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God of Fury – Chapter 11


So lotus flower didn’t lose the bimbo.

Sur-fucking-prise. Not.

It’s been a week since I gave him that ultimatum, but he’s not making any effort.

But then again, he’s a snob who likes to be in control. Bet he takes it with his afternoon tea instead of sugar. He does that with his friends. Afternoon tea.

Christ, he’s so very British.

My only option is to dismantle that control and shred it to pieces right in front of his mysterious eyes.

He obviously doesn’t like me anyway, so what’s the harm in making him hate me a bit more?

Anyway, Operation Eliminate Bimbo will soon take effect.

What I know about Clara is that she’s an attention whore since she likes to post all her pictures with lotus flower.

A gold digger. Since she’s all about the designer bags, shoes, and things he buys her.

Shit in bed—for obvious reasons.

I clearly brought him more pleasure than she ever has. He kissed me with his eyes closed.

In your fucking bimbo face.

I know because I made sure to watch him as I backed him against the wall and ate the shit out of his mouth. My Prince Charming melted, fucking melted even as he met me stroke for stroke.

He definitely was not fighting his goddamn demons like when he put on that show in front of me.

More importantly, he didn’t seem burdened. If anything, at times, he was a bit eager…as wound up as I was.

The nonnegotiable truth is that I can give him more than Clara ever will.

Yes, he’ll never admit it since he has a case of pathological denial and all that jazz, but I’m not leaving him alone until he does.

Love the way he hides and pretends he didn’t moan, groan, and get hard for me. And how he likes to forget that he came all over my hand and cock.

If Brandon is not gay, I’ll chuck myself down a fucking cliff.

Well, let’s also include bi, because…eh… I’m not in the mood to die before I get another taste of him.

Or a few.

Several is my preferred count.

Depends on how open he is to the prospect.

I’ve got to say, his case of denial runs pretty deep, and I’m not sure how to get him out of his own ass—something a lot more pleasurable needs to go there.

But I digress.

Seriously, Kolya. Thinking of fucking him won’t get you there faster. Let my brain solve this issue for once.

Short of getting him drunk again, I’m lost. I fucking love drunk Bran, by the way, would vote for him to be the official version in the next election.

I’m kidding. I’m never lost.

Sooner or later, I’ll wear him down.

I always do.

No one can resist my undivided attention and constant pushing and shoving and annoying the fucking bejesus out of them.

It never happens with fuck buddies, but then again, I don’t usually chase fuck buddies. To an extent, lotus flower is an exception in many ways.

He can surround himself with walls and I’ll demolish them one at a time.

Every day, I join him for that morning run, without his approval, of course, and bite down a chunk of his steel-like control and uptight, standoffish personality.

Whenever he starts getting agitated, I get closer and call him lotus flower, Prince Charming, my dude, and his personal favorite, baby.

That one usually drives him crazy and forces him to lose his temper. Other times, he opts to ignore me, but I revel in the flush that creeps up his fair complexion and tints his ears.

I revel in how he steps out of the mansion, watching his surroundings with a careful expression, waiting for me to jump out from whatever nook I’ve chosen that day.

My all-time favorite, hands down, is when he does a quick look at me, noticing my shorts for the day, my half-naked chest, and how I choose to tie my hair.

He pretends to be angry about my constant state of half nudity, his face caught in that eternal snobbish expression, but he notices things. He looks at me with those needy eyes that beg me to do bad things to him.

Lotus flower is such a cock-fucking-tease, but I’ll make him come around.

Even if it’s the last thing I do.

Am I too obsessed? I don’t think I am. This is pretty much a good amount, in my humble opinion.

Now, I’ve never played this type of intense push-and-pull game before, but that’s what makes this a lot more thrilling.

Brandon is making himself into a war that I’ll conquer and bring to his fucking knees. Literally.

So I don’t mean to be a stalker or anything. Okay, kidding, I totally do, but I’m in REU’s stadium to watch some boring sport called lacrosse.

