Dukes of Madness: Chapter 27

“Did you take my book on human sexuality?” I ask, impatiently picking through the stack of texts on the tabletop.

“I don’t think so,” she says. But since she rests a hand protectively on top of the backpack next to her on the floor, I know she’s full of shit. “You probably just left it at home.” She likes to do this thing where she bites her lip, eyelashes giving a small flutter whenever she wants to distract one of us. Remy would never suffer something so obvious, and Nick is too good at forming his own mask to ever buy someone else’s.

It works on me, though.

Every time.

“I’m not going to get mad.” I hold out my hand. “I just need it. I have to annotate this godforsaken paper.”

Lavinia and I are sharing a study table in the library, sitting across from one another. Beneath the table, her shoes have been shucked off, her feet resting on my lap. It’s one of her little challenges, desensitizing my constant and unfortunate boner, but it might also be another kind of test.

I didn’t invite her into my bed last night. It was a clear anomaly. Usually, I’m the one impatient to get in there and feel her hands on me. I’ve even gotten pretty good at it—I think.

My journal is growing progressively more erotic. I curl my forearm around it protectively as I glance down at a page I wrote in a few days ago.

L: Likes her nipples touched. Not pinched, not plucked, just touched. Enjoys kissing, especially neck and chest. Doesn’t like having her clit stimulated following an orgasm. Have not tried to insert my fingers vaginally, but the subject doesn’t appear as unwilling as she has in the past and I’m curious to see how she’d respond. Chest turns vibrant red when aroused. Notable lack of pubic hair, but it is unclear if this choice is hygienic or sexual in nature.

Some nights, when I’m feeling ambitious, I even know to return the favor, tucking my fingers into her panties and rubbing her clit as she spreads her thighs to give me access. I know the soft drag of her teeth against her lip as she bucks into it, fingers squeezing my cock harder. But I don’t always get her off. Sometimes I come first and we clean our hands before rolling over and falling asleep.

Sometimes, I pretend I’m sleeping as she finishes it herself.

But last night, none of that happened. I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, silently seething. Not at her, though. At Saul, mostly, for knowing how to punish me so goddamn effectively. If I don’t train—if I can’t hit and win—then I’m going to lose the threads that keep me tethered.

So these little touches are her testing the waters just as much as my control. And I’m used to her taking my books. It’s a compulsion with her, but I hate that she’s using them to psychoanalyze me with them. Like how she read up on body dysmorphia and used that information to manipulate me into that competition with Nick and Remy. A competition I won—but still. I grew up with a mother who analyzed everything, from my wet dreams to my lack of a serious girl or boyfriend, and I’m not really into the Duchess plundering my damn psyche.

I take another glance at my journal, pausing.

I’m okay with being a hypocrite.

Her eyes narrow, like she doesn’t quite believe I won’t get mad, but ultimately relents. She opens her backpack and bends over, giving me a gaping view down her shirt, and pulls out the book in question. She sighs. “Is this it?”

She knows goddamn good and well it is. I take it and grunt out, “Thank you.”

See? I can be a ray of fucking sunshine.

It’s just that I’m not feeling it. I’m not feeling much of anything other than this festering irritation about our probation status. The weight of the decision is dragging me down. Should I have kept a tighter rein on my brother? Would that have made a difference? Or is this because I’ve been distracted? Consumed with this blue-haired vixen that sleeps in my bed and puts her hands on me every night, coaxing me into a mass of hormonal desperation?

Fuck. Everything is just a fucking mess.

It’s been twenty-four hours since the tribunal, and I’m trying my best to process the outcome. Probation. No fights. Playing bitch for the other Royals. I’m not stupid. I know I’m the level head of this whole operation. If Nick or Remy knew just how badly I wanted to strike out, they might encourage me.

So I hide it.

Saul’s the one that proposed the punishment—most likely because he knows how to make it hurt. Getting kicked out of the Dukes? That would have made us legends. No, this is petty bullshit to keep us in our places. Already, I can feel my inner ocean growing turbulent, muscles restless, jittery and on-edge. Remy’s up next for Friday Night Fury, and now even that’s been pushed back a week, someone else billed in his place. It’s going to be fucking forever before I get in the ring.

