Chapter 31 #2
He doesn't give me time to float down. Just crawls up my body, mouth crashing onto mine in a kiss that tastes like me–salty, musky, intimate.
The kiss is both hard and skilled. Tongue licking against mine.
Jaw strong and commanding. His cock slides against my thigh, heavy and insistent, and then he's notching the head at my entrance, pushing in, inch by thick inch, until he's buried to the hilt.
I gasp into his mouth, walls fluttering around the stretch, the fullness that borders on too much.
"Fuck," he growls, pulling back to look at me, eyes dark, before his forehead presses to mine. "So tight. So perfect.”
He starts moving then–deep, rolling thrusts that hit every spot inside me, his pubic bone grinding against my clit with every snap of his hips.
Sweet turns filthy as he pins my wrists above my head with one hand, the other cupping my breast, thumb flicking the piercing until I'm whining.
He fucks me like he owns me–hard enough to make the bed creak, slow enough to draw it out, whispering dirty praises in my ear: "Look at you, taking my cock like you were made for it.
Slick and wet, dripping all over me, aren't you? Such a wicked little one."
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
His chest hair rubs against my nipples, the friction sending sparks everywhere.
Sweat slicks our skin, bodies sliding together in a messy rhythm–his balls slapping against me, my nails scraping down his back.
He angles just right, hitting a spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes, and I come again, clenching around him like a vise, sobbing "Daddy" into his shoulder.
He follows right after–thrusts turning erratic, a low rumble building in his chest until he buries himself deep and spills inside me, hot pulses that fill me up.
I embrace the feel of him. The weight of his body.
The rasp of his breath. The way his seed leaks out around where we're joined.
He collapses half on top of me, but doesn't pull out right away.
Just holds me there, cock softening inside, lips brushing my temple in soft kisses.
"You're safe," he murmurs, rolling us so I'm draped over his chest, his arms locked around me. "You're mine. All mine. And nothing's going to change that."
Wrapped in his arms, the shivering stops. The fear quiets. And I believe him.
At least I want to.
I wake, body warm bundled under the covers.
The light from the fire makes the room have a cozy glow but it’s the voices I hear at the door that draws me fully awake.
His voice is low, soft and controlled, answering someone on the other side.
The door clicks shut, footsteps approach, and then he’s back–shirtless, wearing only loose gray pajama pants that hang low on his hips, the waistband dipping below the carved V of muscle.
The soft black mask still covers the upper half of his face, but his mouth is visible and the memory of what he did to me surges back.
Those full lips brought me to a soul-shattering orgasm.
His dark scruff along his jaw rubbed against my thighs.
The hands that pinned me down, holding me still while he claimed me.
It was real. It happened, and the way his eyes sweep over me where I lie, taking in everything–the way the sheet clings to my bare skin—makes me know he’s thinking about it too.
Anxiety coils tight in my chest. I push up on one elbow. “I really should go to my room.”
“No.” The word is quiet, final. “Stay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Arianette. I’m sure.”
I nod once, throat tight, then slide out of bed, clutching the sheet around me like a cloak.
It drags behind me across the floor as I pad to the bathroom, bare feet silent on the cool stone.
The door closes with a soft snick. I let the sheet fall, pooling at my ankles, and stand there naked under the dim sconce light.
His dark gray button-down hangs on the back of the door, sleeves long enough to brush my thighs when I slip it on.
The fabric is soft, worn at the cuffs, still carrying the warmth of his body and the faint scent of his cologne.
I take my time buttoning it, fingers trembling a little, the hem skimming the tops of my thighs.
In the mirror, I look wrecked: black makeup smudged under my eyes like bruises and lips swollen from his kisses.
But there’s a hum under my skin, low and steady.
He didn’t just fuck me tonight. He cherished me.
Held me like I was something breakable and precious.
Claimed me in ways that went beyond skin and heat.
It’s a side of him I’ve never seen–tender, almost careful–and it terrifies me.
Because what if it’s temporary? What if one wrong word, one wrong move, flips him back into the distant, aloof man I’m used to?
The one who looks through me like I’m a weight around his shoulders.
I turn on the faucet, splash cold water on my face until the smears lighten, then pat dry with a thick cotton towel that holds the spicy scent of his shaving cream. I stare at myself for one moment longer, then take a breath before stepping back into the bedroom.
He’s sitting in the same high-backed chair he was in earlier–yesterday?
Time feels slippery–legs spread, elbows on the armrests, watching me with that unreadable intensity.
The mask still hides his eyes but his mouth is set in a thoughtful line, the scruff darker in the low light.
His bare chest rises and falls, the fire painting gold across the ridges of muscle.
I hesitate in the doorway, unsure. Stand?
Kneel? Curl up on the rug like a pet? My legs still feel shaky, unsteady from everything–panic, pleasure, and the weight of being seen so completely.
I climb back into the bed instead, tucking my bare legs under me.
His gaze follows the movement–lingering on the exposed skin of my thighs, the way his shirt rides up just enough to tease the curve where thigh meets hip.
He leans back, watching me for a long, quiet moment before he speaks.
“I’d like you to tell me what happened at the solarium.”
I curl tighter, arms wrapping around my drawn-up knees, chin resting on them. “I don’t remember.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” It’s not an accusation. Just a calm fact. He’s right. I do remember–fragments, flashes–but they’re a snarled knot of smells, sounds, voices. “Arianette, you can trust me. I only want to help.”
I take a deep breath that shudders on the exhale. “It was the music.”
“The music?”
I nod, closing my eyes, forcing myself back there. To the first chord that cut through the air like a blade. “The strains were both new and familiar. The song was different, but everything else…”
“You mean the cello?” he asks quietly.
“Yes. The cello.”
“You’ve heard it before.”
“Not just it,” I whisper, heart starting to pound so hard I feel it in my fingertips. “Him.”
The King’s mouth tightens into a frown. “Whitaker, you mean.”
I close my eyes again. “It’s not the man at the front of the solarium that I see playing.
Not the Prince. He’s younger. Cheekbones softer.
His hair glimmers under the spotlight like a halo.
For a while I thought he was an angel. Not real.
Not there. No more than the rest of us.” I open my eyes; the King is silent, listening, utterly still.
“He’s dressed in a tuxedo. