CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ROZLYN

Over the years as a courtesan, Rozlyn had bedded countless men in many ways, many places, and on many pieces of furniture. She hadn’t expected the Marquis of Shadows to be almost gentlemanly, in a sense, when it came to finding a proper place to consummate the marriage. And she couldn’t help but wonder how he would perform. Would he be soft or rough with his touches, his thrusts? Both styles of the pleasurable act could be pleasing depending on the mood and setting. She’d experienced gratification from various positions and paces—it all could be blissful when done with the right partner.

Haven clasped Rozlyn’s hand and led her up a silver staircase, its rails a swirling ornate design that appeared like rippling water. The walls of the second floor matched the ones in the sitting room, with the same silver leafy vines curving across their surfaces.

The marquis stayed silent, his shoulders squared, his nostrils flaring. The friendship, if that was what one would call it, between him and Nightshade was quite strange. They seemed to help one another in dire circumstances, or at least Nightshade had sent Haven to a sorcerer who’d given advice on the curse. The ferryman hadn’t argued about relinquishing his home for the night either. Perhaps Haven was owed for things he’d done for the Souldark Court in the past.

Doors of silver and gold lingered in the hallway, and Rozlyn’s heart pounded as she studied Haven’s features, the shape of his mouth, the curve of his masculine neck. Besides the first time she’d lost her maidenhead to a patron, not once had she been nervous when preparing for an erotic act. Even when she’d chosen to lose her innocence, Madam had brought her a handsome, younger patron who was well-experienced and would make certain Rozlyn didn’t have a horrendous first encounter with the art of pleasure. Madam had told her how the first experience was one that would always be remembered, and if it was regrettably unsatisfying, it could tarnish her views of not only continuing as a courtesan but for future aspects if she ever did desire to leave the brothel and find love. Madam had been accurate in her assumptions. There were plenty of times when pleasure with patrons wasn’t up to par, then she would look back on her first encounter and recall how her orgasm had felt. Cordelia had once told Rozlyn it wasn’t only the first time a maiden would remember, but their last, the one that was meant to be forever. However, if one remained a courtesan, there would never be a last time. It would be patron after patron, night after night, lustful encounters that could please for a handful of moments but not forever. That was something Rozlyn had never once minded—perhaps because she knew one day her dream of owning a dress shop could be akin to an eternity of love.

She almost stumbled into Haven when he stopped before a door near the end of the hall. A gondola was etched into the metal, surrounded by moons and suns.

Haven didn’t glance back at her as he turned the knob and stepped into the room. When she crossed the threshold, she peered around the large, mostly empty, space. The walls were a deep gray with not a single decoration hung across. A simple bronze wardrobe stood in a corner, and a massive bed with two pillows and white linen sheets rested against the back wall.

Rozlyn approached the wardrobe, curious to see what kind of fabrics it held. As she opened the doors, her shoulders sagged. The inside was barren, just like the landscape and soul of this court.

“Is this a guest room?” she asked as she shut the two doors.

“No,” Haven said, drawing back the curtains of the window and staring out at the darkness, “this is Nightshade’s bedroom.”

“Oh.” Rozlyn blinked. She thought about the sex, the wine, the emptiness of the manor, how rowing dead spirits endlessly back and forth across the same lake each day could grow tiresome for someone who didn’t love the task. “I believe he’s lonely.”

“With all the spirits he brings to his home to fuck, I wouldn’t say he’s lonely,” Haven grunted.

The ferryman could still feel that way though. Several of the courtesans who’d worked at the brothel over the years held smiles and empty eyes. Those women generally didn’t stay except for the ones who had no other dreams to chase. However, there were the courtesans who found pure joy in making others happy through pleasure, the way Rozlyn had.

Rozlyn snuck another glance at Haven, his back to her as he continued to look out the window. He hadn’t made his shirt appear, and her gaze roamed down the beautiful curve of his spine to his backside that his trousers cradled brilliantly, and her pulse hummed. She came to a harsh realization then… It wasn’t only lust stirring within her in that moment—she was starting to like the Marquis of Shadows, the one rule she couldn’t break.

Rozlyn would wave that fickle emotion away. A temporary feeling that could easily be fleeting. Swallowing deeply, she focused on the task that needed to be taken care of tonight. She would perform as she always did, make certain the patron was taken care of and place her thoughts elsewhere. Especially when Haven held affections for another woman, regardless that she was the lady of this court and married to its lord.

“Should we begin?” Rozlyn asked. “Or do you need a few more moments? We have plenty of night remaining.”

Haven’s hand fell to his side from the wall next to the window, and without a word, he prowled toward her. Her heart galloped, and she ignored the elated feeling. He grasped her wrist and drew her to his chest, his eyes boring into hers. “I won’t just bend you over and fuck you quickly. We’ll be thorough to make sure this curse doesn’t bring us back to the tower. And as your patron, I only have one rule—do not kiss me on the mouth.”

Rozlyn nodded. A kiss could be more intimate than anything else. And something he clearly wanted to save for Vivienne. Rozlyn was curious what his lips tasted like, but she would respect his wishes—rarely did she ever kiss patrons anyway. They mostly wanted their cock stroked by her hand or wettened by her tongue or her heat.

If he hiked her skirts up and thrust into her from behind for a few moments, she believed that would be enough to consummate a marriage. But she kept quiet—he was her patron, and a giddy part of her wanted to discover how thorough they could be with one another. A courtesan did always promise to take care of her patron after all.

