Page 22 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
I risk a glance at the king’s face. He doesn’t look as if he wants to hear that news at all. He looks as if the very thought of me having carnal relations makes him sick to his stomach. But I know he’s serious, too. If he feels I’m not handling my thrall properly, he’ll take the Captain away and give him to Vienne.
I refuse to let that happen.
When my father leaves, the door to the bathing room opens slowly. My thrall stands there, smooth and sculpted, damp from the bath, wearing a towel around his hips. His black hair is in a bunchy knot on top of his head.
“Did you hear?” I ask.
He nods.
My entire body feels hot and tense. I can’t keep looking at my thrall, at the mounds of his pectorals, peaked with the jeweled clips. I can’t handle the V shape of his hips, or the sight of his strong bare legs emerging below the edge of the towel.
I have to focus on what must be done. The more we train together, the more casual and meaningless these acts will be. In time, his sexual skill will become a dull, matter-of-fact routine, not this titillating torment.
“We may as well begin now, since you are already naked,” I tell him. “Let’s work on your stamina, as Khal suggested. You’ll stroke yourself, and I’ll tell you when to start or stop. Let’s see how long you last.”
“I haven’t come in days,” he says, wincing. “This may be over rather quickly.”
“If you can last long enough, I’ll take off the clamps.”
“How long is long enough?”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” I snatch his towel away and lay it on my bedside table, pointing to it significantly. “Aim here. Don’t make a mess in my room.” I keep my gaze on his face, but every nerve I own screams for me to look, look, look at his body.
His eyes are pools of lustful rebellion. “Sex is messy, your Highness.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” I want to break my eye-lock with him, but I fear it would mean I’m giving in. So I hold his stare.
“Someday,” he says softly, “I am going to make a mess of you, Princess.”
A thrill circles through my stomach and chases up my spine. I back away from him, climbing onto my bed and settling in cross-legged among the bedding. I love bladed, sharp, dangerous things, but I have an affinity for soft things, too—thick rugs, velvety blankets, puffy feather-filled pillows. In this nest of mine, I feel more secure. He can’t get to me.
Plus there are three knives within easy reach, under my pillow.
“Stand there.” I point to a spot on the floor near the wall, not far from the bedside table.
As he obeys, his anklet, nipple clamps, and bracelets glitter in the afternoon light slanting through my windows. The light does wonderful things for his skin and the contours of his muscles, too. I have the strangest urge to make him turn around slowly, just so I can admire every angle of him, including his broad back and nicely curved backside. But I say nothing.
I do allow myself to look at his cock. It’s hardening and lifting, just from these few moments of discussion. My Captain is certainly sensitive.
“Like what you see?” he says, palming his length with an expert flourish that sends a tingle between my legs.
I shrug. “I’ve seen it a few times now. It’ll do. Now, begin… if you…” I hesitate. “If you feel so inclined.”
He looks up at me sharply. “I do feel inclined. Thank you, Princess.”
My father and my sister would disapprove of that concession to Ducayne’s will and wishes. But I couldn’t help it. His body proclaimed his readiness, but I wanted to be sure of his consent.
He strokes himself firmly, slowly. My insides begin to melt at the sight. It feels as if everything inside me, every icy purpose and rigid desire—all of it is liquefying, pooling between my legs.
Ducayne’s breathing shortens, and a few clear drops emerge from the tip of his cock. He’s tensing, shoulders bowing, eyes closing—
“Stop,” I say.
He vents a broken groan and catches his lower lip in his teeth. He’s not smiling now.
“Again.”
He touches the tip of his length, spreading the precum over the head, and my sex flutters, growing even hotter and wetter. I shift my position a little while he rubs himself rhythmically. His fingers are thick, strong, male, beautiful. I have never wanted a man to touch me before, but this man—
