Page 74 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
I lead Ducayne to my room, my heart pounding violently.
Flames are crawling along my spine, under my skin. I want, want, want him.
I want himfirst. Before anyone else has him.
The aching, hollow hunger in my body can only be sated by his.
He heard my worst truth, and he hasn’t changed toward me. I think tonight, maybe, I will let him give me pleasure.
22
When we reach her suite, the Princess doesn’t speak to me, but she unlatches my collar, removes the nipple clamps, and points to the bathing room, a clear sign for me to prepare for bed first. There isn’t much I need to do, since I bathed after I was healed. The space is candlelit, a warm glow lighting my face in the mirror.
I cannot get her breasts out of my mind, can’t shake the memory of her beautiful boldness in that parlor, in front of all those who would slander and suspect her.
I fear—I know—that she is a killer. How can I know that and still feel this way about her? I hunger for her even more desperately now. I crave her body, yes, and also her feral, fragile spirit. I want her ferocity and her mercy, her fixation with death and her rare, beautiful laughter.
I am not the good man she believes me to be, because I can set aside every moral absolute for her sake. I do it gladly. My life for hers. My body for hers.
Murderer or not, she is mine, and she will be mine.
I’m clutching the washstand so hard it creaks. Inhaling, I ease my grip and proceed with cleaning my teeth.
When I’m finished, the Princess goes into the bathing room next. And she does something she has not done since I became her thrall.
She leaves the door open.
An invitation, perhaps.
I wait a few minutes, until she’s had time to relieve herself.
And then, heart galloping wild in my chest, I step through the open door into the soft candle-glow of the bathing room.
She is bare from the waist up, wearing only a pair of silken panties. She wore very little at the beach all day, and the frequent sight of her beautiful form, her long legs, her slim waist—it has been the most pleasurable torture.
Our eyes meet—a knowing glance—but she doesn’t speak as I move in behind her. My hands float along her arms, nearly touching but not quite. Heat shivers unbearably between my palms and her skin.
In the mirror I can see both of us. Her expression is stormy with indecision, with lust, and with a barely-concealed panic.
In the pool by the waterfall, she told me,I can’t be the soft sweet thing who mews and squeals for you.
She only unlocked after I told her to bite me, fight me, choke me. She was set free after that.
She wants me. And to help her break through this barrier and achieve what she wants—what sheneeds—I have to bring out the fight in her.
I wrap my arm across her chest, and I clasp her throat possessively in my hand. I could crush her slim neck so easily.
At the mere thought, the tattoo on my bicep twinges.
My other hand slams across her lower belly, shoving her bottom against my hardening cock.
Immediately her eyes brighten. I give her a savage grin, and then I whirl both of us away from the mirror. I shove her naked front against the wall, seize her wrists and pin them against the wall, too, on either side of her head. Her scent swirls in my nostrils—orange blossoms and a hint of spicy cinnamon. When she bucks against me, I crush her harder to the wall.
She whimpers, arches back. Doesn’t tell me to stop, doesn’t call for the guards.
I take all her hair, wrap it tight around my hand, and step back, jerking her body flush against my chest. One hand still clasping her hair, I rub my other hand down her front, squeezing her beautiful breasts, savoring the curve of her waist, the hollow of her hip.
She’s panting, surging. Her fingers reach back, clawing my loose pants into fistfuls.
