Page 13

Chapter thirteen

I f I were a reasonable man, I wouldn’t be grumbling about kneeling here at the fey’s feet while they play cards on the table. Because it is a situation entirely of my own making.

Nevermind my career choices, inviting people to Llywelyn’s rooms for games was all my idea. He wasn’t all that happy about it, but he saw the sense of gathering potential supporters somewhere they could talk freely, in addition to being able to talk to him at all.

My cunning plan is working. Three fey nobles are here, smoking hookah pipes, playing and talking. Acting as if they have forgotten the prince’s resyn status. And I’m right here, listening to it all. So being disgruntled about my stupid, wounded pride is childish. It is only kneeling. It doesn’t really mean anything.

“Let’s make this more fun by adding a drinking game!” declares Earl Prys Y Aydanogi.

The other two nobles cheer. My jaw clenches. Alcohol and Llywelyn are not a great combination. I highly suspect he has a problem. But on the other hand, loosened tongues will benefit me greatly.

Llywelyn snaps his fingers. I swear I feel the sound in my stomach. Even though it is not directed at me.

A few moments later, Tae hurries over with a tray of drinks. Three large earthenware bottles and four sparkling glasses.

He slides the tray onto the table and scurries away. As I watch his damaged wing flutter with the speed of his departure, I realise that I’ve been holding my breath. Needlessly, it seems. The assholes at the table didn’t pay Tae any attention at all. His servitude made him invisible. Which is a whole lot better than being tormented for entertainment.

It still rankles. Despite the fact I can’t hand on heart swear that I’ve fully acknowledged and noticed every single person who has ever served my table, or made me a drink, or checked out my shopping. Apparently, I’m a hypocrite, and when I’m on the other side, it pokes at my sense of fairness. I’m beginning to wonder if my psych eval was correct and if I am the right man for this job. Though, it is too late now. I’m here and there is nothing that can be done about that.

I bite back my sigh and keep my head down. The sounds of drinks being poured is strangely soothing. Familiarity, I guess. A normal, everyday sound in a place that is neither.

I focus on it. Then I focus on the chatter that follows, while I tune everything else out, even the ache in my knees.

As I listen, I form opinions. Earl Prys is a jerk. New to court, having recently crossed through the portals, he is the type of narcissistic asshole that can pull people in with his false charisma. Llywelyn certainly doesn’t seem to be immune to it. I suspect Prys is everything he wishes he could be. Popular and widely adored.

Lord Gerwyn and Lady Braith seem to be nothing more than Prys’s sycophants. Not a single thought of their own in either of their heads. They do, however, both appear to be incredibly wealthy. Usurping a throne is expensive work, so they are useful people to have on board.

“Is it true that humans can pleasure themselves?” drawls Prys.

All my musing and mental note taking grinds to a halt. My awareness has narrowed to this precise moment. I can hear my unsteady breathing and feel the stretch of the silk robes over my knees. I didn’t want them to notice me.

“It’s true,” says Llywelyn smugly.

There is a bit of fluff on the otherwise perfect sky blue rug I’m kneeling on. A white bit of fluff, just under the table. I stare at it intently. My stomach is churning. I have a very bad feeling about this.

“May we see a demonstration?” Prys purrs.

Gerwyn and Braith titter. My heart thumps against my ribcage. Any minute now, Llywelyn is going to voice his excuse. Something like, ‘I don’t like to share.’ It’s fine. It is going to be fine.

“Of course,” Llywelyn says sweetly.

My head snaps up. His golden eyes meet mine calmly. No regret. No remorse. No apology. His pink lips are curled upwards in a faint hint of a smirk.

Motherfucker.

I don’t think this is inevitable. I do not believe his hands are tied. This is not some etiquette thing that is impossible to get out of.

He is just being a bastard. Making a point. Trying to feel big after feeling vulnerable with me. A pissing contest where he gets to prove he is the top dog.

“Well, get on with it then!” he orders.

My eyes twitch with the desire to narrow. But I cannot let my disdain show. To think I had decided to be nice to this little twerp. And now he goes and throws a stunt like this.

Chairs rustle over the rug as the audience moves back so they can see me kneeling on the floor.

Llywelyn rolls his eyes. “Take your cock out and make yourself spill.”

Every word is dripping with arrogance. His tone is pure spoilt prince. The tilt of his chin is the definition of haughtiness.

My cock stirs. It starts to swell. Arousal begins to smoulder.

