Page 23 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

“Stop,” I gasp.

He groans, but he obeys, lifting both hands up.

“Again,” I say, after a few minutes.

Once more he takes his shaft in hand, running his fingers along it a little faster. Breath huffs from him, and his stomach contracts, his hips yearning forward as he strokes—I can tell he’s almost there—

“Stop.”

Ducayne roars and slams his hand against the wall. His entire beautiful, massive body is hard as a rock, shining with sweat.

I have never been so glad that my nether regions are concealed with pillows and blankets. My underclothes are soaked, and I’m afraid my pants soon will be too. I’ll have to hide the fact from him until I can change into my dinner dress.

“Wait,” I tell him.

He presses his forehead to the wall, heaving frustrated gasps.

Long moments pass.

He turns his head aside, still leaning against the wall, and he looks at me, dark desperation in his eyes.

His cock bounces, and he looks away quickly. “Gods.”

Did he almost come just from looking at me? A fresh rush of heat rises into my face.

Again we both wait.

“Touch yourself,” I say.

I let him stroke a few more times before I order him to stop. This time he rams both forearms against the wall, pressing his face against his fists and swearing repeatedly.

“Stroke again,” I tell him a few minutes later. “Don’t stop this time. But see how long you can hold off the release.”

His forehead knots in concentration as he pumps a hand along his cock. He’s clearly thinking of something to calm his raging arousal, because he lasts another few minutes before he gasps, “I’m going to come—I can’t stop it—”

“Come then.” I try to speak calmly, so he can’t hear the desperation in my voice. I want to touch myself so badly I can hardly stand it. But I refuse to do it with him in my suite. I refuse to let him know how much he affects me.

He turns, aiming for the cloth I laid out, and then he’s coming, crying out, hips jerking.

A wild hunger washes through my body, an aching want I can barely crush down. But I manage to hide it. I have perfected a mask of indifference that I wear while torturing people, or while enduring Vienne’s discourses on my worthlessness and my unsociable nature. I wear that mask now, while my beautiful enemy stands naked in my room and spends himself all over one of my towels.

When he’s done, I rise from the bed and remove the clamps from his chest. “You did well,” I say coolly. “We’ll try another skill tomorrow. Get dressed for dinner.”

I have no doubt my bodyguards and possibly some servants heard his cries of release from the hallway. They’ll report to my father’s guards and my sister’s servants. They always do.

The only people I trust to be loyal only to me are two of my maids, and sometimes Penn. Even he occasionally passes information to my father that I would rather keep private. But I suppose it’s to be expected. The palace staff are loyal to power, not people. Their allegiance is to the man currently on the throne and the woman who will take it from him when he dies, if not before.

Just once, I would like someone to be solely loyal to me.

8

The Princess prepares for dinner with a focused desperation that fascinates me.

She dresses in her enormous closet with the help of a maid, while I’m given strict orders to sit by the window. When she emerges in her dinner gown, I watch her add the jeweled coronet, the earrings, the necklace, the gloves, and the shoes, all with the firm jaw and steely eyes of a warrior going into battle. She does it all herself, barely accepting help from the maid. But she does order the maid to prepare me for dinner.

The maid, Jan, hands me a suit of soft dark velvet, deep purple and black—only pants and a vest, no shirt. The vest is silky inside, and I’m grateful for that, because my nipples are sore from the clamps. The deep V of the vest shows the valley between my pectorals. Above the low waist of the pants, a slice of my stomach is visible.

I’ve never dressed like this in my life—choosing garments that show off the parts of me most appealing to the female gaze. It’s interesting, somewhat flattering, and also disturbing.