I swear to fucking God I never paid attention to this sport until now. Seems like a failed marriage between hockey, cricket, and football, just saying. Our football. Not the European one.

But then again, Bran chose to play the sport, so who am I to judge?

“Why are we here, Niko?” Jeremy asks from beside me, flashing glares at the people surrounding us, who won’t stop staring.

So, apparently, two big, tatted guys stand out in the midst of polka-dotted dresses, feathered hats, and tulle umbrellas. Even though I went through all the trouble to wear a damn T-shirt. The audacity of these motherfuckers.

Of course Bran would play a sport that only prim-and-proper people would attend.

My friend kicks my foot, shifting in the chair that’s definitely not made for bulky guys like us.

“Shush, Jer. I’m concentrating.”

“You wouldn’t do that even if you were paid.”

“I would, too,” I say, and he raises a brow. “Fine, I wouldn’t. This is different.”

“How different, because I’m about to punch some Karens.”

“Different enough that even won’t punch anyone.”

“Damn. Who are you and what have you done to my friend?”

I snicker. “Just stay there as my backup.”


“If anyone asks, you brought me here, not the other way around. Can’t look too fucking desperate.”

“Who would ask? And why are you desperate?” He tilts his head to the side, studying me closely. “You’re never desperate. You get laid more than the three of us combined.”

“Used to, Jer. Used to. Kolya is playing the grouchy dick role to perfection. He must’ve caught the disease from a certain uptight presence.”

He grimaces. “I still can’t believe you named your dick Kolya. Seriously, Uncle Kolya is Dad’s right arm. That’s gross.”

“Don’t care. Ask him to change his name.”

“Pretty sure it should be the other way around since you’re younger.” He shakes his head. “Are you going to tell me why we’re watching fucking lacrosse? It’s boring.”

“I know, right? Why do you think he’s doing it?”

A woman with a wrinkled upper lip glares back at us with that patronizing look Brits have when they don’t want to speak their displeasure. I learned it from lotus flower since he flashes me that all the time.

“Want a picture, ma’am?” I ask and she gasps in pure horror, then turns back to her kid, who’s smiling at me. I wink and he giggles.

Kids and animals like me. Adults do not. I’d rather be adored by innocent beings instead of evil snakes. I like things simple, not twisty and complicated.

And yet here you are for the most complicated man ever.

“Who’s the he you came to watch?” Jeremy asks, but I’m tuning him out because my whole attention is stolen by the fucking bimbo who’s slipping in a few rows below with two other girls.

Fucking Clara.

Exactly what I’ve been missing.

She poses for a few selfies and makes her friends take an album’s worth of pictures. I force myself to ignore her—or try to—as I spot lotus flower walking with his teammates to the midfield.

Well, fuck me. I’ve always seen him in shorts and T-shirts, but it’s different in the royal-blue lacrosse uniform, a bit tighter, maybe. Those shorts are definitely framing his ass better than the running ones.

Not that I’m staring or anything.

Okay, I totally fucking am.

His hair is styled in his signature Prince Charming look—the sides short and the longer strands on top slicked back, making his face appear sharp.

He looks serious, more so than usual, as he shoves the helmet over his head and gets to the middle with a member of the orange team. The referee throws the ball down and lotus flower fights over it with his long-netted stick.

That’s some weird shit down there…

On second thought, I’m not complaining about the way he’s bent over, ass on display. Maybe lacrosse isn’t so bad, after all.

The crowd cheers when he gets the ball for his team. Or as much as preppy people will.

Since I used to play football, and still do at times, this is like a Mary Sue sport in comparison.

Though they do get physical. Hmm.

So he does like some roughness in his life. My cock twitches at the memory of his groans when I squeezed him with a firm grip. How he thrust against my cock at a maddening pace, trying to match my rhythm.

I have to shake those thoughts away so I don’t get a hard-on and effectively get kicked out by the bunch of prudes.

