Page 33 of Taken By the Crab King of Atlantis

YEN

The heat of Karkinos’ body pressing into mine is shocking, and his words more so. I shut my eyes as he reaches for the zip at the side of my dress.

“Open your eyes,” he whispers. I obey. The naked desire in his eyes makes me flush.

When my eyes were closed, I could get lost in the sensations of him kissing my neck, sending shooting sparks through my body. Now my toes curl in my shoes as I meet his gaze in the mirror.

“Don’t look away,” he growls. My breath comes hard and fast, but I do as he says. My dress falls to the floor.

I know what I look like beneath the dress, but I never look at myself for long in the mirror. I’m not terrible-looking, but I’m nothing special either. Seeing my body with Karkinos’ eyes drinking me in is an entirely unique experience.

He stands behind me silently, and I sneak glances at his expression while avoiding looking at myself completely. With his black eyes and his sheer size, he looks like he could devour me. Like he wants to, and it’s only force of will holding him back.

He stands still for so long, eventually I sneak a look at what he’s seeing. My breasts are bare, my nipples pebbling under his inspection, my chest moving up and down with the force of my ragged breath, and the bottom half of me scandalously erotic in garters holding up sheer stockings. My eyes are heavy under my new fringe.

I look… sexy. Like a wanton pin-up from a different time.

I ache between my legs, already wet, and I’m glad the white lace of the scandalous underwear still looks okay.

I squirm, and it somehow looks like a sexy arch, as if my breasts are desperately craning for his touch. It’s close to the truth.

He sighs behind me, a smile curling his lip. “Perfect,” he says. Meeting his gaze in the mirror, it feels true. “If you don’t mind me saying, you do look like a princess.” His eyes dance with mischief, and I huff a surprised laugh. “Do you mind if I call you that too? Maybe we can reclaim the term.”

Through a haze of lust, I nod my head. He can call me whatever he wants, as long as he touches me. The words hang unspoken on my lips, but it’s too much to say them aloud.

I am still the princess, the good girl. The girl who never steps out of line.

As my heart beats hard in my chest, I stare into his eyes in the mirror, hoping I can communicate that last night in the elevator I was drunk, but now I need him to steer. To lead me into the next steps.

He doesn’t disappoint.

He steps back further, swallowing, gaze traveling down my body. “Bend over and show me the rest,” he says hoarsely.

Wetness floods my underwear, and I obey like a puppet on a string; his words short-circuit my fear and shame. The smoothness of his voice, the hardness of his body, the confidence in his every move, extend to me when he orders me, as if I am borrowing his perfection.

I step out of the puddle of fabric on the floor at my feet and place my hands on the heavy wooden mirror stand on either side of the glass and bend over. My hands only shake a little, and apparently I’m not yet done blushing, as my face turns a deep scarlet. There’s a split in the underwear he requested I wear. His gaze is no longer on my face.

“Wider,” he says, and I part my legs. “More,” he says, and my hands slide down the mirror until the globes of my ass are visible in the mirror.

He leans down, and I lose sight of him, but my breath catches as cool air brushes against the most sensitive part of me. He’s blowing cool air on my wetness.

“Perfect,” he says, and breathes onto my pussy again. My legs shake uncontrollably, and a whimper escapes my lips. If he doesn’t touch me soon, I might die.

When he does touch me, it’s unexpected — light fingers from both of his hands land on my ankles. I had never thought of ankles as an erogenous zone before, but electricity shoots through me from his fingertips. My breath quickens as he slides those light touches up my legs.

When he reaches the top of my thighs, his hands pause, and my entire body tenses as he slowly — agonizingly slowly, as slow as his kisses last night — leans forward and presses a kiss to my molten core.

A cry escapes me, and I close my eyes, letting my head fall as he kisses me again, open-mouthed this time, tongue thick and sure. Quakes start in my body, and my hands tighten on the mirror stand as he takes his time. My whole body tightens into a hot ball of pleasure centered on where his mouth meets my sex.

“Relax,” he murmurs against me, but doesn’t slow up, instead lifting and tightening his hands to give himself better access, exposing more of me to his careful attentions.

“Mm,” he hums into me, and I gasp at the added sensation, which causes him to chuckle. “Don’t worry, Princess, I won’t leave here until I’ve satisfied you.” He speaks in between gentle laps of my sex. I rise on my tiptoes in my heels, tense with impatience.

He spears me with his inhumanly long tongue. The sensation is soft but good, and less intense than his lapping. When I’ve masturbated in the past, I haven’t explored much beyond my clitoris. I fall back onto my heels and sink into the sensation of his tongue probing me. Unlike the fierce building of his lapping, this slows down the intensity, pleasure coming in a steady ripple rather than a sharp crest. The muscles in my shoulders relax into the sensation.

He pulls back, places his lips around my clitoris, and sucks hard.

A deep moan escapes me, and my legs collapse as pleasure devastates me, washing through me in a wave that had started to swell long before tonight. It was rising even before we met. Karkinos is the face of the man in my fantasies, the one I’ve been waiting for.