It’d be so much easier to think clearly if I could just get some good hits in. If I could spend a couple hours pummeling the bag, sparring with Bruce, lifting weights until this buzzing energy under my skin dissipated.

Most of all, it’d be so much easier if I could think of something other than Lavinia’s pussy.

I should have let her jack me off last night, but the truth is, it’s not enough anymore. It barely even takes the edge off. It’s like the more I get of her, the more I want. Suddenly, the thought of her hand on me seems lackluster. I need more. Ever since I watched Remy sink his dick into her, it’s all I can think about. I almost regret watching so closely, my eyes fixed to the head of his swollen cock as he notched it up against her entrance, thrusting inside. I know that’s what he was doing, too—showing me. Putting it on display. Letting me see what it was like to watch her cunt expand around a hard cock. How wet she got for it. The way her back arched when he fucked it in and out of her.

He wasn’t trying to rub my face in it or anything.

But he kind of fucking did.

If anything, I think it’s getting worse. This morning she walked past me, sweaty from our too-short run, and the scent of her body odor, ripe and raw, drove me to take a long, cold shower. And now, with the weight of her feet in my lap, so casual and loose, I look at her and imagine it for the millionth time: her beneath me, thighs spread wide. I think of the sound she’d make when I rub the head of my cock through her slit. I think of the resistance I’d feel as I pushed inside. She’d gasp. She’d probably tell me it’s too much, but she’d take it. She’d be good for me. She’d stare up into my eyes as I slid inside.

That’s one scenario. I have about a dozen. In some of them, it’s quiet and soft, and I kiss her as I coax her through taking all of me. In others, she fights, and her angry, tear-filled eyes shine up at me as I fuck her, brutal and fast. In some, she’s the one who does it, straddling my hips and sinking down, so sweet, not even a whimper.

I honestly can’t tell which one gets me harder. But they all have one thing in common: I come inside of her, filling her up, spurting every fucking drop into her slick, tight cunt.

It’s all I think about anymore.

I take a deep breath and do what works the best. Distraction. From the punishment, from the loss, from my goddamn blue-balls. There’s something that’s been bothering me. Something Lavinia mentioned in the belfry before Nick showed up with his demented version of a grand gesture and it came up again at the tribunal.

“So,” I look around, making sure we’re alone. “Care to share any more about what the deal is with your dad being ‘armed to the teeth?’” Those are Killian’s words from the tribunal. In the belfry, she mentioned a failsafe. It was clear at the tribunal that Nick knew all about it, which isn’t a surprise. I’ve known for a while that Nick’s cross-territory knowledge about Forsyth was extensive, but increasingly, I feel more and more left in the dark. Especially if he’s going to keep making moves without us. “Because I’d really like to know exactly what that means.”

Her eyebrow rises over the book she’s reading, highlighter tucked between her teeth. “Now?”

“When I hear constant threats about him having something that can ‘level’ a whole town, I’d rather not wait.”

Her expression shifts, voice lowering. “I know it’s hard to imagine, but besides being an absolutely shitty parent, my dad isn’t just power-hungry. He’s also paranoid as fuck.”

Sighing, I think of Remy. “A bad combination.”

“Yep.” She leans forward, pushing her heels into my balls. I grimace and shift away, only making it worse. “For the longest time, I thought it was just some kind of North Side fairy tale—you know, not the sanitized Disney kind, but the horrific original ones. The Grimm brothers, where daughters are sold off, or people cut off their hands and feet to appease dark forces and gain gold or a thousand bales of hay.” She rolls her eyes, like she knows she’s getting off topic. “I kind of always assumed my father built these myths to keep the soldiers in line, but when he really started grooming Leticia to marry Perez, she was privy to more Count business.” Lavinia has her hair up in a messy ponytail, but there are these loose tendrils of hair framing her face. She blows one away from her nose. “And since Leticia couldn’t possibly find out something that massive and not rub it in my face, we both found out it was true.”

I stare at her, blinking. “So… what’s the truth, exactly?”

She looks left, and then right, pitching her voice lower. “My father spent years—decades, maybe—wiring Forsyth with explosives. If he’s compromised, anything of value will go down with him.”

