Page 31
Story: His Forbidden Princess
"Just thinking about how much hasn't changed," I say, tilting my head to look up at him. At thirty-eight, the threads of silver at his temples have multiplied, and the scar along his jaw seems more pronounced against his tanned skin. His eyes, though—those stormy blues—remain unchanged, eternally vigilant.
If anything, marriage has only intensified his protectiveness. Where once he shadowed me from a respectful distance, now he rarely lets me out of arm's reach. The royal court whispers about it—how my once-rebellious spirit has allowed itself to be so thoroughly contained. They don't understand that his attention isn't a cage but a sanctuary I willingly enter.
We reach the royal wing, guards stationed at intervals, each nodding deferentially as we pass. Dain nods back with the silent communication of men who understand what it means to stand between danger and something precious. Even among our most trusted security, his hand now finds my waist, a subtle claim.
"You have correspondence waiting," he says as we approach our chambers. "And your father wishes to discuss the summer progress before dinner."
I stop walking abruptly, causing him to halt mid-stride. "I don't want to talk about schedules or duties right now."
A flicker of concern crosses his face. "Are you unwell?"
"Quite the opposite." I take his large hand in mine and tug him toward our bedchamber door. "I'm feeling exceptionally well, in fact."
The shift in his expression is subtle—a slight darkening of his eyes, a tightening at the corners of his mouth—but I've learned to read these micro-changes like my own personal cipher. Desire, wariness, and that perpetual control battling beneath the surface.
Once inside our chambers, I dismiss the attendants with a wave. They scurry out, eyes averted in practiced discretion. The heavy door clicks shut, and suddenly the air seems thicker, charged with potential.
Dain moves to check the balcony doors—his unbreakable security routine—but I intercept him, pressing my body against his, feeling the solid wall of his chest against mine.
"They're locked," I whisper. "You checked them this morning. And after lunch. And before the council meeting."
His hands find my hips, steadying rather than passionate. "Habit."
"I know a better habit." I stretch up on tiptoes and press my mouth to the underside of his jaw, right along the scar that marks the moment he nearly died for me years ago. The raised tissue feels different against my lips—a physical reminder of his devotion long before we acknowledged what existed between us.
"Lirien," he says, a warning and a plea in those three syllables.
I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the controlled rhythm of his heart beneath my fingertips. Even now, after countless intimate encounters, he maintains that iron discipline. It makes unraveling him all the more intoxicating.
"I sat through three hours of discussions about grain tariffs," I murmur against his neck. "I think I deserve a reward for such diligence to my royal duties."
His laugh is more vibration than sound, a rumble I feel against my cheek. "Is that so, Princess?"
I draw back to look at him, letting my hands trail downward until they rest at his belt. "It is. And as future queen, I expect my demands to be met with enthusiasm."
Something flashes in his eyes—that dangerous, possessive heat that never fails to make my stomach tighten with anticipation. His hands tighten briefly on my hips before he says, "And what does my princess demand?"
Instead of answering, I slowly sink to my knees before him, maintaining eye contact as I descend. The plush carpet cushions my knees, but it's the sudden sharpness of his intake of breath that I focus on. This position—me kneeling before him—creates a delicious inversion of our usual dynamic that never fails to affect us both.
"Lirien." My name again, rougher this time, as I work at his belt buckle.
"Yes?" I ask with feigned innocence, fingers deftly navigating the fastenings of his trousers.
"The correspondence?—"
"Can wait." I free him from the confines of fabric, immediately wrapping my hand around him. He's already hardening in my palm, betraying his body's response regardless of his words. "Nothing is more important than this. Than us."
His hand cups my cheek, surprisingly gentle given the tension I can feel radiating through him. "You shouldn't be on your knees. You're?—"
"About to make my husband forget his own name," I finish for him, leaning forward to replace my hand with my mouth.
The sound he makes—part groan, part surrendered sigh—sends a thrill through me. For all his strength and control, for all the walls he maintains even now, I can reduce him to this with nothing but my lips and tongue and desire.
I take him deeper, savoring the weight of him against my tongue. His fingers thread through my hair, careful not to disrupt the braids that took an hour to arrange this morning. I appreciate the consideration, but right now I'd welcome the dishevelment, the physical evidence of his passion.
"Look at me," he commands softly.