My attention zeroes back on Bran, who seems to be doing well. He runs a lot from the attack to the defense, and he retrieves a lot of balls for his team. The crowd is buzzing when they score. Got to say it’s not too bad. There’s obviously adrenaline going on.

Number ten, the one and only lotus flower, gets stifling attention from the other team’s defenders, who try to block him with every move. One of them pushes him and he falls as the referee announces a foul.

I jump to my feet. “Fuck that guy! Suck my dick.”

“Niko!” Jeremy clutches my arm and tries to shove me down.

That’s when I realize most of the people surrounding us are watching me as if I’m the personification of Lucifer himself. A lot of pearl-clutching happens, too.

I roll my eyes and sit down.

Jeremy, who doesn’t give a fuck about anyone, seems like he wants to apologize to our company or something equally crazy.

Bran doesn’t seem hurt. He recovers in a few seconds and resumes running all over the field.

My eyes track his every movement as I sit with my elbows on my knees and my hands forming a steeple at my chin.

He’s just so elegant.

So fucking beautiful.

The definition of second-best male beauty. The first is me.

“Isn’t that Landon King’s twin brother?” Jeremy asks.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Might want to go back to sleep,” I say, still watching Bran.

“The one you wanted to join the Heathens?”

“It was a good idea.”

“More like the worst. Is there a reason why we’re watching him?”

“Because he’s Landon’s brother. Need to keep an eye on the enemy or some shit.”

“You don’t look at him like he’s an enemy.”

I’m going to hate-fuck him so that’s considered on the list.

“Shush, Jer. You’re like an annoying buzzing bee that won’t go away.”

“Jeez, thanks.”

“Anytime, we’re bros.”

I don’t hear what Jer says, because Bran recovers the ball from the defense, runs to the attack, erasing a few players in his path, and then passes the ball to the one who scores.

“Yes! Get those fucking bitches,” I cheer, laughing and ignoring the lady in front of me, who’s covering her son’s ears.

My smile disappears when Clara jumps and screams, “That’s my man! So proud of you, babe!”

My fingers wrap around the edges of the chair so tightly, I hear a cracking sound.

He’s not your man.

Definitely not your fucking babe.

“Niko.” Jeremy places a hand on my arm. “Whatever you’re currently thinking about, don’t do it.”

“But she’d look so pretty in a fucking casket.”

“The woman just doesn’t agree with your language. She doesn’t deserve to die for that.”

He thinks it’s because of the Karen, when the fact is, I’m considering ways to add Clara’s name to the MIA list.

I try to focus on the rest of the game, but it’s futile. The Elites end up winning, and I don’t feel that sense of triumph I experienced when Bran assisted the goal.

My mood has taken a sharp dive ever since fucking Clara staked a public claim on him.

Why shouldn’t I kill her again?

As soon as it ends, she skips over the people toward the exit and I stand up, then follow her.

I can make out Jeremy asking me not to do ‘anything stupid,’ but I live for stupid.

Clara slips through the small crowd, pausing every now and then to take selfies. This chick needs an urgent intervention.

After a thousand pictures, she finally reaches the Elites’ players’ locker room and walks right in as if she owns the place.

I can’t do the same since I fucking stand out and I obviously don’t look the part of the British kids.

Standing by the opposite corner, I scan my surroundings, contemplating the best way to go inside. The fact that Clara is there, with him, makes my vision turn red and fills my brain with violent solutions.

Like that amazing casket idea.

Just when I’m about to walk in there and risk the commotion, she emerges, or more like she’s dragged out by none other than Bran.

And he’s half naked.

Fuck. Me.

I’ve always thought he had a firm, toned body, with all the feeling up I’ve practiced like a religion whenever he’s within arm’s reach. But I didn’t think I’d be fucking foaming at the mouth just because I’m seeing him wearing only shorts.