My head snaps back. “Anything?”

“Everything.” Her eyebrow arches. “The University, the Hideaway, the Baron’s Crypt, and the Prince’s Palace—”

“Everything tied to the Royalty.” Startled, I guess, “The Tower.”

Nodding, she adds, “And probably the gym, too.”

“Fucking hell.” I shake my head at the enormity of it. “Are you sure? How is that even possible?”

She leans back, face exasperated. “I don’t know, Sy. How is any of this possible? Buying and trading women, killing innocent girls, selling bullshit drugs on the street. This place is the hellmouth—only the demons here are human.”

I run both of my hands through my hair, trying to wrap my head around it. “I guess this explains why the Lords didn’t destroy the Counts after they kidnapped their Lady.”

“And why my father gets so much leeway from the Kings.” She presses her toes against my inner thigh. “Everyone has always played by the rules around here. I mean, except your brother.” I catch the small, twisted smile on her mouth. The way her eyes slide down. The slight flush of her cheeks.

Christ.

Our Duchess grew up with a psychopath, and now that they’re not fighting, Nick’s deranged behavior may tick one of her boxes after all. I fucking knew she had daddy issues.

Shaking her head, she meets my gaze, head tilting. “Any idea what to do about it?”

Surprised I’m even being asked, it takes me a second to answer. “Not a fucking clue. But Lionel isn’t the only power player in town. I have to wonder what kind of competing failsafes the other Kings have set up.”

“Mutually Assured Destruction,” she says, mouth twisting unhappily. “That seems on brand for these assholes.”

The idea of the Royals having enough firepower to take one another out should be disturbing enough to kill my boner, but Lavinia stretches out, her toes brushing against the length of my cock, making my thighs clench. I place my hand over her foot to block her touch, ignoring her teasing glance.

“Would you just,” I growl, snatching up her foot, “fucking stop?”

She raises an eyebrow, giving her toes a pointed wriggle. “Look, if we’re all going to die in some Royal pissing match then I’m going to play footsie under the table.”

I try to move her foot away, but not before she rubs her heel into my balls, sending another surge of blood to my cock.

“Lavinia…” My voice is low with a warning as I hold her foot still. “I’ve got a ton of work to do and I’m not in the mood.”

She stares at me. “Not in the mood? You?”

Not for that, I want to say. Not for footsie. Not for quick, perfunctory handjobs in the dark. “No,” I say instead, sounding laughably unconvincing.

Our eyes meet and there’s a glint of something obnoxious lingering in hers. No, not obnoxious. Arrogance? Cockiness? She knows I’m lying. The hardness beneath her foot is enough to tell her that.

She grinds her heel down my length. “Why are you holding out, Perilini?”

“I said not now.” I shove her foot to the floor, the thrust hard enough that she jolts at the force. Guilty, but stubborn enough to not show it, I sneer, “Jesus Christ, what happened to no meaning no?”

Her face falls, and I’m not expecting it. The disappointment. The hurt? Like maybe she’d been hoping for something to go down.

No.

That can’t be it. She gets a sense of pleasure out of this little game—teasing and taunting me. If she has any idea how tenuously I’m hanging by a thread, she’d be running the other way. Already I can feel the urges surfacing from my inner ocean of calm. There was a time that just made me at risk for starting a fight. Right now, the thing I want most is to see my dick buried inside her cunt, pulsating with my release.

“Lame,” she says, but pulls her foot into her own lap. “I bet Nick and Remy would be ecstatic to have me rub them off in the library.”

The look she gives me is nonchalant, dismissive. Intentional, knowing one little jab is enough to draw me into her game. But not today.

Lionel may not be the only one with a bomb lying under the surface.

Mine is just more personally destructive.

I push past Lavinia and jog up the stairs to the tower. The mere thought of it rankles like a betrayal, but maybe this weekend, I can see about a membership at another gym. For now, jogging is the only exercise I’m going to get, so I take advantage, treating the stairs to the top like it’s a competition.

Naturally, I win.

