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I opened my mouth to protest. Ilikedmy sheets and my coverlet. I’d selected them myself, when Arthur freed me from the water gardens and I finally had the freedom to choose the minutia of my life.
But the sound died in my throat as Arran stalked across the room with predatory grace and speed, and dumped the lot into the ever-burning hearth.
My anger flared. “How dare you! Those aremine.”
“You are mine,” Arran growled, suddenly in front of me. Suddenly cupping my chin, dragging me closer to him.
“Not yet,” I managed to ground out, even as my traitorous body arched to reach him. Even as my cunt began to heat with desire.
Mine. No one had ever wanted me—not really. From the moment of my birth, I’d been the perplexing extra. Only Arthur had ever made me feel loved. But that was the love of a brother. This… I would not pretend that it was love. But it was heady all the same.
And I wanted it. I wanted him more than I wanted my next breath.
My mind and body made war inside of me, the loathing and hate crashing against the heat and desire. I was powerless before my own needs. I had no control over what my mouth or body might say or do. Nor was I really trying to reclaim that power. Not yet.
Arran lifted my chin to the side, as if examining the planes of my face. “You said your friend—”
“—Parys—” I inserted, knowing it would rankle him, pushing my lower lip out petulantly as his eyes flashed.
“Heunderstands you,” Arran said, twisting my chin the other way now. “What precisely does he understand, Veyka?”
I did not have an answer. Not one that I could articulate to myself, determined as I was to stay far away from the pain of my own deeper emotions. Certainly not one I was willing to articulate to the Brutal Prince.
I’d give him my body willingly. But my soul? Never.
Finally bringing my chin back to center, he lifted it up, up, up. I was a tall female, but he was huge. Taller than any male I’d ever been with. I felt myself rise onto my toes—ready, finally.
But his mouth moved past mine, the stubble on his chin scrapping against my cheek as he spoke into my ear.
“Does he know how to make you quiver?” he breathed into my ear, raking his sharpened canines over the sensitive pointed tip. A shiver ran all the way down my spine right to my cunt.
His hand was no longer on my chin, they were bracketing my hips, dragging me closer. I arched against him, eager to feel the heat that fifteen minutes ago I’d been so keen to connect with my knee. Now, I wanted to feel him pressed against me. I wanted to know if that cock inside his tightly fitting terrestrial-style trousers was every bit as massive as I’d dreamed.
But Arran’s hands gripped my hips harder, lifting me up off my toes as if I weighed nothing. That alone had my pussy drenched. I’d never been with someone who was my physical match. But Arran, my Brutal Prince…
He ran his tongue from the lobe of my ear, studded with jewels, along the column of my throat. There was no hiding from him how I felt, he could feel the hammering of my pulse with that tongue. Slightly rough, like an animal.
His thumbs dug into the soft flesh of my belly, just above my navel, pushing their way under the narrow ribbon waistband holding my billowing pantaloons in place.
“Does he see the warrior that lives inside of you, the beast that you try to hide?” His mouth was on my chest, his tongue teasing along the curve of my breast exposed by the half-corset.
One careful movement of his mouth, and his canines would tear through the ribbon holding the bustier in place. He’d said I would beg for him. This was all a game, a punishment for having let Parys into my rooms. But I would not beg.
But I wasn’t stupid enough to push him away, either.
Ancestors, his mouth. His tongue moved along the top of the bustier, closer to the center where the lacings were. I could not control the little yelp of pleasure as one canine pricked my skin. No scent of blood, but Ancestors, the pleasurable pain of it…
Then he swiped one hand lower. “Does he fill you with his fingers until you come all over him in tidal waves of pleasure?”
Arran cupped me through the layers of thin fabric that covered my legs. His soft chuckle poured over me, the warmth of his breath sliding beneath the bustier until my nipples ached.
There was no mistaking my desire. Whatever my traitorous eyes might have said—they were closed—the pool of heat between my legs spoke loud and clear.
I’d kept my hands firmly at my sides, clenched into fists so tight I knew I’d have bruises where my fingernails pressed into my palms. But as his fingers began to stroke me, playing me like a musical instrument, I could keep my hands to myself no longer.
I went straight for his hair. I’d dreamed of tangling it around my fingers, pulling it from the neat bun he always kept it in.
I slid my fingers past his temples, the heat and sweat and scent of him nearly melting me into a puddle on the tiled floor. His bun was loose from our dueling, some strands already falling forward. I stroked with my thumbs across his temples, weaving my fingers between the strands.
