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I tell myself it’s in fear. I lie.
19
CALDORYN
I am a busy man. Kingdoms don’t rule themselves. I have a hundred and one things on my list right this second. I was supposed to wash before attacking the next pressing matter: sitting on my council.
Fuck washing. Fuck the list. And above all, fuckher.
My thumb pressing past her lips, seeking the warmth of her wet tongue, I slide my free hand beneath the water, to her firm, heavy breasts. “What roles are we to play, Rhea? Are you pretending to hate my touch, when I can smell your arousal, and see it in your eyes, the heat of your skin?” I trace the areola, barely grazing her taut nipple. “Foe. Friend. Liar. Lover. Murderer. What are you this morning, darling Rhea?”
I can’t decipher the meaning of my mother’s prophecy. She has to give me an honest answer to my question. She told me how I can get peace. I just don’t understand how Rhea connects to it all. She could be any one of those things, except, perhaps, a friend. For one moment last night, we pretended she might be, but it was just that: pretense.
“Everything,” she snarls, fighting to conceal her desire, to fight the moan stuck in her throat.
It is my pleasure to make her fail. Thumb slipping out of her mouth to slide much lower, I trace her skin until I reach the apex of her thighs and find her inner folds molten hot, ready for me. I could slide my steel-hard cock in easily this very moment, but I crave her surrender, her undoing. I curve my fingers inside her and tease, as though I have all the time in the world, caressing the nub of nerves between her legs, all the while moving in and out of her, increasingly faster. She gives up, gives in, losing her illusion of control. She grasps my shoulders, nails digging into my skin as she presses her lips against my chest to muffle a half grunt, half scream.
“That’s it, darling Rhea. Take it. Take it all. You’re my lady of pleasure, and pleasure you will take, and give, again and again, as you’re meant to. As you crave.”
Her eyes attempt to glare up at me, but the effect’s entirely ruined by the moan ripped out of her throat when I replace my thumb with the head of my cock, flicking her clit with the throbbing rod.
I don’t have time to play, but I can’t help myself. All I want is to tease desire from her reluctant, delectable body.
The society she’s been raised in, the men she’s encountered before now, have succeeded in making her believe she doesn’t need to fuck. Would that she’d been raised our side of the border, where needs aren’t shamed and hidden away. She’d be a shining jewel. She might hate me still. I’m far from universally loved among my subjects. But if she did, it would be for a less infuriating, likely valid reason.
I have often ruled by fear, like every king to have ever managed to hold the dark lands of Nyxar in one fist since the beginning of time. Each parcel of land is reigned over by mighty lords, and the only thing holding our peace together is me. The might of my army, my power, my ancestry, and when I have cause to show it, my fury, is the glue preventing our kingdom from splintering.
My rule is a fragile thing—one moment of weakness on my part could forever shatter it. My entire life is about controlling it, and this beautiful, dangerous woman coming apart on my fingers is just that—a weakness. A creature who makes me ignore reason and embrace irrational, uncontrollable desires. My enemy, in all the ways that matter.
For all that, she could very well be the salvation of Nyxar. She could bear my seed and give me the heir this realm needs in case I die. And she does have something to do with Lucyan’s prophecy.
Frustrated, and ravenous for her, I lift her above the water, setting her ass at the edge of the pool, and drive into her in, sinking into her maddeningly tight heat with a grunt. Tendrils of heat lick all over me, each touch setting my skin on fire. None of those sensations make sense. I am tired of sex. It’s a necessity I find endlessly boring. I shouldn’t need her like this. I drive inside her over and over, wildly, taking pleasure in the beastly frenzy that consumes me. The walls of her cunt clutch me like they never want to let go, like she belongs right beneath me. My lady of pleasure.
Rhea arches her back until her shoulders touch the floor and lifts her legs high, needing me deeper, harder, and I give her all that and more. Because neither of us ought to forget what this is, I lean over her, reaching for a fistful of her hair.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” I hiss. “Tell me your cunt isn’t made for gripping cock after cock.Lieto me.”
“Fuck you!” she screams.
I chuckle. “I’m certainly doing that. Fucking your tight, drenched cunt. It’s clenching so hard around me, darling Rhea. Why, I believe it might just love my cock, don’t you?”
She opens her mouth to reply, and I can’t have that, so I drag myself out of the pool, bringing my body over hers and smashing into her harder, faster. All that comes out of her pretty mouth now are pants, and pleas, and screams, and at long last, my name.
A crueler man wouldn’t have let her come, but she’s so beautiful when she unravels under me, I allow it, relentlessly driving my cock right at the spot that has her eyes rolling back, her breathing growing frantic, her arms uselessly flailing, trying to find an anchor, anything to attempt to control the inevitable fall.
She's stunning when she does, her muscles grasping me so hard, that her release triggers mine.
I'm breathing hard as I watch her, dazed, sated, all fight forgotten.
"Your Grace."
I didn't hear the knock. I don't pay attention to the knight who walked in when I failed to answer.
"The Lord of Turin requests an audience, my king," Rowl informs me.
I groan. Of course he does. It's almost lunch time, and although I publicly fucked six priestesses, the lords are greedy.
I could refuse him. I have an excuse today. But if I do, how long before Turin rebels, how long before there are whispers that I’m losing my touch, growing weak, unable to handle a seventh lover on Lughnasadh, although the energy of the land itself flows through my blood today?
