Page 83 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
Ducayne cries out, seizing my head. He doesn’t force himself down my throat, and I get the sense that he’s terrified I might bite his dick.
When I pull off him, he’s quaking, his chest heaving.
Breathless, I shuck off the overdress I’m wearing, and the light corset. Bared to Arawn, bared to my thrall, I am naked in a room littered with monstrous corpses. The heavy fragrance of the incense covers the smell of death; but even if it didn’t, I would not care, because this seems strangely, morbidly right, that I should lose my virginity in a shrine of the death god.
Or perhaps I am not losing anything at all. Maybe I am gaining something.
I lie back on top of Ducayne’s shredded cloak and my discarded clothing, yielding. Speaking my consent through my submissive posture.
His jaw tense, Ducayne throws my legs apart. Lines himself up at my entrance. I can feel wetness seeping along my slit.
He gives me one look. One chance to change my mind.
Then he’s shoving himself inside me.
I have always been terrified of that invasion. With anyone else, I would still be terrified.
But with him, only him, it isn’t invasion. It is fullness. A rejoining. A piece fitting into place for the first time.
A twinge of pain, a slight burning—but my body eases the way, embracing Ducayne’s length, welcoming him in as he glides through me.
He feels like safety and escape. Like sunshine, like the sea.
My thrall comes down to me, his huge body over mine, his hips still pumping his cock into me, slow and steady. He doesn’t kiss me, but his handsome face hovers above mine. The delicate gold chains hanging from his chest brush against my nipples, teasing them to eager points.
He watches me, drinking in my expression until I turn away, more embarrassed by his gaze than by the act.
“Come here, Princess,” he whispers. “Look at me.”
“I can’t.”
“Fucking look at me, Ruelle.” He braces himself on one hand and grips my chin with the other. “Be with me.”
I meet his heated gaze, and my legs curl tighter against his hips. His eyes brighten as I begin to surge into the rhythm with him.
This is not something being done to me. This is something we are doing together, he and I.
He rocks back, grips my thighs, and shoves in deeper, slamming all the way in until he impacts something far inside me, some point of exquisite pressure.
Three things coalesce in my head.
One—Ducayne is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.
Two—I am being fucked in the shrine of Arawn, before the statue of the god himself.
And three—I refuse to share my thrall with anyone else.
Ducayne’s head tilts back, a groan grating from his throat. He speeds up, and I half-shriek as the ripples of pleasure inside me flow faster, tighter, one after another, tumbling over each other until—until—my abdomen clenches, and a burst of sharp ecstasy explodes through my body.
Ducayne cries out as my inner walls compress his length. He thrusts again, again, and comes, flooding me, bathing my insides with his warm release.
His palms slam to the ground on either side of me, his chains sliding cool across my breasts. I’m still pulsing around him while he flexes inside me.
His lips sink to mine, and another shivering thrill of ecstasy trickles along my nerves. He gives me kiss after cherishing kiss while we’re locked together. Each one is warm, intense, earnest, as if he’s trying to tell me something with every passionate press of his mouth.
Finally he leans back and slides his softened dick out of me. There’s a small smear of blood on it.
“Do you feel all right?” he asks. “The first time can hurt a little.”