The line between Haven’s brows deepened, and she pressed a hand to his cheek. It didn’t matter how she felt about him—he needed to be comfortable. And being intimate with someone when his feelings were for another could easily cause remorse. From time to time, patrons had pretended she were someone else. A grieving widower had imagined Rozlyn as his dead wife—another man thought of her as the woman he was in love with who didn’t return his affections. She’d been asked to dress up as a queen, someone a patron would never have. But she’d held the secret of her lineage, of her being a bastard princess who could’ve been queen, so joy had filled her that she’d been able to secretly satisfy the kind patron’s desire.

“You can imagine I’m Vivienne if you need to,” she murmured. “I don’t mind.”

“Silence.” Haven unpinned and unplaited her hair until the long, tangled locks fell in thick waves to her ankles.

Rozlyn glided her fingertips over the planes of Haven’s chest, down his rippled abdomen to the waistband of his trousers. With nimble fingers, she unfastened the button and dipped her hand inside to free his thick length. His manhood was as large as it had been when she’d seen it in his gargoyle form. A cock that could please any woman— multiple times. If he knew how to use it, that was.

As Rozlyn stroked him, his length was as smooth as marble, his skin like silk. Haven’s head fell back, his eyes closed while her hand ventured up and down him, her thumb circling the tip. Was he thinking about Vivienne in that moment? Rozlyn was curious what the lady of the court looked like and how beautiful she was. If she were Haven’s perfect sorcery match, Rozlyn believed tales could be written about her.

“Take me in your mouth,” Haven growled, his throat bobbing.

Rozlyn obediently sank to her knees, then pulled his trousers to his ankles. Sometimes during these tasks, she imagined herself elsewhere sewing fabrics, but not this instance. Gripping him, she licked his length from base to tip before bringing him fully into her mouth. She massaged his silken skin with her tongue, allowing his cock to drive deeper into her throat.

Her hands glided to his backside, and his hips shifted forward as he thrust into her mouth. The salty taste of his skin was pleasure to her tongue.

“Stop,” Haven rasped, extracting his length from her. He grasped her by the arms and drew her from the floor.

Rozlyn peered up at his narrowed eyes. “Was it not good enough for you?” she asked, not once ever having a patron halt her during fellatio. “I can be rougher if you wish.”

“It was too damn good,” Haven said gruffly, his thumb rubbing her arm. “If you keep doing that, I’ll fucking come.” His fingers reached for the top button at the front of her dress, and he loosened them one by one, then peeled the fabric from her shoulders until her breasts were bare before him. And then her dress pooled to the floor, revealing all of her.

Haven’s pupils dilated, the only sign in his expression that gave away his lustful desire. His strong body guided her to the wall near the window, where his mouth so nearly brushed hers. Rozlyn waited for his kiss, to taste the flavor of his lips, his tongue, but he denied her his mouth and slipped down to her jaw instead, nipping and licking. The marquis’ heavenly callused hand traveled down her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple before venturing to her core, his palm punishingly and exquisitely pressing against her pearl.

“Oh!” Rozlyn gasped. Her eyelids fluttered when he dipped two fingers inside her heat while his palm moved deftly against her. A long moan escaped her as she arched into him and rode his hand.

“Put your hands on the wall,” Haven demanded and turned her around, his hard cock glided up and down her backside, her core. Rozlyn’s body trembled, anxiously awaiting him to fill her as he grasped her breasts, kneading them while his lips expertly tasted the crook of her neck and down her shoulder.

“You come when I say,” he ground out, then slid his cock inside her with one hard thrust, and her breath hitched.

Haven’s hands dug into her hips, and he moved his lower half in a way that was utterly spellbinding. Another arm circled her waist—one of his shadows. Her lips parted as it skimmed down to her center, then pushed her clit and she could barely find breath from the intoxicating touch.

“The bed. Ride me,” Haven demanded, then pulled out of her. She nearly whimpered at the loss of his cock.

He lifted her as though she weighed nothing and brought her down to straddle him on the bed. Rozlyn clasped his shoulders and sank down on him when he took a nipple into his mouth, his hand fisting her hair. She rolled her hips into his, her pace turning harder, faster, the groans and growls becoming more frequent from him while she put everything into her art form.

“Come,” he ordered.

Haven’s fingers yanked on her hair in a delicious way. The friction in her core grew ravenous as the exquisite feeling drew closer, until a pleasureful wave crashed into her, her body quaking. She cried from the orgasm alight within her, akin to a thousand shooting stars.

“Good girl.” Haven smirked. Then he peeled Rozlyn from him and placed her on her hands and knees. The marquis moved off the bed and stood behind her on the floor, wrapping her hair around his hand. He was only gone momentarily before slamming into her, her backside meeting him thrust for thrust. Her breasts bounced as he pulled her hair, fully burying himself in her and shouting, “Fuck!” And then again, but slower, raspier. “ Fuck .”

Rozlyn fell to the bed when he pulled out of her, her head collapsing against a velvet pillow. Haven didn’t move, only stared down at her, his jaw clenched, his chest heaving.

Neither said a word, until she remembered something. She hurried from the bed and opened her satchel to retrieve her tonic. She drank two bitter swallows as Haven drew on his trousers. His slitted gaze traveled down her bare form, lingering on her breasts. “Get dressed, then sleep. We’ll stay here until morning to see if it worked,” he said.

She hadn’t expected that they would sleep there, but she nodded and put on her dress before laying on the bed. Unless he requested more pleasure from her, the consummation was the end of it.

Haven drank from his flask and left a large gap between them when he sank onto the bed—as though they’d never been intimate.

The way of a patron and his courtesan.

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