Page 36 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

He rolls onto his back and throws the covers off himself. His undershorts are being pushed into a dramatic peak by his arousal. When he tucks his hands behind his head, his biceps bulge in a very distracting way. I especially like the one bearing the tattoo that marks him as mine.

“I’ll calm down in a moment,” he says. “Forgive me, Highness. It’s not something I can control.”

I am speechless. I can’t seem to look in his direction at all without seeing the very large proof of his desire, his maleness. My heart is beating almost as fast as it was last night.

“Feeling better this morning? No ghosts came out of the walls to suck up your soul.” He grins.

“Stop,” I gasp, gripping my knife more tightly.

He frowns. “What?”

“Don’t smile at me like that. It’s too familiar. Disrespectful.”

He regards me from the pillows, his dark lashes half-lowered. “I’m afraid smiling isn’t something you’ll be able to train out of me, Highness, unless you’re willing to use some of Khal’s methods, or your sister’s.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He scoffs lightly, sitting up and raking the tangles out of his black hair with his fingers. “A challenge? You think I’m challenging you to break my spirit and steal every bit of joy I have left? Face it, Your Highness, you like it when I smile at you, because no one ever does.”

I lunge across the bed, gripping his throat and swinging astride him—but I don’t settle onto his lap—I need to be higher than his eye level for this. My knife nudges under his chin, forcing his face up. I let the blade dig in just enough to break the skin.

He doesn’t pull away; he only moves his arms back, bracing his palms on the mattress, keeping his body upright against the pressure of my choke-hold.

“That’s how I know I’m right,” he murmurs. “When you attack me.”

“Don’t pretend to know me or my life.”

“So you want me to anticipate your needs and desires without really knowing who you are. How is that fair, Princess?”

I nudge the knife a little deeper, and he inhales sharply through his teeth. My nightdress has ridden up, and the tip of his long cock is pressed to my center as I kneel astride him. When I moved the blade just now, his cock bobbed, bumping lightly against my folds through his underwear and mine.

Holding my breath, I move the knife along the skin under his jaw, opening the tiniest of cuts, while my other hand tightens, constricting his throat. I love the sensation of his scruff against my palm.

“Oh gods,” he chokes through my grip. “I’m going to come.”

And he does. I feel the pulsing tip of his cock against my sex, the wetness gushing through the material. I hold the knife steady, watching the contortion of his handsome features, the arch of his parted lips, the heave of his chest. It’s all so similar to the signs of agony.

When his eyes open again, he looks at me, into me. He doesn’t apologize.

“I think we’ve found one of your triggers, thrall,” I say softly. “You like to be choked.”

I move off him, keeping my face as calm as I can, though I know my cheeks are flaming. From my traveling satchel I take my tooth cleansing tonic, soap, fresh underthings, and perfume, and I duck into the privy.

A few minutes later, when I’ve finished relieving myself and I’m partway through cleaning my teeth, Ducayne comes to the curtained door. “May I use the toilet, mistress?”

“You may.”

I keep my back turned while he pisses. “You have what you need for the day?”

“I have the outfit, cosmetics, and jewelry Jan packed for me.”

“Good.”

He bends, picking up the panties I discarded a moment ago—the ones that are wet from his release. Truthfully, they are soaked on the inside, too, from my own arousal. I hope he doesn’t notice that.

“Jan included a smaller bag for soiled clothes,” I tell him. “Put the wet things in there. It’s in my satchel.”

“Yes, your Highness.”