CHAPTER FIVE

       Benedict

      RUBY CUTS THE card deck as my features settle into a bemused poker face.

      “Truth or dare, my prince?” Her teasing tone intoxicates. Her nipples are the color of raspberries, a ripe red that ignites my appetite.

      I’ve barely taken a sip of the vintage in my hand, yet the room feels like it does a slow spin. I dig my heels into the wool rug and fight back the growing sense of vertigo.

      “You know this game?” Her mouth quirks. “Or were you too busy playing polo and competing in fencing tournaments as a child?”

      “I preferred the contact sports, boxing and mixed martial arts.” I set down my goblet and meet her surprised gaze. “And I choose truth.”

      Her brows furrow in concentration. “Hmm.” She props two cards together, then adds a third and fourth. It takes a moment to realize what she is doing—building a house of cards.

      Higher and higher her flimsy walls rise until she pauses, twirling a Queen of Hearts between her fingers. “Have you ever seen a naked woman in the flesh?”

      “No.” My voice is cool as a glacier. I refuse to play the role of a clumsy, naive schoolboy. This imperious mask is second nature, my default setting since I was a boy. How many years have I worn it? Probably since the time that I informed my private tutor that someday I intended to do great things, lead the Edenvale armies, explore distant jungles, fulfill any number of mad ambitions a young, imaginative boy might nurture.

      Except Father had been listening from the doorway to our palace classroom. That night he had me escorted to the monastery that borders our palace ground, and there, in the nave of St. Germain, backdropped by the mournful sound of Gregorian chants, the head monk informed me that my path in life was chosen. He spoke of the honor I would bring our kingdom by serving as the spiritual advisor to the king himself.

      He made it clear in no uncertain terms that this was the role of the second son, and that if I were to stray or reject the family tradition, it would break my father’s heart.

      Those were the words that he used.

      Break. My father’s. Heart.

      I knew our mother’s death during Damien’s birth must have cracked that organ into a million pieces. There was no chance that I’d be the one to deliver the death blow.

      And so ever since, I’ve walked the straight and narrow without complaint. I have striven to do what is right, what is expected.

      Until now.

      “You are serious?” Ruby’s eyes widen curiously. “Never?” Her legs part and she runs her fingers up her smooth inner thighs. My heart threatens to break through the bars of my rib cage. “Are you saying that you’re an innocent, my sweet prince?”

      A pause. “A virgin in the flesh.” Not the mind.

      Ruby’s pussy is bare, utterly devoid of hair—soft, pink and fucking perfect. The second coming could begin outside the windows, and my gaze would stay fixed on her slick skin, the dew sheening the slit between her lips.

      “Want to touch?” She flicks the tip of her finger over her mound.

      “You know that I cannot.” My voice is hoarse.

      “But do you want to?” A sliver of curiosity enters her tone, as if she is actually interested in what I want. As if she is doing more than going through the motions of her profession. She is talented, indeed, to make me believe such illusions.

      “Yes,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

      “How?” she pushes. “How would you touch me if you gave in to the temptation?”

      I try to maintain my composure with a measured breath, telling myself that voicing what I want is no more than putting words to a thought. It is not the act.

      “So light at first,” I say, “that you almost wouldn’t know I was making contact, like a brushstroke and your body was a canvas. A butterfly wing against summer’s first rose.”

      Her eyes widen, as if I’ve struck a hidden nerve, but then she relaxes into that coy smile again. “You wouldn’t want to claim me?” There is a challenge lurking there. “Graffiti your name? Mark your territory with greedy thrusts?”

      I shake my head. “I’d rather bring you pleasure.”

      She freezes, staring at me as if transfixed. “But why?”

      “Because if it is good for you, it would be good for me,” I say simply. “My pleasure must hinge on yours.” I don’t know why, but instinctively I understand that it’s the way that I am wired.

      A shudder runs through her as she lowers her lashes. “Mmmmm. My prince, you do say all the right things. For a man not experienced in the ways of the flesh, you certainly are getting me all worked up with just your words. Look how wet I am. It feels so good.” She rolls her hand with wanton abandon, dips her fingers deeper inside until they circle an engorged, rosy bud. “So wickedly good.” She pauses, arching a brow. “Dare me to offer you a taste?” She drags her hand free, shows me her glistening fingers.

      Saints take my immortal soul. I burn as if with a fever.

      But I sense she is hiding, that she’s back to showmanship.

      I wonder if she’d enjoy being stripped of her defenses?

      I clear my throat. “You take a taste. Describe your flavor.”

      “Sir?” She pauses, hesitant, a flush heating her own cheeks.

      I’ve caught her off guard. A flare of pleasure rushes through my veins. I get up from the small game table and saunter to the fireplace, resting my elbow on the mantel. “You heard me.”

      She obeys, and my own pleasure grows sharper than I’d imagined it could.

      Ever so slowly, she raises her fingers to her mouth, full lips parting