I tilt my eyes upward without breaking rhythm, finding his gaze burning into mine. The vulnerability in this exchange—me physically submissive yet holding all the power, him standing yet completely at my mercy—creates an intoxicating tension between us.
If anything, marriage has only intensified his protectiveness. Where once he shadowed me from a respectful distance, now he rarely lets me out of arm's reach. The royal court whispers about it—how my once-rebellious spirit has allowed itself to be so thoroughly contained. They don't understand that his attention isn't a cage but a sanctuary I willingly enter.
We reach the royal wing, guards stationed at intervals, each nodding deferentially as we pass. Dain nods back with the silent communication of men who understand what it means to stand between danger and something precious. Even among our most trusted security, his hand now finds my waist, a subtle claim.
"You have correspondence waiting," he says as we approach our chambers. "And your father wishes to discuss the summer progress before dinner."
I stop walking abruptly, causing him to halt mid-stride. "I don't want to talk about schedules or duties right now."
A flicker of concern crosses his face. "Are you unwell?"
"Quite the opposite." I take his large hand in mine and tug him toward our bedchamber door. "I'm feeling exceptionally well, in fact."
The shift in his expression is subtle—a slight darkening of his eyes, a tightening at the corners of his mouth—but I've learned to read these micro-changes like my own personal cipher. Desire, wariness, and that perpetual control battling beneath the surface.
Once inside our chambers, I dismiss the attendants with a wave. They scurry out, eyes averted in practiced discretion. The heavy door clicks shut, and suddenly the air seems thicker, charged with potential.
Dain moves to check the balcony doors—his unbreakable security routine—but I intercept him, pressing my body against his, feeling the solid wall of his chest against mine.
"They're locked," I whisper. "You checked them this morning. And after lunch. And before the council meeting."
His hands find my hips, steadying rather than passionate. "Habit."
"I know a better habit." I stretch up on tiptoes and press my mouth to the underside of his jaw, right along the scar that marks the moment he nearly died for me years ago. The raised tissue feels different against my lips—a physical reminder of his devotion long before we acknowledged what existed between us.
"Lirien," he says, a warning and a plea in those three syllables.
I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the controlled rhythm of his heart beneath my fingertips. Even now, after countless intimate encounters, he maintains that iron discipline. It makes unraveling him all the more intoxicating.
"I sat through three hours of discussions about grain tariffs," I murmur against his neck. "I think I deserve a reward for such diligence to my royal duties."
His laugh is more vibration than sound, a rumble I feel against my cheek. "Is that so, Princess?"
I draw back to look at him, letting my hands trail downward until they rest at his belt. "It is. And as future queen, I expect my demands to be met with enthusiasm."
Something flashes in his eyes—that dangerous, possessive heat that never fails to make my stomach tighten with anticipation. His hands tighten briefly on my hips before he says, "And what does my princess demand?"
Instead of answering, I slowly sink to my knees before him, maintaining eye contact as I descend. The plush carpet cushions my knees, but it's the sudden sharpness of his intake of breath that I focus on. This position—me kneeling before him—creates a delicious inversion of our usual dynamic that never fails to affect us both.
"Lirien." My name again, rougher this time, as I work at his belt buckle.
"Yes?" I ask with feigned innocence, fingers deftly navigating the fastenings of his trousers.
"The correspondence?—"
"Can wait." I free him from the confines of fabric, immediately wrapping my hand around him. He's already hardening in my palm, betraying his body's response regardless of his words. "Nothing is more important than this. Than us."
His hand cups my cheek, surprisingly gentle given the tension I can feel radiating through him. "You shouldn't be on your knees. You're?—"
"About to make my husband forget his own name," I finish for him, leaning forward to replace my hand with my mouth.
The sound he makes—part groan, part surrendered sigh—sends a thrill through me. For all his strength and control, for all the walls he maintains even now, I can reduce him to this with nothing but my lips and tongue and desire.
I take him deeper, savoring the weight of him against my tongue. His fingers thread through my hair, careful not to disrupt the braids that took an hour to arrange this morning. I appreciate the consideration, but right now I'd welcome the dishevelment, the physical evidence of his passion.
"Look at me," he commands softly.
I tilt my eyes upward without breaking rhythm, finding his gaze burning into mine. The vulnerability in this exchange—me physically submissive yet holding all the power, him standing yet completely at my mercy—creates an intoxicating tension between us.