Lucian pov...
She was too tight. I couldn't even get as deep as I wanted.
I'm sure Bran just put it in and pulled out. What an amateur.
My Cock drove into her, each thrust a calculated punishment. I didn't let her breathe.
"Ahhh....ahhhhh!"her screams were raw, inelegant.
I hated the way her lips parted, a silent, wide O of perpetual shock.
Her blue eyes stared up, gazed, as if she were shattering.
I hadn't even begun, this was just foreplay to me.
Four years and this is what he left her with? an echo.
And now the most beautiful thought of all:
What is the all mighty Lucian Throne doing with such a broken thing.
Don't forget. She is Camilla, the fool of twenty one years ago.
My mind almost slipped into memory.
Then I heard it.
"Bran… Bran."
She just called me Bran.
So, she could taste heaven and still choose to pray in hell.
A cold, sharp fury sliced through the haze of desire. I withdrew from her in one swift motion, flipped her around, and slammed her back against the concrete wall. The impact knocked the air from her lungs.
"Lucian!" she gasped, her voice sharp with shock and pain.
I didn't answer. My hands went to the waistband of those ridiculous pink panties. A single, brutal tear, and the flimsy barrier was gone, discarded on the bloodstained floor.
I hooked one of her legs, lifting it, pinning her knee high against the wall beside us. She was utterly exposed, open to me—and to the dim, hellish light.
I could see everything. The slick, glistening evidence of her hunger, dripping, screaming for me.
Even as her mouth betrayed her, her body told the only truth that mattered.
"Look at me,"I growled, my voice low a low command in the dank air. My hand closed over her breasts–soft, yielding, a perfect fit in my palm.
"Bran is dead! I'm the only one that matters."
I love touching this. The way her breath hitched was victory.
"Ehhhhhh!"
Her scream was sharp, tore from her throat as I drove into her. She was tight, impossibly so, a hot, wet resistance that gave way to my claiming. I didn't care if she was prepared.
Her preparation was my decision.
I wouldn't stand it. Not because she was too weak, but because this was the contract made flesh.
"Ehhhh... Ehh... Ehmm"The sound were punched out of her with each thrust–a broken , rhythmic gasp.
I started slower, a deliberate, deep possession, letting her feel every inch.
Then I gave in to the demand of my own need, moving faster, harder, digging into the heart of her. I felt the way her entire body clenched around me, a frantic inner vibration.
Her finger nails scored my shoulder, drawing blood–a pain that was just another flavor to her surrender.
This was it!
My vision hazed at the edges, the world narrowing to the feel of her. The sound of her. The sheer, stunner reality of her.
She wasn't the broken girl anymore. She'd grown into a fucking queen. A wild, desperate, perfect queen.
I gripped her ass, lifting her, angling her, pushing us both onto a faster, harder rhythm –the rhythm she didn't know she needed until I gave it to her.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, her scream swallowed as her lips sealed against mine, stealing the breath from my lungs.
Then she hooked both legs around my waist, her heels locking against the small of my back. She took the rhythm from me.
In. Out. In. Out.
A relentless, demanding cadence set by the roll of her hips. Sweat fell from the ends of her hair, a hot rain on my chest and shoulders.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
Her body moved against the wall, a piston of pure need. Her breasts brushed against my chest with each desperate thrust.
She clung to me, her arms a vise, her body a symphony of furious, claiming motion.
"You're so perfect," she breathed against the shell of my ear, the words a hot, stolen secret in the midst of her frantic rhythm.
It wasn't worship. It was a discovery. And in that moment, she was the one making it.
This was insanity. She'd wrestled me down onto the blood of the man I just killed.
Wrestled? No I wasn't even stopping her.
My back pressed into the sticky, cooling mess. The coppery scent filled my nostrils.
I was loosing control of this.
This bitch was riding a wave of chaos and I was drowning in it.
But before I could regroup, before I could flip her and reclaim my dominance, she was on me again. Her knees got into bloody floor, and she began to move hard, a fast routine of bounce that stole air from my from my lungs.
"Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!" Her scream were raw, tore from a place of pure untamed release.
Her hair a wild curtain around her face.
And I felt it- the betraying, unmistakable surge. My own control shattered.
I was coming.
My release was not a choice. It was a surrender, ripped from me by the very creature I own.
"Move."
I pushed back against her, keeping her pinned, my own rhythm meeting hers. I'd started this as a lesson, a reclamation… but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying the frantic, claiming way she moved.
Immediately, just when I was entering the realms of heavens...she convulsed.
A hot, violent torrent of soured alcohol and cake erupted from her mouth, splashing across my chest, my neck, the clean line of my collarbone.
The shock was physical. I recoiled, my body locking in pure, unthinking revulsion.
The smell hit me—acrid, sweet, and deeply human. It was the stench of chaos. Of loss of control. Her loss of control, now defiling my skin.
My grip on her thigh tightened to the point of pain. A raw, disgusted sound tore from my throat.
Drunk.
The word detonated in my mind, cold and clarifying.
She was drunk. Poisoned and stupid and messy.
This wasn't passion. It was a biological accident. A filthy, degrading parody of everything I had just taken.
And she would probably not remember a second of it.
I got up immediately.
The feel of her vomit was a cold, clinging film on my skin. I didn't look at her. I didn't look at the mess. I focused on the mechanics of order: stepping into my trousers, fastening the belt buckle with a sharp, definitive click.
I left the room without a backward glance.
In the hallway, an attendant waited, his eyes carefully blank. My voice was flat, stripped of all emotion, a direct order to be logged and executed.
"Clean her up."
I walked away, the muffled moans from the party swelling around me like a degenerate symphony.
This was the place.
I would make myself forget.
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To be continued...