Chapter 126 Fuck Me or Kill Me.

Chapter 126 Fuck Me or Kill Me.
Two weeks later, the afternoon sunlight is pouring through the large bay window of my bedroom.
The estate is unusually quiet. The security detail that once surrounded the mansion has been scaled down to a standard property watch. The armored sedans in the driveway have been replaced by normal passenger vehicles, and the constant hum of tactical radios has vanished entirely.
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed with my laptop resting on my thighs, while Eli sits on the edge of the mattress beside me, holding two large white envelopes that arrived in the afternoon mail.
“I still think we cheated by taking the final three months of high school online,” I say, my eyes fixed on the laptop screen as I scroll through my final grade portal. “My history teacher gave me an A-minus. I’m pretty sure he was just too intimidated by my Dad’s legal team to mark me down for missing six weeks of class.”
“We both know you earned the grade,” Eli says, a faint smile touching his lips. “You wrote a thirty-page thesis on Renaissance architecture while taking down a mafia Don and grieving a loss.”
“Details,” I mutter, looking up from the screen to glare at him playfully. “But seriously though… how are you feeling? About… everything?”
Eli looks down for a moment, the memory of his father making his chest ache a little, before he looks up.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Or I will be, at least. As long as I have you, everything is fine.”
I smile up at him, then lean over to place a gentle kiss on his cheek before pulling back.
“Now,” I gesture to the mail we received earlier in the day, “Are you going to open those, or are you just going to hold them until the ink fades?”
Eli looks down at the thick paper envelopes bearing the seal of the Metropolitan Institute of Creative Arts. He hands one to me and keeps the second for himself.
“On three?” he asks.
“Just open the damn thing,” I say with an eyeroll. “What’s the worst that can happen? Besides, if I get a rejection letter after surviving a mob war, I’m going to sue the admissions board for emotional damages.”
Eli chuckled and we tear the envelopes open at the same time.
I pull out the thick cream-colored parchment, my eyes scanning down to the bold lettering across the top line.
Dear Ms. Reid, We are pleased to inform you that your application to the Fine Arts Department has been accepted for the upcoming fall semester…
I turn my head instantly to look at Eli. He is staring down at his own letter, his thumb tracing the text under his name.
Dear Mr. Arden, We are delighted to welcome you to the Department of Music Theory and Composition…
Silence settles over the bedroom. We sit on the bed, holding the acceptance letters that guarantee us a spot on the exact same university campus three hours south of the city.
“So,” I say, my voice dropping into a light, sarcastic drawl as I tilt my head toward him. “We survived shootouts, kidnappings, armed betrayals, hitmen, and an underground sex club ledger.”
Eli turns to look at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. “We did.”
“And now we’re about to move into a dorm room and take midterms.” I shake my head, letting out a quiet, breathless laugh. “Honestly, Eli, imagine how embarrassing it would be if we survived the entire mafia only to fail introductory art history.”
“I think we’ll manage,” Eli says softly. He sets his letter down on the nightstand and reaches over, pulling me into his lap.
I let out a soft gasp as my laptop slides onto the duvet, my hands instinctively coming up to rest on his shoulders.
The weight of the last few months – the blood, the constant paranoia, the grief that had threatened to swallow us whole – seems to dissolve into the warm sunlight streaming through the window. For the first time in as long as I can remember, we aren’t running. We aren’t hiding. We are just two people in a quiet room, alive and free.
Eli’s hands move down to my waist, his grip tightening as he pulls me flush against his chest. The soft, relaxed look in his eyes shifts, darkening with a sudden intense heat that makes my breath catch in my throat.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, locking my gaze onto his. “Or kill me. We both know you have to choose.”
Eli snarls as he wraps his hands around my waist, lifting me effortlessly until I am straddling his lap, my skirt gathering around my hips.
“Have you ever been fucked, Lucia Reid?”
It’s the first time he’s said my real name, my real full name, and it sends a wave of heat sparking straight between my thighs.
“Of course I’ve had sex,” I breathe, tilting my chin up.
