"Release her arms," he says on the third night, his voice hoarse and breathless. The prince's eyes are pinned to the bare skin of my breasts.
After hesitating, the steward lets go but I keep them where they are: over my head, one hand clasped around the other wrist. The prince's soft, strong fingers find my hips as he rises to his knees between my thighs, sliding fully in. Fully out.
I don't know what to do with my arms once they are freed. The steward seems similarly lost in his occupation. He hovers for a heartbeat before retreating to the dark corner.
The delicate cotton of the prince's bedclothes draw across my belly, my breasts as he shifts on top of me, pushing and rocking and pushing and rocking.
It is different tonight. Once he is inside me, he stays there instead of immediately finishing. Rigid and full, moving as if relishing it.
"All right?" He whispers it so quietly I believe it can only be a work of my imagination.
I close my eyes and remember the grass, and the dragons, and the boy who ate berries made of gold.
YOU ARE READING
No Fury
FanfictionThe prince was born in his mother's lavish rooms three days before I emerged on the dingy floor of the ale house. He's a royal . . . she isn't. But the secret friendship that began in childhood grows into something much deeper -- and much more dang...
