Page 7 of Fey Sovereignty (Fey Lords #4)

Chapter seven

I can’t sleep. My mind is whirling. My insides feel itchy and even my skin is jittery. It’s like I’ve downed a jug of black coffee, but I haven’t. I haven’t had any coffee at all, only tea, and I’m pretty sure it’s not to blame for my current state.

No, this is pure… I don’t know. Stress, anxiety? A guilty conscience? The weight of the world and the future of mankind?

I take a deep breath. Beside me, Llywelyn is sleeping like a baby. Clearly, he doesn’t have a moral compass to trouble him.

It is dark and quiet. The bed is soft and warm. The atmosphere is peaceful. If I listen very carefully, I can hear the background hum of London, just on the other side of those thick velvet curtains and the pane of glass.

I’m not hungry or thirsty. I don’t need the loo. I’m not even sore from my joke of a wrestling match.

I should be able to sleep. There is nothing stopping me. My mind should be unburdened by questions.

Whether or not Llywelyn is suitable for the fey throne. If he is a worthy ally or not, is so far above my pay grade, it’s laughable. I don’t need to worry about this shit. I just need to follow orders. Like I have always done.

God knows it wouldn’t be the first time a ruler of an enemy state was replaced with someone less than virtuous.

I’m probably just selfishly unsettled because this particular unsavoury person has a frightening amount of power over me .

A cold shiver runs down my spine. Yep. Looks like I’ve found the root cause of my sleeplessness. I’m freaked out and feeling vulnerable.

I let that guy pin me down. He had me in a choke hold. And while I’m perfectly capable of not getting into that position, once I’m in it, I’m pretty sure I am screwed. Gravity is a motherfucker. Once down like that, I don’t think anybody could get back up.

I put myself in that situation because I trusted Llywelyn, while naively assuming it was just a wrestling match. In my defence, It’s not that I thought Llywelyn would stop me being killed out of the goodness of his non-existent heart. But I had faith that he needed me, and protecting me was protecting his own interests.

However, that logic doesn’t necessarily extend to protecting me from what happened to the blond boy.

A shiver dances along my skin.

To be fair, Llywelyn did not allow me to be used for entertainment in that way. But then again, no one requested it. Not that I heard.

Was that because Llywelyn is a resyn and they can’t talk to him to ask his permission? If he wasn’t and they’d asked, would he have said yes?

Sickening images flash through my mind. Llywelyn’s gleeful expression as he watched the atrocity taking place in the pit. His eyes glowing with a dark joy.

My stomach tries to heave.

Beside me, Llywelyn rolls over. He curls up into a tiny ball and whimpers start spilling from him.

Good. This is a vast improvement on him sleeping soundly. I’m glad he has a conscience to plague him. He deserves to suffer, and it is a glimmer of hope that he is not completely devoid of a soul.

I lie in the dark and listen to his whimpers grow in intensity. They are the only sound in the bedroom and they are impossible to ignore.

My teeth grind. For fuck’s sake .

I give him a sharp kick. He jerks, lets out a soft little yelp. Then his breathing settles and he falls quiet. Leaving me awake in the dark.

I sigh heavily. It’s going to be a long, long night.

A blast of cold air jolts me awake. Wow, it seems I did finally fall asleep. Sunlight is peeking around the edges of the curtains. It’s morning, I made it through the night.

I blink and roll over to face Llywelyn. His head is turned towards me and his amber eyes are open and are staring at me intently. It is quite clear that he just yanked the covers off both of us.

He is lying on his back, and his nightgown is gently tented.

I scowl at him, but he merely raises a condescending eyebrow in return. The arrogance on his face is enough to make me want to punch him.

Instead, I attempt a calming breath. I need to consider the options, and sadly, none of them involve punching the prince.

Okay, what are the facts? One, fey can’t masturbate. Two, pets normally take care of that and I was briefed that it could be part of the mission. Three, if I refuse, he will molest Tae.

So that leaves me with three solutions. Either fucking the prince again, letting him fuck me, or giving him a hand job. Because allowing him to assault anybody is not an option.

My eyes narrow. Hand job it is.