He leans in until his mouth is against my cheek, his breath hot against my skin as he whispers, “That’s not what I asked.”
My toes curl in my expensive heels, my hips rolling against him instinctively. Eli’s mouth slants over mine roughly, taking the kiss with a possessive depth that leaves me breathless. His hands move with fierce intent, pushing the material of my dress up until it pools at the tops of my thighs.
He shifts, adjusting my weight before pushing against me, pressing his rock-hard cock directly against my clothed sex through the thin fabric of my underwear. The friction alone makes me arch my back, a soft groan slipping from my lips into his mouth.
“I’ll fuck you so hard, princess,” his mouth moves to my ear, his voice low, gravelly, and commandingly dark. “Hard enough for you to forget all about the Reids and Ardens and everything else that doesn’t matter. I’ll make you forget about every cocky rich boy who ever smiled at you, the ones who couldn’t handle you, and I’ll make you come so hard that by the time I’m done… you’ll have to name me king.”
I bury my fingers in his hair, tugging him closer. “Then stop talking and do it.”
Eli doesn’t hesitate. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my lace panties, pulling them down my legs and tossing them onto the floor. He works open his belt and unzips his jeans, pushing his length free. I shift on his lap, guiding the blunt head of his cock to my aching center.
When he drives up into me, sinking fully home in one smooth, powerful stroke, I throw my head back with a sharp cry of pleasure. The sensation is staggering – warm, hard, and completely consuming. He fills me so completely that every thought of the past weeks vanishes, burned away by the sheer intensity of his touch.
Eli holds my hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin of my waist as he sets a deep, ruthless rhythm. He lifts me slightly only to bring me down hard against him, taking me with a raw, fierce devotion that borders on desperate. I dig my fingers into his broad shoulders as my body moves in sync with his, my pussy walls clenching tightly around him with every thrust.
“Look at me,” he commands roughly.
I open my eyes and meet his gaze. There is no distance between us, no lingering shadows of the mafia war… just Eli, looking at me as if I were his entire world.
And maybe I am.
The rough, demanding edge in his movements softens into something deeply romantic, every long stroke of his hips serving as a silent vow.
His hand moves between our slick bodies until his thumb finds my clit and he begins applying steady, deliberate pressure.
That single touch shatters my remaining control. My breath hitches, my walls contracting violently around him as a powerful orgasm crashes over me in waves.
“Eli,” I cry out. “Fucking hell.”
I moan hard, hiding my face in the crook of his neck as my body trembles uncontrollably.
Seeing me break under him drives Eli over the edge. With a low, guttural growl, he buries himself as deep into me as he can go, his body tensing hard as he pours himself inside me, holding me tightly against his chest until the last of our shudders subsides.
For long minutes, neither of us moves. We lie together in the quiet room, our skin flushed and damp, breathing in sync as our heartbeats slowly return to normal. Eli nuzzles my neck and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my collarbone before wrapping his arms around me and holding me close against him.
An hour later, we’re walking down the main driveway toward the front gates of the estate.
Near the entrance to the garden, there is a newly crafted bronze statue of Zeke in his standard suit, standing tall with his hands clasped casually in front of him and looking out toward the main house with the same quiet, watchful expression he had carried for five years. Below the statue, a small granite plaque is set into the grass, bearing his name and a simple inscription: Protector. Teacher. Friend. Family.
Beside it is a framed architectural plan for the Zeke Miller Memorial Community Center, a state-of-the-art youth facility and martial arts school currently under construction in the center of the city, fully funded by the Reid Foundation. Zeke had spent his life teaching people how to protect themselves. It felt right that even after death, he was still doing it.
I stop in front of the bronze figure and stare for a moment, then I step closer, reaching out to rest my hand against the cold metal base.
“We’re leaving for campus on Monday, Zeke,” I say softly. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Eli keeps his eyes open.”
Eli steps up beside me, placing his hand over my shoulder. He looks up at the bronze face and gives a single respectful nod.
I smile faintly, squeezing Eli’s fingers as we turn away from the statue and walk out through the open gates, stepping onto the clear, sunlit road ahead.