Oh, hell no! I do not get turned on by bossy little twinks who need a spanking. Not my thing at all. In the bedroom department, I enjoy telling people what to do, not being told.

I change the angle of my head so that the other three can’t see my eyes and I give Llywelyn a warning glare. He blinks slowly and gives me an impatient look in return .

Shit. I see it now. A slight haziness to his focus. Llywelyn is drunk. Very drunk. The well-hidden inebriation of a habitual drinker. Damn it! He must have snuck some drinks in earlier. Perhaps to prepare and brace himself for this evening. Regardless of the reason, he is drunk and therefore his ability to reason and to understand how much trouble he is going to be in with me, is impaired.

I draw in a shuddering breath. Okay, decision time. Option one, make a scene and potentially blow my cover. At the very least, draw unwanted attention and speculation. Option two, close my eyes and wank while Llywelyn watches with that damn regal and haughty expression of his.

My cock thickens.

For fuck’s sake. Well, at least my little show will get these assholes all hot and bothered, and they won’t be able to sort themselves out. A small revenge, of sorts.

I close my eyes and pull out my cock. I’m already half-hard. The murmurs of appreciation are not the worst thing I have ever suffered.

I give myself a tug and try to imagine I’m alone. While kneeling with a collar around my neck, yeah right. No, I’ll try imagining that it is only Llywelyn watching me. His golden eyes burning, brighter and brighter. His soft lips parting. Pink colouring his cheeks.

Watching me play with myself. Watching my cock get harder and harder while his own stiffens in response and he remembers what it is like to be stuffed full of me. I’ve had him twice now and I’m sure he remembers it, even if he didn’t react much at the time.

Unease tries to snake its way through me, but I extinguish it ruthlessly. I know Llywelyn’s past is messed up. I’m horrifically aware that his boundaries are weak, tangled things and that true consent was unclear. But I cannot think of that now. What I am doing right now is not harming him. My morals are going to have to wait. They are used to it .

I stroke myself faster. I’m not sure if Llywelyn has got a good look at me before. I hope he is feasting his eyes. I hope he understands that right now, in my imagination, as soon as we are alone, I’m spanking his snow-white ass until it’s fuschia pink, and then I’m ploughing him until he screams.

I hope he is watching my large cock get harder and harder while knowing that later tonight, he is going to be impaled on every single inch of it.

I’m going to bounce him on my lap while I squeeze those plump pale nipples of his. I bet they are super sensitive. I can just tell tormenting them is what is going to finally get him to cry out for me. I’ll twist and tweak. Pull and pinch. Lick, suckle and bite until he screams my name and his hole clamps down on my cock, squeezing me tightly. His soft channel quivering around me while his thighs tremble.

I grunt as my balls tighten. My fist keeps working my cock as an orgasm soars through me. I have no idea where my cum is landing, but they wanted to see. So let them see the evidence of what I can do and they cannot.

One last squeeze and then I stop. I tuck myself in. I look up and find four pairs of eyes staring at me. The fey look stunned. Breathless and a little flustered. Good.

Warm satisfaction coils through me. Okay, that was nowhere near as bad as I was expecting. I’m not feeling degraded or humiliated. If anything, I’m feeling powerful. Virile and strong.

I turn my attention to Llywelyn. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes wide and dark. His bottom lip is swollen, as if he has been biting it. My cock twitches. Oh lord does Llywelyn look fuckable right now. Despite everything I know about the abuse he has suffered. And what the hell does that say about me? That I am a dark and twisted monster? Wanking off to a fantasy is one thing, opening my eyes and longing to make fantasy reality, is quite another .

Slowly, the fey rouse themselves and resume their card playing and drinking. No comments on my performance, but screw them. I don’t need their praise. I saw it in their eyes.

Llywelyn reaches out without looking and gives me an awkward pat on the head before swiftly withdrawing his hand. It is an effort to not roll my eyes.

His touch was soft, almost sweet. His hand was shaking a little. My little show really did affect him. I want to snarl in animalistic triumph. He wants me.

My heart flutters. Oh god. I really want him.

And I don’t want him because he is vulnerable. I simply want him. Prince Llywelyn Y Mabinogi. Wannabe usurper. Arrogant, vain little princeling, and all round pain in my ass.

Oh fucking hell. This should be a good revelation. My desire for Llywelyn is pure. I’m not attracted to his vulnerability. I’m simply attracted to him, because he is hot. It means I’m not a monster. Well, less of a monster, at least.

But falling in lust during a mission? With the person I’m working with? There is only one word for that, and one word only.

A disaster.