttural moan. He doesn’t push away. He certainly does not turn his face or look like he’s uncomfortable with the attention. In fact, the exact opposite happens. His lashes flutter over his cheeks as he groans, and I eat that sound the fuck up.

I trail a path of bites down to where his shoulder meets his neck, collarbone, and chest, then I scrape my teeth on his nipples. He spits out the most erotic moan I ever heard, and I jam two of my fingers in his mouth, then spread them against his tongue.

This was supposed to be a little game, but I don’t think I’m playing anymore.

The worst part is that I feel like I’m already losing.

Everywhere I touch, he’s there. Like a constant reminder of my fucked-up mental state. Of how far I fell and how deeply I lost control.

They gave me grief about the hickey on my neck, saying that I had a wild one on my hands. They meant Clara, of course, but she’s nowhere near wild. The one who’s driving me fucking insane is none other than a man.

My gaze lands on my eyes in the mirror and I groan when I accidentally touch my nipple. It’s still sore and aching from his attention earlier, and no matter how much I try to erase that memory, it won’t go away.

He looked displeased when I ran away earlier. But why? He couldn’t have possibly expected me to stay there for everyone to find us.

I push the door open to be greeted by Clara kneeling between Nikolai’s legs, her hands wrapped around his dick. He sits on the bed, leaning back on his palms, and he’s only in his boxer briefs that Clara pulled down to free his cock. Now she’s fisting him, watching, marveling, and admiring. His gaze shoots to mine as soon as I stand in the doorway, his eyes darkening in an instant as his lips lift in a cruel smirk. “Call me babe, Clara.”

But it’s not until this very moment that the depressing truth crashes into me. I never gave two flying fucks about Clara. Zilch. Nada. What’s driving me to the edge of myself isn’t her. It’s her touching Nikolai. It’s not about her. It’s about him. Bloody fucking hell.

My modus operandi has always been to act first and think of consequences later. There’s no reason why that should change now.

I want to shatter his control, wreak havoc on his golden-boy image, and disrupt his life. I want to sink my teeth into his skin and feed on the lust that radiates from his unsaid words. Until I drain him. Until there’s nothing left of him. Or me.

“Want to blame me again?” I murmur against his skin. A puff of air leaves his mouth and he nods once. “Then blame me all you want, baby.” I slam my lips to his, taking what’s mine. Because he is fucking mine.

I jam my knee between his and wrap a leg around his thigh as I grind my cock against his rock-hard one. The new position gives me better access, more friction, and he groans down my throat as he clenches his fingers in my hair, letting me know how much he likes that.

“That’s it, baby. Eyes on me as I choke on your cock.”

Right now, however, I don’t seem to care. Could be because I just let him give me the best blowjob of my life. And I don’t even like blowjobs. I could deny it all I want, but the truth is, Nikolai Sokolov is…good-looking. Sorry. Fucking hot is the expression I’m searching for.

“Wrap your lips around my cock, baby.”

“Don’t run away from me again. If you do, I’ll flip the world upside down to find you. You’re mine now, baby.”

There are these times when I’m in the mood to destroy everything—myself included. A high without the drugs. Insanity without the straight jacket.

“I will fucking kill him or anyone who dares to touch what’s fucking mine.”

No one has ever said that to me. No one has ever been so obsessed with me that they act like they’d move heaven and earth to protect me.

I fucking love kissing him. But most of all, I love how he kisses me. It’s hard and dominating but also overwhelmingly passionate.

Not when he looks at me like he can’t get enough. Like I’m the center of his universe. Even temporarily.

I’m just me. His lotus flower. His Prince Charming. His baby.

I guess a part of me is trying to make up for how I leave every night when he doesn’t seem like he wants me to. He doesn’t say that out loud, but I can feel the crushing disappointment in his voice whenever he asks, “You leaving?”