His Secret Obsession

Chapter 6

Zara's Pov

I never imagined jealousy could taste like blood in my mouth.

But there it was copper sharp on my tongue, bitter in the back of my throat as Lucien dragged me down the marble hallway of the Moretti estate, his grip bruising my wrist, his jaw clenched like he was about to snap someone’s neck.

Maybe mine.

Maybe his own.

I didn't care.

Because I was wet. f****d up wet. Soaked through my panties because I liked this storm, this poison, this hate.

"You think you can f*****g flirt with Sebastian in front of me like I won't notice?" Lucien growled, slamming the door behind us. The lock clicked like a loaded gun. His voice dropped, low and lethal. "Like I won't f*****g kill him?"

I yanked my wrist free and shoved him, hard. “Oh please. You don't own me, Lucien.”

His laugh was hollow. Dangerous. “The f**k I don’t.”

“Touch me again like I’m yours and I’ll…”

“What? Moan louder?”

His hand shot out, fingers curling around my throat, not choking, just holding. Commanding. I should've been scared. I should've screamed.

Instead, I spread my legs.

“Tell me what you want, Zara,” he hissed, leaning in so close his breath ghosted over my lips. “Tell me whose d**k made you forget your precious stepdaddy.”

I swallowed. Shivered. Hated how fast I burned for him.

“You're a f*****g asshole,” I whispered, but my voice cracked like a girl seconds from begging.

He grinned like the devil who’d won a soul. “But I’m the one who makes you scream.”

His fingers trailed down my body, slow as sin. Over my breasts, pinching one n****e through the sheer silk of my blouse, watching my mouth part. Then lower. Over my stomach. My hips. Until he cupped me right over my soaked panties.

“Dripping,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear. “Is that for me, baby?”

I whimpered.

He pressed harder. “What was that?”

“For you,” I whispered.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“For you,” I moaned, louder this time.

Then he pulled away.

Stepped back.

I gasped. “What the f**k?”

Lucien just smirked, crossing his arms. “Beg.”

“What?”

“You heard me, princess. Beg for me to touch that needy little p***y, beg like the filthy w***e I know you are.”

Rage sparked in my chest. So did the heat. Shame. Lust.

Fuck!.

I dropped to my knees.

He blinked.

“I’m not above begging,” I rasped, eyes locked on his. “Not when I want your d**k more than air.”

“Goddamn,” he muttered, unbuckling his belt with a flick of his wrist.

I crawled forward, nails digging into the rug, and when he pulled his d**k free, thick, veined, already leaking.

“Use me,” I whispered. “Make me forget he ever existed.”

He growled and shoved himself into my mouth. No warning. No tenderness. He grabbed my hair and f****d my throat like he owned it, like he owned me.

Tears streamed down my face.

I moaned around him.

Choked.

Gagged.

Took it again.

And again.

Until he pulled out with a wet pop and yanked me to my feet. Spun me around and bent me over the velvet chaise.

“Still wanna argue, baby?” he growled against my ear, yanking my panties down and slapping my ass so hard I cried out.

I arched for him. “Shut up and f**k me.”

He shoved into me with one brutal thrust, no mercy.

I screamed.

The sound echoed through the room, obscene and raw, as he f****d me like he hated me.

Like he needed to break me before I broke him.

Like he could pound the billionaire out of my cunt with every savage thrust.

And f**k, maybe he could.