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“Bran Bran? Pretty bold nickname coming from someone who I can fuck without permission, don’t you think?”
“One day, when this asshole isn’t lurking around you like a hungry lion protecting his prey, I’m going to play some games with you.”
“Because your demons whispered all your secrets into my ear the day you dragged me through your hell, and let me tell you something, you are a monster, Nate. And a liar.”
“You think you have the power, but last I checked, I’m the one with the pussy.”
“Agh!” she screams. “I fucking hate you! Handcuff me to Bran Bran instead!”
“Woah!” Brantley glares at her. “I didn’t fucking lie to you! That nickname is only allowed if I fucking lie to you!”
“You’re a pain in not just his ass, but mine too, but I don’t get to eat that ass, so this shit isn’t fair.”
“You get to three and I’m taking you over my knee and beating your ass blue. Deal?”
“I happen to like my little terror.”
Pain doesn’t define us, it shapes us. We come into this world as newborns, a fresh start. New life, a crisp soul. Then life happens, and every single choice you make has an implication. Every scar has a story, or it doesn’t and it’s just a scar, but whether or not it has a story, it’s still a scar, and that scar doesn’t define us, so why should pain?
“You’re right, Nate, I was wet for him.” He stills, but I remain strong. “And you fucking me in a bathroom like a cheap bitch isn’t going to stop the fact that I might fuck him too. Excuse me.”
When he leans back, his heavy-lidded eyes searching mine, I notice every other emotion that he bared to me has vanished, and I know why. That was goodbye.
“Wear it. Pair it with some thigh-high boots, and Tillie?” she says as my glance drops down the small black and lace… dress. “Own it like the queen that you are.”
“Jesus fucking—” He shakes his head, dropping into first gear and zipping us out of the driveway. “Yeah, Daddy is not going to be happy about that dress.”
I release a little as she leans over and grabs it before taking her spot back on my lap. Where the fuck she belongs. This queen doesn’t need a throne, she just needs my dick to sit on.
“I asked you to come home, I didn’t drop to one knee. But if you need”—I run my fingers up her inner thigh, my index finger coming to the slit, over her damp panties—“me to drop to my knees and suck on your pussy, then done, because I’m fucking starving.”
“On your knees, bound by your cum-drenched panties, and gazing up at the words that own you, because I do, Tillie. This King fucking owns you.”
You’re a six-course meal, not a fucking snack.
I’ve been fucked a lot, and no pussy has fucked me as hard as Tillie’s words did in that sentence.
“I’m going to get pussy. Mommy and Daddy are fighting again.”
“You’re not a woman who can be owned. I knew that a long time ago. You may not belong to me, but you belong with me. And there ain’t shit you can do about it.”
“Little terror?” Brantley teases once the silence stretches out into awkward territory. “You will be the most protected woman, and that baby will be guarded by Hellhounds, I promise you. I fucking promise you.”
