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“I can’t promise I know what to do,” I whisper, a blush starting its crawl up my face as I run my hands along his muscles, tracing the lines.
“And I cannot promise my patience to remain passive,” he returns, but I hardly hear him over the nervous belly that’s suddenly attacked me.
Loosening a shaky breath, I lean forward for a tentative kiss.
His arousal prods me as I settle down firmly on his lap, sliding my arms around his neck. Mouths locked, he watches me closely, burning blue eyes glued to my every move.
Daein’s resistance starts to irk me. His returned kiss is slow and dispassionate—lazy, almost. He watches me from beneath those lowered, long lashes, his lips hardly moving against mine, but his arousal twitching against my core.
Still, a warm sensation is starting to brew in my belly with the nerves. My body is trained to respond to his, apparently even if I’m the one doing the work. His familiar taste on my tongue, his length against my core, his scent invading my senses—all of it clicks something in my body like a switch, and I’m on, ready for him.
I suppose that was his intention back before we made our bargain and he would bring me to climax in the shadows.
Daein’s lips pick up their pace, some.
My eyelids fall over my eyes just as his lower lip slips between mine. I feel his dark, charming smirk grow against my mouth, the pleasure he receives at teasing me.
Slowly, his hand slips away from the side of the washtub and he loops it around my waist. He tugs me closer to him until my wet body is smooshed up against his and my neck is arched back to allow our kiss to meet.
But he traps my lower lip between his teeth instead.
My eyes squint open and I catch the intense look in his eyes.
A wave of butterflies throws my stomach into disarray, and somehow, his smouldering gaze has an effect on my knees, instantly weakening them against the hardness of the washtub.
Heat burns my cheeks and he slowly releases my lip.
I don’t get a chance to return his fleeting smirk before he’s dipping his head and taking my wet nipple in his mouth. I moan softly, hands coming up to thread through his tousled hair.
His arm around my back tightens, his muscles flexing against my skin, as he gently lifts me up and fits my opening at the tip of his shaft. I glide down on it, feeling it stretch my walls.
Daein draws back from my breast, leaning his head against the wall of the washtub. He watches me as I squirm around a bit, trying to find a comfortable balance.
His smile is small, lazy. His hands come to my hips, gentle in their touch, and he guides me—he helps ease the fierce blush that’s spread to my chest.
Without looking at him, I rest my hands on his firm shoulders and move with his gentle gestures, follow his guide. But his patience doesn’t last very long.
Before I can find my rhythm, he’s pulling me against him so that my face buries against his collarbone, hooking his arms around my back, and slamming himself into me.
His head dips, finding a mass of wet curls to rest in, and I hear his faint groans build, growing more gravelly and growly with each thrust.
There’s something about the way he holds me to him…
But I throw that thought out of my head the moment pleasure comes crashing down on me and I’m writhing against his body. He follows me closely, heat spreading in my core.
And for a long while, neither of us move.
He just holds me.
2
I drop the sheet to my bare, damp feet and reach for my netted dress. In the past few days—to occupy myself as much as possible—I managed to sew the material from the markets into a knee-length dress.
The quality isn’t as nice as what the seamstress produced, the sew-work a little skewed and crooked, but I’m pleased with my work as I step into it then lift it up to hook the straps around my arms.
The prince is pleased by the netted dress, too. That’s apparent as he comes up behind me, facing the mirror, and wraps his arms around my waist. He rests his chin on the crown of my head, watching me. Secrets gleam in his blue eyes as he runs me over, his gaze lingering over my breasts, where my nipples are in danger of poking out of the gaps.
“Again?” I ask, my eyebrow arching.