Scowling intensely, I lift up his nightgown. The little shit smirks and settles back against his perfectly white pillow. Like the spoilt, pampered prince he is.

I snatch my gaze away from his face before I do something stupid. But what I see instead is his half-naked body.

Long shapely legs. Flat and toned stomach. Hips that curve almost androgenously. And a pretty pale cock, all swollen and leaking. It is on the smaller side but oh so perfectly formed. Uncut and jutting up from a completely hairless groin. His balls are small and a cute rosy pink. I’m still not convinced by my new hairless look, but oh boy, does it work on him.

He is beautiful. Perfect. Stunning.

His incredible ass is not a fluke. His entire body is gorgeous. It is utterly infuriating.

My fingers wrap around the base of his little cock, and it twitches under my touch. I lick my lips. It is on the tip of my tongue to ask for lube, but I bite the words back. I don’t want to make this any more pleasurable for him than it needs to be. He is getting a dry, functional wank, and that’s it.

I give him a long, slow stroke. My pride won’t allow me to make this too terrible. Part of me wants to give him the best hand job of his life. Blow his mind. Carve myself into his soul so he never forgets me and compares all his future lovers to me and finds them lacking.

I take in a deep breath through my nose. There is no need to be deeply competitive about everything. The Agency shrinks are always warning me about that flaw.

I stroke Llywelyn again. He is a warm, satin weight in my hand. I tighten my grip. He swells against my palm. My heart picks up pace. The world has shrunk. All that exists is this bed. Llywelyn lying beneath me, his cock in my hand.

My hand moves again. I twist over his tip and gather his slick precum. I smear it slowly all the way down his length. His cock hardens. Satisfaction blooms in my chest. It seems fey are not so different to humans. At least not in this regard.

My fingers dance over him. Pumping pleasure into his cock, making my fist a snug tight hole for him.

He swells even more. His hips lift a fraction of an inch. My gaze flicks up to his face. His eyes are closed. His expression almost serene. He looks like he is enjoying nothing more than a massage .

He could be a statue carved of marble. An effigy created in celebration of beauty. Perfect. Yet unmoving. Unresponsive. Uncaring.

Outrage coils through me. I grit my teeth and start using all of my tricks. I am damn good at this. One lover called me a cock-whisperer. I know how to give pleasure.

Llywelyn should be writhing. Whimpering. Gasping and pleading. His pretty face should be all flushed. I should be holding his hips down while he tries desperately to buck against me. He should be out of his mind with pleasure. Feral and incoherent.

Not… stoic. Lying there like he is at the fucking hairdresser’s.

I bite my bottom lip and pump my hand fast. So fast it is nearly a blur.

No change. I tighten my grip. Still no change.

Biting back my growl, I change tactics and slow right down. Really slow. Long, languorous strokes. Lazy. Teasing. Gentle.

The corner of his right eye twitches. His lungs start working. There is a slight lifting of his hips.

I scowl. Better, I suppose. It is a slight improvement. At least I know slow and gentle is the way to go.

I look down at his swollen cock. The head is all rosy pink now and glistening. It looks delicious. If I blew him, he definitely would not be able to stay stoic.

I lick my lips. God, it is tempting. But it would be cheating. I can rock his world with just my hand, so that is exactly what I am going to do.

With that thought in mind, I loosen my grip even more. My touch is now feather light, barely there. Most people would find it maddening. Especially when this close. Llywelyn is right on the edge, I can tell that much. Getting him to cum isn’t the challenge, it never was. It is forcing him to give any sort of reaction that is the goal.

Maybe I can just edge him like this for hours? That is bound to drive him wild eventually. Nobody can cope with that forever .

I slide my palm off of him and tap my fingers all the way up the front of his hard length. Then I dance my fingers down his underside. As I tap the underside of his base, he erupts.

Thick, pearly white ropes of cum pump out of his cock and paint his snow white belly.

He doesn’t make a sound. His closed eyes don’t even twitch. His hips don’t move. His hands remain flat and uncurled against the sheet.

My jaw drops open in incredulous, incandescent outrage.

Llywelyn’s cock stops spurting. He takes one breath, and then he is flowing off the bed, onto his feet and striding away from me.

I glare at his back.

What a fucking bastard.