Page 51 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess

“There is. A beautiful one. I’ve read about it, but no one here will want to visit it.”

Ducayne moves nearer to me, his skin golden and glimmering, his eyes deeply dark. “I’ll go with you to see it.”

My heart jumps, and I answer sharply. “Of course you will, if I command it, thrall.”

He smiles. “Yes, your Highness.”

He’s moving closer. His hands circle my wrists under the water, slide up my arms. “Is this all right?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

“May I touch more of you?”

My breath hitches. “I—yes.”

Scraps of wet clothing lie discarded at the edge of the pool as people shed their last bits of covering. Music ripples over the hazy water, mingling with the splash and gurgle as bodies shift and surge and link. Moans and gasps are beginning to escape from throats, sounds of pleasure sifting into the smoke curling from the incense burners.

Vienne is arching back, barely staying afloat because Ethwyn is doing his job so well underwater. Mala floats on her back, with Khal’s face between her legs. Cowen and his curvy thrall Zurai are wrapped together, tongues entwined.

The girl with the olive skin, Luthia, half-lies on a rock by the waterfall, propped on her elbows, her head tipped back and her wet dark hair painting the gray stone. Her legs are doubled up, and her breasts bob as her thrall Sherad drives his cock into her. Her nipples are long and dark.

As I watch, she lifts her head to watch him pumping into her sex. She grips the back of his neck and gasps in tandem with him, locked eye to eye—faster—faster—and they cry out together, quaking through their joint orgasm. He leans forward, and she tips her forehead against his while they murmur the ceremonial post-coital chant.

The two of them are leading the rite. They are the first coupling, visible to all, and the rest of us are supposed to follow their example.

I’m so aroused. Not just from the visual of it, but the connection between Luthia and Sherad. I suspect these two are not merely thrall and mistress. There is something more in the way they move, the way they look at each other.

Of course there is, because how could two people fuck regularly and spend all their time together without becoming emotionally intimate, unless there was real cruelty and abuse separating their hearts?

Ducayne’s hands cup my waist, pressing lightly. He bends, his mouth brushing my ear. “Our ruse must begin now, Princess,” he murmurs. “They’re watching us.”

It’s true. As I look around, I notice others in the pool stealing glances our way, even as they’re entwined with their own partners. I’m the frigid Princess, the one who deals in pain and torment, and they’re curious to see me in a new light. They want to be reassured that I’m like them.

“I’ll make a bet with you,” whispers Ducayne. “I will bet you a night in your bed that you’re already wet.”

“Of course I’m wet,” I hiss back. “We’re in the water.”

“Not that kind of wet.” He smirks. “Put your fingers in your sex, Princess. You’ll be able to feel the difference. I’ve fucked in the water before—I know what I’m talking about.”

He takes my wrist and guides my hand to the waist of my panties.

The urge to cut him, slap him, or bite him roars up inside me, but I breathe through it. His fingers are not a threat. They are strong, yes—but gentle and warm.

My blood pounds in my throat, in my head.

He’s moving my fingers beneath the lace, pushing them deep between my thighs. And I feel it—the liquid that isn’t water. It’s more slippery, slightly viscous.

“Oh,” I whisper.

A flush colors Ducayne’s cheekbones. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with lust. “What did I tell you? I guess I’ll be sharing the bed with you again tonight.”

I don’t protest. I’m paralyzed, with my fingers tucked inside my slick opening, his hand resting over the lace of my panties.

All around us, the chorus of male groans and female whimpers is swirling, intensifying, punctuating the eternal susurration of the waterfall.

Ducayne moves back and reaches underwater to pull off his undershorts. He tosses them aside.

With the ripples, the half-gloom, and the petals clouding the surface, I can’t see through the water, but I know my thrall’s cock is there, naked and erect, pointing toward me.