Page 23 of Bride to the Fiend Prince
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Despite the wine, the ointment, and the arousal I had felt, my skin screamed when I rose up, and I screamed with it, swaying against the Fiend Prince. He almost closed his arms around me, but he pulled back his hands before they touched the sticky lash wounds across my back. Instead he cupped my shoulders, rubbing my upper arms soothingly.
When the first shock of pain eased a little, I realized that he was bare-chested, and I was entirely naked, my breasts squished against him, my hot skin seamed to his. He felt—delicious. Smooth and sleek and warm, a silky mountain of muscle.
“Are your eyes still closed?” I whispered.
“Yes, for all the good it’s doing.” He gave a ragged laugh. “Yours?”
“Shut tight.”
“All right. To the bathroom, then. Slowly. I’ve got you.”
Every step pulled at the wounds on my back, and I couldn’t help whimpering aloud.
The Fiend Prince cursed savagely. “Where is that damn healer?”
“Your father probably intercepted him.”
“Perhaps. He may want you to suffer for a night before he relents. But I will make sure someone heals you before those wounds become scars.”
“Is that what you care about? Preserving my flawless flesh?” Maybe he cared so much because his own flesh had been torn and twisted.
“Your back is beautiful.” The admission, in his quiet voice, so close to my ear—it made my insides swirl and twist delightfully. “You gave me a fine view of it the other night when you took off your dress. But it would be just as lovely with scars. My concern is for you, Princess.”
We shuffled along, with barely any space between us. The tips of my breasts kept brushing against him as he guided me. I risked a flare of pain to wrap one of my arms across my chest; but it hurt too much, and I had to settle for keeping a little more distance, gripping the Prince’s biceps while he held my upper arms.
“Are we moving the right way?”
“I know this room well,” he said. “We are perfectly on target to reach the—ow!” A jarring impact slammed from his body through mine. He’d bumped into something. I yelped as my wounds flexed.
“On target, are we?” I snapped.
“Sorry. Here, this is the entrance.”
Awkwardly he steered me in the right direction and gave me a little clumsy assistance with seating myself and getting up again after I’d done my business. My face was a furnace of shame. I’d had servants to help me with mundane tasks before, when I was sick or injured from training—but this was different. It was achingly intimate, and I felt exposed in a way I hadn’t before. What if he didn’t keep his eyes shut? What if he was looking at my whole body at this very moment while I was cleaning my hands?
“Help me back to the bed.” I reached out, fumbling in the dark, until I felt the solid mass of his chest. My palms slid over hard muscle layered under smooth skin. I’d pushed and punched men’s chests before while fighting, and I’d curiously examined the stable boy’s physique. But I’d never fondled someone like this. I’d never let my hands flow over the contours of the abs, the pectorals—I’d never felt a tight nipple roll between my fingers. And I couldn’t stop—my palms slid higher, along the bold lines of his collarbones, over the muscle-packed curves of his shoulders.
“What are you doing, Princess?” he whispered.
“I’m—I’m finding distraction from the pain,” I murmured. “And I may be a little bit drunk. Is this—all right?”
“It’s very all right.” A light shudder passed over him. “It’s been a long time since anyone touched me like this.”
Likethis—like what? How was I touching him? Like I was fascinated? Like I wanted him? Like maybe I didn’t dislike him as much as I had at first?
I let one hand drift down his breastbone and explored his abdominal muscles. When they tightened under my touch, I sucked in a quick little breath of delight. I caressed the edges of the scars, circled the indentation of his navel, pushed my fingers along the ridge of muscle above his hipbone. My other hand stayed on his bicep, where I could feel tension thrumming along his arm, which hung stiffly at his side.
My skin sang and thrummed in response, and my lower belly, my hips, my thighs, everything inside me ached, with a power that almost superseded the occasional stabs of pain across my back. I remembered how the stable boy had stuffed his hands under my shirt, kneading and squeezing almost painfully. I suspected the Fiend Prince might touch me differently, and I quivered with the desire to know.
“You can—touch me a little, too.” I barely breathed the impossible, imprudent words.
“Devil take me,” he groaned softly, and his warm fingers slipped along my sides, moving upward until—oh yes—they smoothed over my breasts, and I sighed into the touch. The Fiend Prince didn’t squeeze; he caressed, gently hefted the weight of each breast in his palms, teased the nipples with his thumbs. I could not breathe. I braced myself against his chest with both hands.
“Why does that feel so good?” I breathed.
“Because you need it,” he said hoarsely. “You need it as much as I do.”