He’s lean, but well-fucking-built. A smooth plane of chest muscles and protruding abs that end in a delicious V-line that’s unfortunately half hidden by the shorts.

Not a single blemish or tattoo in sight. He’s all smooth skin and marble-like in his beauty, my lotus flower.

His fingers uncurl from around Clara’s elbow when he gets her to a small corner to the side.

I tiptoe toward them in an epic show of stalkerish tendencies until I’m standing by the corner, close enough to hear and see them in full fucking HD.

“I told you not to come to the changing room, Clara. It’s not a place for a woman.”

She pouts like a fucking child and runs her hands, which will soon be broken, up his chest. “I was just so stoked for your win. I wanted to take a victory pic, babe.”

He is not your fucking babe.

I want to drill that into her head and watch as her skull splinters to pieces.

She takes out her phone and wraps her arm around his waist, and they both fake-smile at the camera.

Once the photo is taken, his smile vanishes and he looks bored out of his fucking mind.

It’s supposed to make me happy, but I can’t stop glaring at her claws all over him.

“You’re so handsome.” She slides her fingers through his hair and gets on her tiptoes to kiss him.

Bran turns his head at the last second and her lips touch his cheek.

I can’t describe the level of satisfaction that rushes through me at the sight.

He doesn’t want her to kiss him.

His so-called girlfriend can’t even kiss him.

She doesn’t seem to be surprised or hurt by the rejection as she smiles and pulls back. “Will help you wind down later, okay, babe?”

He gives a noncommittal nod and she leaves hesitantly, her eyes scanning over him before she finally removes her irritating presence from the situation.

Lotus flower releases an exasperated sound and turns to go back to the locker room.

But before he takes another step, my hand shoots out and I grab him by the throat, slamming him against the wall.

He releases the most delicious startled sound, similar to the one he rewarded my ears with that night he finally lost control. I’d appreciate it more if I wasn’t in the mood to punch him in his handsome face.

His eyes widen and a mixture of emotions rush to his features. Confusion, anger, fear, but also lust. Fucking bright and buzzing beneath the wall of his wavering control.

Even his words are careful, unsure, and tense. “What…are you doing here?”

“Came to watch you play, but I got to watch something entirely different just now. I clearly remember that I told you to lose her, didn’t I?”

He tries to push my hand away, but at this point, it’d be much easier to kill me than make me release him. I steal a look at the fingers of his left hand, and all five of them are covered in Band-Aids. He wouldn’t tell me how he hurt them, no matter how many times I asked, but it’s good they’re healing.

“Nikolai…” His tone isn’t as biting as usual. If anything, it’s imploring, begging, frightened. “You need to go. The manager will have a meeting with us in a few and I can’t…”

“You can’t what? You can’t have him see you being crowded into a corner by another guy? Does that scare you, almighty King?”

“Fuck you,” he sneers, the words rolling off my skin like an aphrodisiac.

“You know it turns me on when you talk like that.”

His eyes widen just the slightest and he pushes at my chest. This time, the roles are reversed and I’m wearing a T-shirt while he’s half naked.

When I make no move to give him an inch, he releases a long, tortured exhale. “Just…go.”

“Tell me why you’re still with the bimbo and I might.”

A frown appears between his thick brows and I can see the rage burning hot behind his usually cold eyes.

Brandon King is the epitome of a nice guy. All prim, proper, and kind. He smiles at everyone’s jokes, no matter how corny they are. Checks on the people around him to make sure they’re okay.

He plays lacrosse. Loves his afternoon tea. Volunteers at a fucking animal shelter on the weekends. Donates his paintings to various charities. Participates in marathons for multiple causes. Runs for women’s rights. Runs for cancer. Runs for mental health awareness. Runs for abused animals. Runs for climate change.

Let’s say he runs for everything. Tell him to run for a poor worm trapped underground and he’ll be all over that shit.

