Page 40 of Prize for the King
“Oh, my queen,” he whispers as the cloth strokes my thigh under water, as meticulous and gentle as it was everywhere else. “Oh, Caliane.”
My breasts push in and out of water with every fast, shaky breath. He hums again, the melody helping me relax just a little, but this fire burning in my belly is not fear or apprehension. I am excited, tension building. I long to finally feel his touch in the place he left for last, and I squeeze my eyes tighter and tighter, because not seeing it makes it more bearable.
The cloth stops almost at the apex of my thighs. I gasp out a breath that sounds strangely like a sob.
“May I, my queen?” Khay asks, voice trembling.
I nod, not daring to open my eyes. “Yes!”
When he touches me, it’s not with the cloth. His fingers slowly comb through the hair between my legs, and I choke on a shocked breath, my nails digging into my outer thighs. The melody cracks, Khay’s humming breaking apart in places as he loses control over hisvoice.
His fingers part me softly. My breaths turn into soft moans, and I sense how hot my flesh there is, how plump under his touch. He strokes me with gentle, easy glides, no longer washing, but—caressing.
When he reaches deeper, to the very center of me, and strokes my opening, the melody stops. Khay heaves a deep, longing sigh.
“This is Magnar’s,” he whispers. “At least until you give him an heir.”
Oh gods.The thought of Magnar touching me there, pushing inside me, and making me full until I’m pregnant isn’t at all repulsive or scary now. If he were here and did it now, I wouldn’t protest at all. Indeed, I might thank him.
Khay’s fingers skim lower, deeper, and I cry out in shock as they press to my other opening, the one even more unmentionable than the first. He circles it, round and round, and it’s… it’s… Just as pleasant as everything else he did today. My insides tighten with heat, and I bite my lips shut as a wail of pleasure builds in my throat.
“And this might be ours,” he says between fast, heavy breaths. “If my queen allows it. This might be ours.”
XII Confession
Khay carries me out of the tub, my body hot and restless, yet helplessly pliant. I barely have the strength to hold on to him, and when he lets me to my feet on a soft rug, I have to lean against him for support.
As he dries my skin with a towel, I wonder at how shameless I’ve become. No longer feeling the need to cover myself, I even spread my legs so he can dry between them. Khay’s face is flushed purple, and the front of his trousers protrudes in a very telling manner.
I don’t have the words to comment on it, or to ask what he meant before—about my back entrance beingtheirs.If anything, I’m dizzy, pleasantly warmed, and achy inside. As I step from foot to foot, my hips moving as if searching for something, Khay makes a low sound of dismay.
“I’m sorry, my queen, but that’s your husband’s privilege. To see his wife shatter in pleasure for the first time—I can’t take that away from him.”
When my skin is dry, my hair combed and loosely braided, Khay carries me into the bedroom where a fresh change of clothes awaits. I have enough presence of mind to recognize that none of the garments are my own.
“Magnar sent a messenger ahead on our first day of travel,”Khay says, picking up a beautiful, dark blue dress with multiple ruffles—and a slit on one side that’s not just torn and jagged like in my green dress, but beautifully hemmed. “Vardi’s seamstresses worked day and night to get it finished for you. It would be a great honor for him if you wore it.”
I stare at the dress, my heart pounding, because it’s so much more daring than the clothes I used to wear back home. The neckline is low and decorated with gray lace that will inevitably draw glances to my bosom. The waist is narrow, and the skirts are wide and luxurious, the petticoats white and frothy with ruffles.
As I imagine how this dress will look draping down the flank of a horse, I can’t suppress a sigh of longing. It’s perfect. What holds me back is the fear of being groped. I used to take great care not to wear anything too revealing so as not to provoke my father.
But… he’s dead.
I nod sharply. “Yes, of course. It’s beautiful.”
Khay helps me dress, soft, silky undergarments sizzling down my hot skin. His hands linger here and there, adjusting the fabric and perfecting the bow on each ribbon he ties, and I do my best not to squirm when the pulsing between my legs returns.
When a bell rings in the distance, calling us to dinner, I look at my reflection in the dark window, the bedroom lit with candles.
The woman that looks back is different from how I remember myself. Her face is soft and relaxed, eyes big and dark, and the tops of her breasts spill out of the dress, heaving with every deep breath. Khay undoes my braid and combs my still damp hair out with his fingers until the locks are neat and shiny. He gets something from his pocket, something that glimmers red in the candlelight, and pins up a part of my hair above my ear.
I touch it gently. It’s an ornate hairpin inset with large jewels.
Khay clears his throat. “I got it years ago, as a gift for my queen. It’ssilver and rubies. Not very elegant, since it’s not gold, but I thought…”
I turn and look up into his sheepish, still blushing face.
“Thank you, Khay. It’s beautiful. I adore rubies.”