The resulting endorphins are weak though, no thrill to the victory of beating Lavinia, who’s still gaining muscle mass and endurance, lost behind me before we even reached the halfway mark. I’ve already tossed my bag on my bed, heading for the kitchen when she reaches the door, chest heaving from exertion.

“I think I’m having a heart attack,” she says, hand covering her rising tits. “I know we can’t go to the gym, but making me chase you up the stairs is unnecessarily cruel.”

“I didn’t make you chase me,” I say, opening the refrigerator for a bottle of water. On cue, the cat comes racing from wherever he was hiding, pushing his way around my ankles. “Not now.” He persists, jumping up my leg and clinging to my pants. “Fucking—”

I shake him off—not hard—but he slides across the hardwood.

“Jesus, Sy,” Lavinia cries, scooping him up in her arms. “I know you’re pissed at me, but don’t take it out on the Archduke.”

I raise a hand to him, gaping. “That cat has shed more drops of my blood than I can count.”

The kitten squirms in her arms, jumping out and dashing into Nick’s room.

“Look. If you need the exercise so bad, can’t we just train here?” Flustered, she looks toward the living room. “There’s plenty of floor space. Plus, you told me you’d show me how to do that takedown move.”

I swallow half the bottle before answering. “There’s a list of cardio on the closet door if you need something to do.” I start toward my room, but she cuts me off, sliding in front of me with a stony expression.

“Okay, what’s your problem? Are you mad at me for Perez? Because I didn’t ask to be—”

“I’m not mad,” I say, which would be really convincing, except my hands are balled into tight fists.

She gives them a pointed look, shoulders curling inward as she crosses her arms. “Uh uh. Is this about the library, then? Because I was under the impression you liked me touching your dick, but all of a sudden, you’re blowing me off.”

“Maybe,” I grit out, “I’m not in the mood to tip-toe around your weaknesses today. Pretending like you’re making progress is fucking exhausting.”

I try to make the insult land, but she’s a Lucia. Vipers just strike back when you provoke them. Chin jutting out, she steps close to snap, “You think I can’t handle myself? Because I can take you, and you know it.”

I snort. There’s that misguided cockiness. I wonder if she realizes how alike she and Nick can be. Crossing my arms over my chest, I jerk my chin. “You didn’t handle yourself so well with Perez, and look how that ended. One messy corpse and three Royal probations.”

Something in her eyes shutters, and I know I’ve found a chink in her armor. She blames herself. Just a little. “I got away.”

“Okay. So you ran. Bravo, Lavinia.” I slow clap, the sound echoing off the rafters. “You’ve always known how to run away like a little bitch. Don’t expect a gold star from me.”

A hot belligerence builds in her eyes, making her mouth purse tight. “You think I can’t defend myself? Try me,” she dares, planting her palms on my chest and pushing. “Come at me. You’re such a big man. What are you afraid of? Losing? To a girl?”

My patience snaps like a twig, and I lunge for her.

She reacts faster than I’m expecting, jumping out of my reach, and it throws me off. I’m used to training with other men. Big guys. Slow guys. Lavinia is compact and agile, though. To add injury to insult, she gets in two solid hits to my ribs, fists smacking into my muscles. I turn to her, fuming. We don’t usually spar like this, with bare fists and pulsing anger, and there’s a reason. I can break bad on some motherfucker like Bruce, burying my knuckles into him over and over again.

I would break this fucking girl in half.

“Go on, Lucia,” I taunt, holding my arms out. The name makes her eyes turn fiery and I like it. I like the way she squares up to me, the hard set of her mouth. I like when I tell her, “If you’re going to hit me, then make it count,” and she reacts instantly.

She punches me in the jaw.

I don’t even flinch. “You’re holding back,” I note, scoffing. “How are you going to train with me if you don’t even have the balls to hurt anyone?”

“I’ve hurt plenty of people.” She readjusts her ponytail before lining her shoulders back up. “Just how hard do you want it?”

I raise my chin, demanding, “As hard as you can give it.” On the inside, there’s a rogue wave barreling toward me, but externally, I’m still as stone, waiting. “You wanna prove you can take me? Stop hitting like a girl, and just hit!”

Lavinia puts up a big front. I get it. The life she’s led has probably been sixty-forty posturing and hubris. She’s good at it. Convincing, probably, to someone who doesn’t know her like I do.

