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She glances down at her nightie. “Iamready for bed.”

Pausing, I take her in. It’s sheer enough that the dark shape of her areolas is practically visible. Her nipples are peaked, a soft flush warming her chest, climbing her neck. When she reaches over her body to clutch an elbow, the bashful movement pushes her tits together, accentuating the plumpness of them.

My jaw clenches. “You actually sleep in that ridiculous get-up?”

“It’s what was provided for me, so…” A small, careless shrug. “Yes.”

I sneer at the empty glass on the bedside table, knowing there was warm milk in it not ten minutes ago. “What a good little poodle you’ve turned out to be.”

Suddenly, she drops her arms, a defensive scowl setting her chin. “You want me to wear something else? Fine.” She grabs the hem of her nightgown and pulls it up, whisking it off with a shimmy. Every inch of her body is exposed in slow motion, the light fabric fluidly caressing each destination. The soft planes of her belly, the gentle swell of her lower breasts, the peaks of her tight nipples.

There’s a reason I never look when she’s undressing in the exam room. Something about the way she does it, her body curving and squirming, is so inherently sexual that my cock jumps to life immediately, eyes glued to every exposed swath of skin.

The pact still means something.

That’s what I tell myself as she flings the nightie away, a challenge in her eyes. But the challenge isn’t for me. That much is clear when her cheeks grow even pinker, her arms crossing over her exposed breasts. This isn’t the exam room. There’s nothing clinical in the way I’m staring at her, lids falling heavy as my eyes descend her body.

“Actually, I was thinking,” she begins, shifting her weight with a nervous jolt. “The other day, when you asked? Okay. Yes.” She shrugs and nods at the same time, the motion a little too stiff to be anywhere near as casual as she’s playing it to be. “I’ll take it now.”

My eyes are fixed on how her red hair drapes over each tit. “Take what?”

“You can… um.” Some of her bravado fades when she tries to prop her hands on her hips. “Administer. The, er, thing we discussed.” Her arms fall, hands wringing. “Before.”

When I decipher this utter fucking gibberish, I raise my eyes to her, voice as stiff as my cock. “You want me to give you an orgasm.”

“Because…” she begins, a touch of defensiveness in her stance. “Well, because of hormones and such. You’re here to,” her hand gestures at the bed, “attend to my needs. And that’s… that’s a need. So my answer is yes.” She ends this barely coherent ramble with a hard, tired exhale.

I stare at her for a long beat, not because she’s standing there like something out of an erotic Victorian painting, but because it’s just so fucking insulting. Without answering, I turn, storming into the bathroom and slamming the door. I ready myself for bed with rigid, mechanical motions, brushing my teeth like they’re the problem here. The whole time, I’m staring into the mirror, knowing my brother is watching me back.

“Shut up,” I hiss, spitting a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink.

After, when I’m shirtless, clad only in a loose pair of boxers, I brace my hands on the counter and take a long breath. Wicker probably rode her hard and put her away wet, and now she wants me to slip on a pair of latex gloves and finger her until she cums thinking about it.

She’s Michael, but with tits.

That thought has gotten me this far, but in mere minutes, it’s completely lost its potency. I glance up at my reflection, noting my locked jaw and dilated pupils. My hair is still up, but the wisps around my temples are wild, damp from splashing water on my face. That day I fucked her in the stairwell, I was a mess, late to defend a lab assignment while Father was hassling me to make a visit to one of his clients. I was overbooked and jonesing for a hit of Scratch to make all the pieces fall into place, and instead, I fucked her. Against a door. Hard and fast.

And like someone trading one addiction for another, it’s all I’ve been able to think about since.

Rapping my knuckles against the counter, I decide, “Fuck it,” and march back out into the bedroom. I see her in my periphery, chest expanding with an aborted comment as I turn off the lamp beside the fireplace.

She begins, “You don’t—”

“Shut up.” I punctuate this by turning off the lamp on my side of the bed and then striding around to her side. She’s shrinking in on herself, still naked but not nearly as comfortable about it, flinching when I reach around her to click off her own bedside lamp. The last thing I see before the room is bathed in total darkness is the spatter of freckles beneath each collarbone.

And then I can’t see anything at all.

Neither can Pace.

She gasps when I reach out to grab her arms, shoving her down onto the bed. “Hey! What are you—”

I clamp a palm over her mouth at the same moment I pin her hips with mine. “Keep your mouth shut,” I growl into her ear. “You’re not on my exam table,Princess. As soon as I walk into this room, I’m not your doctor. I’m your Prince. That means you can’t snap your fingers and demand anything from me.” Her fingernails are digging into my shoulder as she puffs hard, angry breaths against my hand. “If I get you off, it’s because I want to. Nod if you understand me.”

The second I reach down to cup one of her tits in my wide palm, the sting of her nails eases, a sharp inhale swelling her chest.

She nods.

I roll her nipple between two fingertips, pulling in the sweet scent of her hair. “Are you going to fight me?” There’s only a brief pause, and if I needed more evidence of how horny she’s been, then it comes in the form of this: