Page 43 of Prize of the Warlord
The Warlord’s powerful arms tremble as he holds himself over me. He’s actually shaking from the force of his desire. A keen rush of pleasure traces along my nerves.
“Unmolested,” he gasps. “Those were the terms. I must return you untouched, still a virgin. Prince Havil said you would be examined to ensure it, and that if you weren’t intact, the engagement would end and our bargain would be forfeit.”
Disappointment and revulsion course through me. “He said that?”
“He wrote down those exact words.”
I suppose I’m fortunate the Warlord’s fingers didn’t dive too deep when he pleasured me before. That incident might have ruined my chances of getting home—a fact that angers me deeply. I hate that Prince Havil would lay such a condition on my surrender. What do my parents think of that? They probably don’t like that part of the message, but they depend on the Prince’s family for protection and allyship. They’re in no place to protest the inclusion of their daughter’s unbroken hymen in the contract.
“What if you’d already had me by force?” I say. “Would Havil reject me over something that wasn’t my choice?”
“Yes,” says the Warlord simply.
“That’s not fair, and it’s not love. He’s not trying to protect me, he’s thinking only of himself, getting the first chance at this.” I wriggle my hips, and the Warlord huffs out a rough breath.
“He values being the one to claim you,” he says. “I understand the urge. It’s a primal need, to stake first claim. Though I’d have you even if you’d been with a hundred other men.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks. “You want me that badly?”
He lowers his head, his short beard brushing along the softness of my cheek. One word grates into my ear, hot with need. “Yes.”
“Take me then,” I whisper. “Not like an honorable man. Take me like a beast, like a raider. Like a Warlord.”
49
At my wicked plea, the Warlord’s jaw tenses and he rumbles low in his chest. His breeches are tight and prominent with his need for me. But somehow, he exerts a tremendous amount of control and shoves himself away.
“I won’t enter you,” he says. “But I have my limits. And I cannot let you go without first tasting this.”
His mouth is on me before I can respond, before I can prepare, before I can think. He grips my thighs, holding them in place while he licks me, through and through—laps and suckles and kisses every crease, every fold, every bit of sensitive flesh. I bite my wrist and whine, scrunching a blanket with my other hand.
He’s simply—enjoying me. Savoring all the tender parts of me, coaxing the tiny nub that makes me release sharper sounds of pleasure. When I let a faint scream escape, he lifts his head and scowls, his lips damp.
“Quiet,” he orders.
I nod, frantic, and he lowers his mouth again. He laps and lingers until I’m writhing, panting, quivering uncontrollably, whispering, “Please, please—”
And then he stops.
He rises, wipes his mouth, and drags my limp, trembling body from the bed. “Get dressed,” he says. “And maybe then I will finish it.”
“You evil monster,” I gasp. “I’ll do it myself.”
He clutches my hair in his hand and drags me closer. “If you do, I will know. And then I will chain you to the post again until we leave. Be a good prisoner, and you’ll be allowed to move freely. Fresh clothes are there.” He points to a chair where there’s a small pile of items—among them soft leather breeches, a thick tunic, a sort of corset-and-vest, and a heavy cloak. My boots stand nearby.
As he stalks out of the room, I can’t even curse him. I can only mewl with thwarted desire, squeezing my legs together. He hears me, because a low chuckle drifts back to my ears.
Shakily I dress myself. Clearly he doesn’t plan on fulfilling his part of the deal and finishing what he began, because how could he touch me with all these layers in the way? No, he was torturing me with desire, the way I tortured and tempted him.
I never realized how deliciously agonizing it can be to need someone like this. When I used to kiss Prince Havil, I wanted him, yes—but in a decorous, genteel, slightly illicit sort of way.
With the Warlord, I crave him deeply, all of him, as if he’s the last life-saving breath for my shuddering lungs. I ache to rub my skin against his whole body, to take him inside me, to lose myself in the storm of him. He might break me, shatter me—I don’t care. I would die to be plundered by him, to have the passionate force of him centered only on me until I exploded in scarlet and snow, like a geyser of the Bloodsalt. A violent image, to be sure, but in my mind, nothing less will do.
Fully dressed, I sit on the bench in the front hall, still pouting. The Warlord brings me a different kind of porridge—lighter and creamier, with a spoonful of preserves swirled through it. “Does it have milk?” I ask.
“I made it with a milk-like liquid distilled from theirunut,” he says. “Very rare and expensive to make. Don’t waste it.”
I cup the bowl in my hands. “Thank you.” My eyes wander to his father’s bedroom door. “Will he come out for breakfast?”