I see the wince in her eyes a second before her knuckles make contact.

“Again,” I growl, barely even feeling jostled. I need more. I don’t know why, but I know the pain, however small, dulls the roar of the wave. “Fucking clock me!” She doesn’t even set up for it this time, striking out. “Again!” The next hit barely knocks my cheek—a bad aim. She’s losing it. It’s all over her face, the flush of red, the angry brow. “Again!”

After the fifth hit, her eyes begin to get shiny in that specific sort of way. A lot of people don’t understand this about the fight—that you pull from a part of yourself that’s wild and unfettered, and it doesn’t care if you only want certain parts of it, it’ll all break through.

“Don’t you fucking cry!” I snap before the tears can fall. “You need it. You need to hurt. It’s something I see in most of DKS, in one way or another. I see it in Nick and Remy. Me, most of all. But you…” I watch her trying so hard to gather all that emotion back up, shoving it down. “Yours is different, Lavinia. You don’t need it because it’s fun. It’s not even that you want to win. In fact, I’m betting you’d be fine with losing so long as you got one good shot in. So fucking do it!”

It’s only half disingenuous. She does need it. Nick took her kill. I can see it in her every day, the need to push back at the world. It’s the only thing about her I can understand—the only thing I can really get a grip on.

Mostly, though, I’m the one who needs it.

I need the pain to ground me. I need the hit to remind me I’m still on my feet. I need the adrenaline, the touch, the proof that I’m more than a ticking machine. The fight is the only place I make sense.

Gradually, she gains control of herself, blinking back the flood of her own inner ocean. I’ve felt the pull of this tide—I know the unending force of it—so when she squares up to try again, our gazes meet over the distance and I feel proud. Proud, and for a split second, fucking terrified. In a blink, she swings out with just the right amount of anger—not too much—arm straight as it flies toward me.

I think I might love her.

The notion bludgeons my head from the inside while Lavinia’s knuckles take care of the outside.

It’s a beautiful hit. Artistry. Truly enough to rattle my teeth. I can barely hear her feral grunt over my ears, fucking screaming. It’s possible that I stagger—just a little—but it’s lost in the rush to grab a fistful of her hair and crush our mouths together.

Now she’s the one caught off guard, mouth parting in surprise as my tongue dives between her lips. I pull her hair too hard and she hisses, her fingers digging painfully into my sides as we crash to the floor in a sweaty, breathless heap.

It’s not the same as a fight. I wrestle her arms down, pinning her wrists to the floor as I kiss her, and it’s a horrible proxy. There’s no blood or sting, no sense of stakes, no one watching to see when I win.

But fuck if it isn’t close enough.

She makes a grunting sound, struggling against my hold. “God, getting hit makes your dick hard, doesn’t it? Of course it does.” Despite the snarl to the words, her face is flushed a vivid pink, eyes heavy with lust.

I stare down at her, grinding my cock into her hip. “Thought you could take me?”

“Not when you’re sitting on me, asshole.” She works one of her hands free and pinches my nipple, twisting it.

“Son of a—” I fly into action, straddling her torso. I tuck one of her hands between my leg and her side, then get a hold of the other one and do the same, effectively restraining her. I enjoy it a little too much, watching her buck and squirm. “You want to fight me? Do it. Get free.”

She’s completely immobile, other than the wriggling of her lower body, which keeps knocking into my balls.

She wets her lips, peering up at me with dark eyes. “If you get any harder,” her eyes blink heavily, gaze coming to rest on my crotch, “that thing is going to smother me.”

Unconsciously, I follow her gaze to the bulge in my pants. It’s pure instinct to rock against her, and I get this vision—this absolute fucking crazy-making image—of what we’d look like if we were naked, my cock between her tits.

I’m pretty sure I used to have a stronger will than this. There was a time I’d see her ass in a tight pair of pants and just turn the other way, shoving the feelings down. Now, I find myself yanking her top up, jostling both of us with the force of it. I stretch it over her tits, revealing her bra. Lacy. Black. Some expensive front-closure contraption Remy bought for her.