But here’s the thing that I’ve suspected for some time. It’s an image. I’m not saying he doesn’t care about all of those causes, but he’s using his goody-two-shoes personality as camouflage. A crutch.

He’s repressing, fighting, and struggling.

Against what? I’m not sure.

It’s why I go fucking feral whenever he slips out of his self-imposed shackles and lets his true self show through.

He’s still an asshole, but at least he’s not putting on a fake front.

At least I get to see the real him.

Like right now.

“Why I’m still with her is none of your business. I am none of your fucking business, Nikolai. What happened that night was because I was wasted. You said I could blame you, so this is me blaming you and telling you to leave me the hell alone.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“Are you a fucking masochist?”

“Not usually, no. In fact, some might say I’m the exact opposite, but I’m ready to wait for you to come to your senses.”

“Have you heard a word I’ve said? I want nothing to do with you, damn it.”

“Say that again and mean it.” My mouth gets so close to his, I can smell the notes of musk and mint rushing from his lips in fractured breaths. “Unless…you can’t?”

He glares down at me, and there’s so much heat beneath that coral blue of his eyes, but he doesn’t push me.

Not even once.

Bran might lash out, but my mere nearness is causing him a shortage of breath. His chest rises and falls in a quick rhythm.

This must be why he was anal about keeping some distance between us when we were running. He knew that if I got close, it would be game over for him.

So I press my chest to his. Firm muscles glue to mine and the thud of his heartbeat slams and mixes with my own.

What the fuck is this man doing to me?

Why on earth can’t I keep my hands off him? Does he have witch blood? Is he made of fucking drugs?

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” he mutters, his throat working beneath my fingers.

Your nightmare.”

“I hate you.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“About you,” I whisper against his lips and claim them with a guttural moan.

He doesn’t push away. He certainly does not turn his face or look like he’s uncomfortable with the attention.

In fact, the exact opposite happens.

His lashes flutter over his cheeks as he groans, and I eat that sound the fuck up. I eat him the fuck up.

I swallow him whole, but most of all, I hurt him. Teeth clashing, tongues swirling, and lips chasing.


I’ve been fantasizing about his taste since last week. Every morning, noon, and night. Every goddamn second of every fucking day, all I wanted was to have a taste again.

But I didn’t want to freak him out or send him running for the hills. I sure as hell don’t give two flying fucks about that possibility right now, though.

I soak him all in, exploring, feasting, absolutely drowning in his fucking mouth.

He tastes of honey, mint, and pending fucking addiction.

I twirl my tongue against his and I’m rewarded with his hard nips. Lotus flower kisses me as thoroughly as I kiss him, his fingers tugging on the bottom of my T-shirt to keep me glued to his naked torso.

I roll his bottom lip between my teeth and nibble on the skin until he’s whimpering, shuddering, and fucking shaking against me.

Give me more.


Fucking more.

I shove my raging erection against his shorts and sure enough, he’s hard.

For me.


Hello, Satan. Is this heaven in hell? Because I could stay here forever.

“You’re so fucking turned on for someone who claims he wants nothing to do with me,” I speak against his red, swollen lips. “You’re not drunk now, either.”

“Stop touching me…” he breathes out even as his mouth seems to chase mine. “I would’ve gotten this way for anyone. It’s called a physical reaction.”

This fucking asshole. I swear he’s asking to be sucker punched.

I slide my tongue down his neck and bite his Adam’s apple, hard, then suck just as savagely, giving him back the hickey he hid for a whole week.

“Stop it…” He grunts, shoving his elbow against my chest.

Only, he puts no actual strength behind it.

And I’m not done.

I’m certainly not listening.

I trail a path of bites down to where his shoulder meets his neck, collarbone, and chest, then I scrape my teeth on his nipples.

He spits out the most erotic moan I ever heard, and I jam two of my fingers in his mouth, then spread them against his tongue.

I need him to stop fucking talking and ruining every moment with his damn mouth.

