My Royal Sin / Playing Dirty. Lauren Hawkeye
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grow wide, and a flush spreads in the delicate skin between her breasts.
“Describe it.”
Her breath hitches at the dominating timbre of my voice. Her gaze turns thoughtful. Inward. And I know she is going to give me the truth.
“Sweet,” she begins slowly, “almost like wildflower honey.” Her voice is a shy whisper. “But slightly spicy with a salty tang.”
My tongue presses against my teeth. It’s absurd how natural this feels—me, fully clothed and standing, towering over a naked woman pleasuring herself at my command. It’s like opening up a door and walking into a part of myself that’s always been here, waiting for me to find the way. “Keep going,” I grind out. “Tell me your darkest fantasy.”
“You’ve already had a turn,” she says with a fake pout. “I did the dare.” Her hands are already sliding back as if of their own accord, spreading her most secret part, revealing every inch of the tantalizing landscape to my view. She is so wet I can hear it, the sucking slide of her fingers. Perhaps she has done this five hundred times to five hundred different men, but tonight, in this moment, she is mine.
And if her soaking wet pussy is any indication, she loves every second.
The fire beats against my legs but is a cool breeze compared to the blaze in my cock.
“This is my game now, angel. My rules.” My voice is kind but inflexible. The log in the hearth hisses and pops, but hellfire doesn’t scare me, not now when salvation lies between Ruby’s parted legs. “I want you to expose not only your body to me, but also your mind.”
Her thick lashes flutter. “You do?”
I incline my head. “I have a theory that you might be as desirable on the inside as on the outside. So tell me...” I lower my voice an octave. “What fantasy makes your thighs quiver, your nipples tighten into tight, aching peaks? Let me inside. Let me see.”
“What?” Her voice quavers, her toes curl against the thick wool rug. “What do you want to see?”
I cross the small room as if in a dream. Then I’m standing above her, my hand tilting her chin, ensuring her gaze is fixed on me and me alone. “A glimpse of your soul.”
Ruby
He holds a hand out to me, and I take it, letting him guide me from the chair, out of the hearth room—and to my bed. With a look, he tells me to lie on the plush duvet as he moves toward the rocking chair under the window.
“Relax,” he says softly. “Close your eyes and let me inside you the only way I am permitted to do so. Show me what you’d want me to give you if only I could.”
I swallow hard and nod, my chest tightening at the unexpected emotions brewing within me—my core burning with unbridled need.
This is not what I expected. Everything up until now has been a show. But what he’s asking...
“Touch yourself, angel. Touch and tell me what it is you desire.”
I think of his words, that his touch would be like brushstrokes on a canvas. He couldn’t have known. Could he? That painting is my passion, but this—using my body for money—is the only way to save my family.
My lips part as my finger circles them softly. “I want featherlight kisses to start. Ones that tell me with each sweep of his mouth on mine that I am what matters. That for all I do to protect those I love, there is someone out there whose one true desire is to protect me. To love me.”
The truth falls from my lips without pretense, and I don’t know where it is coming from. I’ve never said any such thing aloud...to anyone.
“Continue,” Benedict says, breaking the silence.
So I do.
“His kisses trail down my neck to my breasts.” I give one of my nipples a soft pinch and gasp. “He takes me into his mouth, his teeth nipping, tongue swirling.” I lick my thumb and forefinger, rolling them around the peaked nipple of my other breast, pinching harder this time. My pelvis bucks upward, and I moan. “More,” I say. “I tell him I need more, that the teasing is driving me mad, and the kisses continue, lower and lower. They are still soft, still sweet, and though he hungers for me, he is in control. And he will tease because as much as I beg, he knows I love every second of it.”
I’ve never let my imagination run away like this. Fantasies aren’t anything I have the luxury to think about, let alone voice.
My thumb presses my swollen clit, still teasing just as I wish he would—as I wish Benedict could—and I writhe.
“More,” I whimper. “Oh God, more. Benedict, I need more!”
I gasp but keep my eyes squeezed shut. Because in my mind—in this never-before-realized dream—it is he who kneels over me. It is his hand between my legs, his fingers aching to pump inside me. It’s this stranger who allowed me to sleep like a queen last night and dress like a princess today.
Prince Benedict wants to know my soul.
I know better than to think this fantasy could ever be realized by a celibate prince, by a man who does not get to touch, let alone love.
But for tonight I can pretend.
“Please. Benedict.” I say his name again, using the cloak of darkness behind closed lids as my safety.
“Take control, angel,” he says, his deep, velvety voice carrying an unmistakable ache. “Show me what you want me to do.”
I suck two fingers down to the knuckle and then plunge them, wet, between my legs, sinking deep into my warmth.
I cry out.
The show is over. This is so real I can feel it in every nerve, every pulse of blood through my veins. So I do the unthinkable and open my eyes, propping myself up on my free elbow, so my stare locks with his.
His eyes burn into mine, veritable flames igniting something in me that refuses to be extinguished. As my fingers pump harder, his hands grip the armrests of the chair, knuckles white and nails digging into the wood.
“This is what I’d have you do. With your hands. Your mouth. Your cock.” I slide my fingers out, drenched in my own arousal, and swirl them fiercely around my clit. My head falls back, and the arm that supports my weight begins to shake. “I can’t—” I say. “I can’t last much longer. Make me come,” I plead. “Make me fucking come, Benedict!” My voice is not my own. It is something savage, a need I didn’t know existed until now.
“I cannot,” he says, but the words are a primal growl.
“Do it!” I command, my eyes on his again. “With your words, Benedict. Just your words. Tell me what you would do to finish me off. They are nothing more than innocent words.”
He leans forward, hands still glued to the armrests, and I can see that his pupils have grown so large his eyes look black. “Fuck.” He grits his teeth. “Fuck.”
But he says nothing more. So I collapse on the bed, one hand spreading myself open for him to see, the other sending me over the edge and into oblivion.
I don’t hold back. I don’t stifle my scream as I fill myself with one finger, then two, then three until I buck against my palm.
When I finally slide my hand free with a shudder, I lie there, limp and languid from the most perplexing orgasm I’ve ever experienced.
What does it mean that I enjoyed what just happened...or that I wanted it to be his hands on me instead of my own? I was prepared to give him a good show, but instead, despite the undeniable pleasure of the evening, I’m left wanting more.
“That was...different,” I say, my voice back to its soft lilt. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I assure you.” I laugh, my eyes still shut, lids heavy as the aftermath threatens to carry me off to sleep before he can respond.
I