With one twist of my fingers, it unhooks, falling to the side.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice quiet.

I stare at her tits. So perfect. Round and supple. “Do you know how much I hold back all the time?” I ask, voice ragged as I palm each breast. “When we fight? When we mess around in my bed at night? All I do is hold back, Lavinia.” I cup them in my hands, squeezing them together. Her nipples pebble under my thumbs and I bend to take one into my mouth before licking my way to the other. She tastes good. Like both sweat and soap, like sweetness and conflict—like everything I can’t have.

I rise up, licking a hot path between her breasts and sit back, panting. I’ve been watching a lot of porn these past few weeks. If I wanted to lie to myself, I’d say it’s just part of being a guy. But the truth is, it’s her. Being with her. Anticipating her coming to my bed at night and wanting to not embarrass myself. It’s the thought of bringing her something she doesn’t need to walk me through. Surprising her. Pleasing her.

I dip my hand into my shorts and pull out my cock, stroking the length.

“What are you going to do?” she eyes it warily, taking in the familiar length.

“Whatever I want.”

I spit on my hand, slathering it on the length of my cock, then press her tits together again and slot the head into the crevice between them. The first plunge feels like a revelation, thrusting my dick between her tits, watching her head tip up to watch.

Her lips part like she’s hypnotized. “Does that… feel good?”

Not answering, I pull my hips back, dragging my cock against her flesh before pushing back. “You ever had anyone fuck your tits before?” I ask, bearing down on her.

Her head drops back, eyes unblinking as she stares at me. “No.”

It shudders through me like a bolt of electricity. I’ll never be the first cock she takes in her cunt, her mouth, her ass. The knowledge that I’m the first to fuck her like this is more potent than I’m expecting. I like to think I’m above it—the need to conquer a woman like this.

Maybe I’m not.

I bite the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to come. Not yet. God-fucking-dammit, not yet.

Mentally, I follow our lessons, finding a rhythm, taking my time, and the longer I move against her, the more her body moves with me. Hips writhing in time to the pumps of my hips. Breaths heaving her chest up and down with each push. My cock is leaking like a motherfucker, sticky fluid slicking the way for me as my fingers dig into her, thumbs scraping over her nipples every now and then.

It’s the feel of her around me, the firm flesh of her tits, the punchy little cries that make me go to the hilt. Her tits are big enough to take the girth of me, but the tip presses out to the hollow of her throat, jabbing into the soft skin beneath her chin. My balls drag against her ribs, and her nails press into the outside of my thighs.

It’s slick and hot, the two of us staring at one another as I fuck her chest. It’s fast and hard, and even though I’m probably hurting her, she doesn’t seem to mind, her tongue swiping out to wet her lips, like this is doing something for her, too. It’s as close to fucking a girl as I’ve ever gotten and I can feel the tingle, my balls tightening as my release rushes up.

And it’s still not enough.

The frustration builds within me, hot and angry, and I rear back, dick slipping away.

“Sy,” she says as I hook my fingers into the waist of her pants, wrenching them down. Her thighs snap closed as I tear them from her legs, over her ankles, tossing them away. “Sy,” she repeats, alarm clear in her voice when I grab her knees, prying them apart. “Hey, wait!” She pushes up to her elbows, trying feebly to back away, but I yank her back, forcing my way between her legs. I smell her heat before I get there. Remy was right before. Her pussy smells fucking amazing, and I know that she’s wet even before I touch her.

“Stay still,” I snap, fisting my cock with one hand and pushing her thigh apart with another. When I lean forward, rubbing the tip of my cock through her folds, her body locks up, tense and rigid, and I know it’s fear.

One quick glance proves it, her eyes wide and pleading. “Sy, don’t—”

I could.

I look down. Her pussy is so pink and open, and I feel her on my dick, hot and slick. It takes me second to find my bearings, it’s all folds and secrets and sensitive parts. She’s fucking soaked for me—from me, nothing but a quick and stilted titty fuck—and I use the wetness to glide the tip of my dick to her entrance, slotting right up against it, careful not to push through.

“Stay still,” I say again, giving the shaft a few fast tugs. Truthfully, I don’t need it. The sight alone of my dick against her hole is enough to make my balls go tight, the proof that we fit together the way a man and a woman should. All it would take is one thrust.

