I spent the day prepping for this, hands dirty, mind dirtier. Now I’m suited up, blades tucked, phone lit, pulse steady. Ready to pull the trigger on anything that so much as blinks wrong.
I step into the storm of music and sweat, the scent of sin coating the air like smoke. The party’s already crawling with power-hungry bodies, all aching for a taste of something they’ll never forget, or survive.
And then I feel it.
Athens.
Her scent cuts through the chaos like static. Cinnamon and danger. She glides up beside me, and just like that, I’m undone. That dress was made to be ripped off. Her skin, bitten. Her throat, marked.
“Can I sit this one out?” she pouts, voice laced with bratty temptation. “I’ll hang with Fred. Maybe even invite Ryan. We’ll stay close.”
I smirk. “That actually sounds cute. But there’s a catch.”
She groans like I just sentenced her to death.
“On second thought, the party sounds funner.”
Too late.
“You skipped out, Little Fox. That means Daddy gets to assign your punishment.”
She scowls, that pout deepening, and I swear I feel my cock twitch.
“Fine. What is it?”
“I want you to dig.” My voice drops. “Into your past. You know what that means.”
Her face darkens instantly. “Ugh, I don’t want to read those journals. I’m so fucking sick of the past, Wyck. I just want a night with the girls. I want fun.”
“And I want obedience.”
Gone is the pout. What replaces it is fury, lightning behind her eyes. She wants to push me. And most nights, I’d let her. I’d welcome the challenge.
But not tonight.
“You wanna play brat?” I growl, voice low and final. “Then I’ll fuck the attitude out of you. Now. Move.”
She follows, of course she does. She always does.
I drag her into a shadowed corner near the edge of the ballroom, where the music's drowned by our need. A side table. A single chair. Perfect.
I shove her against the wall. “Lift your dress. Show me what’s mine.”
She hesitates, but only for a second. Her hands tremble as she peels the fabric up, revealing that soft, soaked cunt that drives me to madness. I push past her, sit, unzip, and let my cock breathe.
“Get on,” I command, voice rough. “Slow.”
She climbs onto me like a good little sinner, bracing herself on my thighs. The second her heat sinks over me, a broken sound slips from my mouth. Fuck. She’s always so warm. So wet. So fucking perfect.
She smirks. That same little bratty smile like she’s got the upper hand.
“I’m gonna wipe that smug look off your face.” I thrust upward hard enough to make her gasp, the tip slamming into her sweet spot.
“Wyck.” she moans, voice cracking.
“No,” I growl. “Scream it.”
My hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back until her throat’s exposed like an offering. “You don’t get a necklace tonight,” I whisper darkly. “You get a collar made of bruises.”
