Page 17 of The Traitor's Curse
At least I hadn’t gotten hard. Maybe my lower abdomen had gone all melty and my knees rested against the side of Benedict’s mattress, not quite able to keep me stable without support.
But I hadn’t gotten hard, my nerves too tightly strung to allow it.
Benedict smoothed one big, warm hand up from my hip to spread it across my chest, tugging me back into his embrace as he wrapped the other arm around my waist, my arms pinned at my sides.
I squirmed, and his arm tightened: his cock a thick, heavy pressure against my back, his muscular thighs against my ass, Benedict surrounding me.
He slid his hand over and circled my right nipple with his fingertip. Lightly, almost too lightly for me to feel it through the wool of my tunic. But my nipple tightened and firmed all the same, goosebumps prickling all over my chest. My breath came faster and faster.
Benedict circled my nipple one more time and then brushed his finger across, an agonizing, barely-there tease. His hot breath tickled my ear as he bent his head down and nuzzled into my hair.
The muscles in my ass and my belly clenched, and my cock—damn it to hell—got very fucking hard, straining against the placket of my trousers.
I would not move my hips. I wouldnot. No matter howmuch my thighs trembled with the effort of holding still, of not pushing back into the cradle of his body, of not thrusting against nothing to try to relieve the gathering ache between my legs.
Benedict pinched, and I writhed despite myself, the tiny sting arrowing straight down to my balls and making my cock twitch. My head fell back against his shoulder. Benedict leaned down further and pressed his parted lips to the side of my neck.
His tongue flicked out against my straining tendon. He pinched my nipple again, harder this time, enough to hurt.
My moan echoed off the rafters and the bare, unadorned walls of Benedict’s bedroom.
His arm tightened again almost painfully, and he ground his hips against me with a low sound of his own that vibrated my chest and made me clench all over again—and this time, I couldn’t help imagining what that big cock would feel like pushing inside me, and I thrust after all, the head of my cock rubbing over one of my trouser buttons and drawing out a gasp. Sweat heated my forehead and stuck my hair to my temples in tendrils, beaded along my spine, gathered at the backs of my knees. At least at this angle Benedict couldn’t see me all slack-mouthed and red-faced and damp, my eyes sliding shut despite how much I tried to keep my focus on the shaft of sunlight slanting along the opposite wall. It glinted off of the steel basket hilt of yet another of Benedict’s swords leaned up in the corner.
If I traced every curve with my gaze…no, it wasn’t enough. My eyes closed.
And that left me with nothing but sensation. Benedict pushing my trousers down at last, exposing the fact that I hadn’t bothered with drawers last night in my hurry to change out of the dressing gown.
Oh, gods, I hadn’t, and when he pulled up my tunic and pushed me forward, his thick cock slid between my thighs as if it belonged there.
Nudging up, toward the crease of my ass, like he meant to fuck me without any further ado.
My head spun. I wanted that, didn’t I? To get it over with.
His cock burned my skin like a brand and I wasn’t the only one shaking, the only one whose breath came ragged and uneven.
His curse. He’d been telling the truth when he said he could barely wait until morning. And his cock strained eagerly against me, the tip brushing my sensitive hole.
“Benedict, don’t,” I gasped, and as one big hand splayed across my back and pinned me down, I started to struggle in earnest. “You’ll tear me apart if you take me like this.”
But I couldn’t break his hold, and—
“Stop,” he said, and the echoing resonance in his tone vibrated through all of my limbs, humming in my chest.
I stopped as if he’d used…magic, damn him, hanging limp and frozen in his grasp, waiting for him to thrust inside and rip me in half.
But he didn’t, even though the hand gripping my hip had gone clawlike and rigid—with the effort of controlling the tainted magic raging through him, I had no doubt. Was he in pain? He’d never trust me enough to admit it.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, voice too raspy to be reassuring. “I won’t—don’t be afraid of me.”
“You’re not impressive enough to be frightening.”
Benedict huffed a laugh, probably because my voice had come out thin and strained, hardly convincing.
“Spread your legs,” was his only answer.
I kicked my feet out of the constriction of my trousers and shuffled them apart, hating my own obedience but unable to muster the breath for further argument, my blood pounding in my ears.
Benedict’s hand slid down my spine, pushed my tunicup and away, and slipped between my cheeks. The hair on my legs and arms prickled as if I’d strayed too close to gathering lightning…but it washimcausing that frisson in the air, whispering something I couldn’t quite hear that swirled his magic around us like crackling mist.