The orgasm slams against me with all the force of a flood that’s been held back too long. I grunt as the first surge arrives, my dick jerking as it feeds it into her. “Oh, fuck,” I gasp, fingers digging into her soft thigh as I empty into her hole.

Or as close as I can get, anyway.

The cum spreads into her folds, messy and imprecise, and in a fit of annoyance, I pull my dick away to replace it with my fingers, fucking the cum into her angrily, resentfully.

“Oh,” she breathes, raising her hips into my hand, fucking herself on my fingers. “Don’t stop, don’t—” Her head is thrown back, fingers scrabbling against the hard floors. The tendons in her neck stand out in sharp relief, her tits red and irritated from my hands and cock.

Without thinking about it, I duck down to prod my tongue into her clit, almost getting hard again at the sound she makes, loud and startled as her fingers wind into my hair.

I always thought I’d be grossed out by eating pussy, but I see now what Remy meant. The power of it is heady and acute. I feel it now as I peer up her body, my fingers burying my cum into her as my tongue teases her into a trembling mess. She’s not tense anymore, the fear replaced with an urgency that’s clear in the buck of her hips, the grip of her fingers around my hair, the soft, desperate cries spilling from her red lips. It’s sloppy, the sharp taste of my own release mingling with the sweetness of her arousal, but she clutches me close, guiding and greedy, using my face just as much as I’d used her tits.

She might not want my dick.

But she wants me to have her pussy.

She comes on a strained cry, her heels grinding into the floor as she arches into my mouth. I make a sound of my own, low and rumbling and victorious as I lick her through it. My fingers, still buried inside of her, feel the clench of her muscles as she seizes and my brain picks that thought up and saves it for later. God, to feel that around my cock, just once…

I crawl next to her and lie on my back, the two of us staring at the ceiling as we catch our breath. I feel sticky and wrung out, my dick spent against my thigh but still willing to stir at the sight of her bare body, the occasional quake skittering through her muscles as I watch.

She closes her knees, thighs rubbing together, and there’s this sheen to her eyes that I don’t often get to see. Like she’s drunk. Blissed out. Satisfied. “That was—”

“Are you my girlfriend?”

She turns to stare at me. Her face is slack, but her eyes are distinctly startled. “Uh. What?”

I turn away, swinging my gaze back to the rafters. “We fool around. We live together. We kiss sometimes, even when we’re not having orgasms. We fight, and then we make up. Isn’t that what having a girlfriend is like?”

There’s a long moment of silence where I wonder why I even asked. This is why I can’t do this shit during the day. At night, I have an orgasm, roll over, and pass out. Now I’m all fucking filter-less and off-kilter.

Eventually, she answers, “I guess… well, I belong to you. And Remy.” In a lower, slightly disgruntled voice, “And sometimes Nick.”

“But are you our girlfriend?” I press, pushing my hand through my hair.

“Do you want me to be?” she asks, sounding strangely belligerent.

Instantly, I say, “Yes.” And then, “No.” And then, “Fuck, I don’t know. I’ve never had a girlfriend.” Maybe when Remy and Nick call her their Duchess, that wraps a bow around it for them, but I never planned on having one in the sexual sense. Now there’s this girl in my bed, my pants, my mind, and I just know she’s something, and ‘Duchess’ doesn’t cover it. I struggle—badly—to put it into words. “I need some fucking parameters here.”

“I’m not sure how to be a girlfriend, Sy.” She rests her cheek against my shoulder. “I’ve been a daughter, a piece of property that’s traded, and then this… the Duchess. I’ve barely figured that one out.”

I try not to take it as a rejection. I don’t think it is. Because she’s so strong, so bossy and determined, I forget that Lavinia must feel lost sometimes—just like the rest of us. I swallow. “Whatever. I was just wondering.”

She turns to face me, eyes holding mine. “There would be worse things than being Simon Perilini’s girl.”

“Yeah?”

She nods and kisses me, light and soft on the lips. A contrast to the violence before. It’s not until later that I realize that although she didn’t say yes about being my girlfriend, she also didn’t say no.