On the fourth night I'm brought to him, the Prince climbs over me, eyes drinking in the sight of my bare breasts again.
"Lush and ripe on my bed," he murmurs.
I freeze at the sound of his voice, at the note of need, and approval.
Beneath the hem of his nightshirt, he hangs low and long. I've never been able to watch him grow aroused but tonight, while he is distracted by my body, I stare with half-closed eyes, secretly thrilled at the weight of him as he jumps and grows and swells.
Tonight he doesn't need to stroke himself to grow rigid. His hand slides over the swell of my breast, surprisingly gentle fingers exploring, circling the rose peak. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out.
Hard now, he bends, moving his hand to the softest part of my thigh to spread me apart, and pushes forward.
He groans, thumb flicking across my nipple again, and again, and again until something inside me blooms.
The prince ducks low as he thrusts, plumping me in his hand and sucking at the peak so unexpectedly that I inhale a sharp, surprised gasp.
Inside me, he swells further, whispering something over and over: a hard consonant, a soft finish.
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No Fury
FanfictionThe prince was born in his mother's lavish rooms three days before I emerged on the dingy floor of the ale house. He's a royal . . . she isn't. But the secret friendship that began in childhood grows into something much deeper -- and much more dang...
