Page 100 of Prize for the King
“You’re not flawed,” he says with conviction. “How were you supposed to know how to talk to your peers if you never learned? It’s a skill you practice, and you were denied the opportunity. Your father didn’t like sharing you with the world, did he?”
I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the heavy weight sitting there. We’re too close to reckless territory, to truth, to him uncovering my deepest shame. I shake my head.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Hmm. All right. But you’ll tell me someday.”
I don’t make a sound, reluctant to give him that promise. Magnar doesn’t wait for confirmation, though, his voice growing light and teasing.
“So you never had suitors, but you must have thought of marriage. What did you fantasize about, lying in your virginal bed in Farneer? What was your dream husband like?”
I huff with laughter, grateful for this bit of silliness. “Well, he was dashing. A prince with blond hair and green eyes, one who rode elegantly, picked flowers for his maiden, and sang her poems under the light of two moons.”
He snorts, and I laugh with him, marveling at how silly those dreams were. Feeling a little cheeky, I continue.
“That’s in the past, of course. I’ve recently discovered white hair is far superior to blond.”
Magnar exhales with force, urging me away from his chest until I look at him. His eyes are warm and piercing.
“My dearest wife, are you flirting with me? How scandalous,” he says with a smirk.
“Am I?” I cover my mouth with a giggle. “Was that flirting? I had no idea!”
“It was,” he confirms, pulling my hand gently away. “And I love it. Tell me of my eyes. Do you prefer them to green ones?”
“Oh, you make enormous demands. I’m not certain I should oblige.”
“You should, or I’ll have to fuck the answer out of you.”
A thrill pulses in my sore belly, and I hesitate, moving my hips from side to side to check if I could maybe handle it. He groans, throwing his head back, and I’m treated to the sight of his long, muscular throat.
“You’ll kill me, pet. ‘Death by constant arousal.’They’ll engrave it on the stone over my ashes.”
I touch his throat, marveling at how soft his skin is, how strong the muscles underneath. Magnar takes my hand and presses it to his Adam’s apple, letting my fingers curl around his throat. I gasp, and he groans, flexing his hips.
“Squeeze. Just once. Please. Fuck, you have no idea. You have me on a leash.”
My breathing grows faster, and I do as he says, my fingers tightening. He swallows, and I feel the movement under my grip. I’m not strong enough to hurt him—indeed, my palm is probably too small to do any damage.
For an inexplicable reason, Magnar seems even more aroused.
“Why do you like this?” I ask, perplexed as I stroke his fluttering pulse point with my thumb.
“I like everything you do to me,” he replies hotly, cupping my butt.
I squeak, grabbing onto his shoulders when he brings me higher until his lips reach mine. We kiss, and he devours me with possessive strokes of his tongue, murmuring wordless affections into my mouth. When he pulls away, his eyes are dark, cheeks flushed.
“Kiss me here. With an open mouth, and you can lick.”
He holds me up with one hand under my bottom whilethe other angles my head so my lips press to the crook of his neck. I oblige, softly at first, then do as he says. I open my mouth and lick, and he moans from pleasure. His reaction emboldens me, and I press my teeth, so much blunter than his, to his throat and bite down.
His moan is the loudest yet, and he curses in the Agnidari language. I pull back, thrilled to see the shallow imprint of my teeth in his skin, and I lick the place better, finally sucking his skin into my mouth. Magnar lowers me into his lap, panting as if he’s just run a race.
“Fuck,” he says shakily. “Please, let me fuck you. I’ll be slow. Gentle. We’ll oil you up.”
My insides tighten, but even that reaction makes the pain bloom harder. I was well used last night, and I sigh with regret as I shake my head. Magnar closes his eyes, forehead lined with tension, then lifts himself to his knees until his hips are above water. He grips his cock and strokes roughly, and I watch it with hot cheeks.
It’s quick. He brings himself to completion with violent movements, and when his seed shoots out, he gathers most of it in his cupped palm. It overflows and splashes into the water, milky droplets slowly dissolving.