My tongue swirls around his light-brown areola, then I tug the nipple between my teeth, sucking and biting until all I hear are the muffled noises spilling from his stuffed mouth.

“You like this, don’t you?” I move to the other nipple, sucking the skin around it, leaving a huge hickey before I bite down on the little bud. “You look perfect marked by me. My own piece of fucking art.”

One of his hands is on my shoulder, pushing me away, but the other one is in my hair, pulling me close.

He’s a fucking conundrum, my lotus flower, and I can’t wait to break him into fucking pieces.

His body is flinching away from me, but his tongue swirls around my fingers, and his teeth bite down whenever I nibble on his nipple.

I’m so drunk on him and his taste. So addicted to how responsive he is.

I can’t get fucking enough.

Not after one lick or two or a thousand. I want to throw him down and feast on him properly. I want to watch him shudder and whine and moan as I kiss every inch of his gorgeous skin.

I doubt he’d be thrilled with that idea, so I’ll take what I can get.

My mouth leaves bites and marks all over his chest before I slide my tongue back to his jaw.

“You taste like my new favorite addiction, baby.”

“Mmmff…mmm…umph…” he whines against my fingers and I remove them, then jam them in my own mouth, groaning at the taste of him.

He watches me with dark eyes, his brows dipping, his chest rising and falling in an insane rhythm.

But then he opens his damn fucking mouth. “Go away…please.”

I crash my lips against his. “Shut.” Kiss. “The.” Lick. “Fuck.” Bite. “Up.”

He moans, the cracks in his armor growing wider and deeper, and I smash through them one by each fucking one.

I’ll feast on him so thoroughly, he’ll never find a way out.

I thrust my aching cock against his and whisper, “I’m so going to jerk off to thoughts of all the dirty things I want to do to you.”

He shudders, and I swear I feel his cock thickening. His eyelids definitely grow heavy. He has this look of complete confusion and utter abandon. Such a fucking enigma. I want to own him.

Pull him apart.

Fucking destroy him.

I steal his lips again and we grunt at the same time as my tongue shoves its way inside, claiming his. Chaining him to me. Even temporarily.

I need more.


Fucking more.

A commotion comes from the locker room and I hear someone ask, “Has anyone seen King?”

He goes completely still and I can feel his muscles tightening. When I wrench my lips from his bruised ones, his face is stone cold.

Panic flashes in the depths of his irises and he looks like he’s on the verge of collapsing. He stares at his feet, his shoulders crowding with tension.

What the fuck…

“Hey.” I tap his cheek with the back of my fingers and he blinks up at me. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I…”


He doesn’t seem to be doing that at all as he sputters and stares at me as if I’m an alien.

The commotion gets closer and he seems to be on the verge of a meltdown.

It’s then I realize he’s probably freaking out about the prospect of being found in this position.

I step back and he stares at me with wretched eyes that make me want to grab his hand and drag him the fuck out of here.

But that would probably make him lose it.

My eyes skim over the multiple hickeys I left on his torso and collarbone, then I lift my shirt over my head and throw it at him.

I seem to be taking off my shirt for this guy more often than not. Whenever I’m wearing one, at least.

His fingers latch onto the material and he mechanically pulls it on. It’s big on him, but he looks fucking edible in it.

New kink unlocked.

“Thanks,” he mutters like such a well-mannered gentleman.

He’s always expressing his gratitude whenever I do the most benign gestures, like dropping him off at home, handing him his AirPods, or when I tell him to watch out for traffic.

I like to think that’s his way to make up for all the shit his mouth spouts on a regular basis.

Lotus flower casts one last lingering glance at me, his expression reverting back to normal, but a smidge of hesitation lurks in his gaze.

I wait for him to say something, but he breaks eye contact and slips past me to his conversing teammates.

I stand there, my cock protesting and my muscles tensing.

This was supposed to be a little game, but I don’t think I’m playing anymore.

The worst part is that I feel like I’m already losing.


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