Page 53 of Prize for the King
“Oh, delicious torture,” he grunts when the rain falls heavier, theline of trees blurring into a wall of dark green in the distance. “Do you have any thoughts, darling?”
“So, I don’t have to… take them,” I say cautiously.
“You certainly don’t,” Magnar says off-handedly. “Give them purple balls for all I care. Arvi and Khay deserve to suffer, anyway. And Raduna gets off on you wearing his pants enough to be happy.”
“What’s purple balls?” I ask with a huff. “It sounds made up.”
“It’s when a man desperately pines after a woman who won’t have him,” Magnar says with a deep sigh, pressing me closer again when we slide apart. “There. That’s the spot, darling.”
“Are you… What are you doing, exactly?”
“Getting myself off on your body so I’ll survive this ride,” he says with a grunt. “If you want, I can return the favor. Unlike Arvi, I definitely washed my hands this morning.”
I shake my head, fearing I’m misunderstanding him. “Are you offering to touch my private parts while we ride in the rain?” I ask with horrified fascination as my belly fills with more heat.
“Fuck,” Magnar grunts, urging the horse into a canter. “Stay here. Right here. I’m almost…”
We ride faster and faster, spraying mud, and I bounce against him until he releases a long, heavy breath, then sucks in air with a hitch. We slow just as the rest of the riders catch up, and Magnar pushes my bum away, still shielding me from rain.
“So, the thing that just happened…” I prompt him, though I have my suspicions, especially after what Khay did this morning.
However, my education in this regard was mostly earned from old animal breeding compendia, and no one has ever sat me down and explained how human—or Agnidari—mating works step by step. I know the mechanics of it: the organ—thecock—is inserted inside the female, and then, it sort of happens. There is some rhythmic movement involved.
But no one ever said the activity could take place with everyone’s clothes on, or, indeed, without body parts being inserted into one another.
Or on top of ahorse.
Magnar heaves a deep breath and clears his throat. “I spent myself in my trousers. It’s humiliating for a man of my age, but I can’t help it. Having you so close makes me rabid. Now, what was I… Ah. Yes, I’m definitely offering to touch you—and give you pleasure—while we ride in the rain. My skills are rusty, but I used to be good at this. And if you tell me what kind of touch you like, light or hard, fast or slow, or varied, I’ll have no problem getting you there.”
“The farmer stimulates the bull’s organ with his hands until the bull spends itself into a ready dish. The bull’s seed is then inserted into the cow one wishes to breed.”
So I see. Magnar’s pants are now full of his seed. As were Khay’s this morning. However, no text described how exactly the bull was touched, and there was no mention of stimulating the cows, so I am a bit lost here.
Unless he means to touch me like Khay did in the bath. If so… I look left and right, noticing how blurry the figures of Khay and Raduna on either side of us are. They have their hoods on, too. Whatever Magnar does, it’s not likely to be noticed.
My belly is still hot and fluttery from everything he said and did. The fact his arousal was caused bymemakes me giddy and proud. My insides tighten with pleasure at the very thought.
Something looms in front of my face—Magnar’s right hand with no glove on. His index and middle fingers are held together, and I realize the claws on these are cut, made short and blunt, and even.
“A bit forward of me,” he says, “but after you kissed me, I cut them in the stupid hope that you might allow me to touch you.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” I say, breathing in relief. The idea of hissharp claws anywhere on me is unnerving, but the blunt ones seem safe.
“Please, let me,” Magnar sighs, laying his hand low on my belly. “Pleasure for pleasure, my queen. Isn’t it fair?”
I say nothing, conflicted. On the one hand,yes,I want to be touched again the way Khay touched me in the bath. It was the purest bliss. Then again, I’m supposed to be mourning. And letting the same hand that slayed my father under my skirt doesn’t seem very daughterly.
But the hand belongs to my husband. This is so very complicated.
Then I think of another hand that tried to claw its way under my skirts. Of harsh, excited breaths panting in my nape. Of my breast painfully squeezed while I was forced to recite ten rules of command and pretend nothing was happening. Nothing but a father teaching his daughter, perfectly right and proper.
A man touching his child the way he did will always be wrong.That’swhy he had to pretend. That’s why he had to hide it. And that’s also why he had poor Snowdrop whipped when I dared to ask Avinia if a father was supposed to touch his daughter’s breasts, because I thought it was wrong.
I was fifteen.
You should get them to dig him out and have his body dragged by wolves,that vicious, angry part of me says.And then, you should have Magnar fuck you in front of your father’s head mounted on a spike. Let him see his prize so defiled. Ha! There’s no defilement in being taken by one’s husband, because it’s right. It’s proper! Besides, Magnar is ten times the man he was. There is no pretending, no charades. He says what he wants like a man. A proper man. Dad was a coward. A slimy, disgusting maggot who doesn’t deserve your tears.
A roar of helpless rage gathers in my throat. I wish my father was alive so I could ask Magnar to kill him again, and draw it out this time. He went too quickly. Heshould have suffered.
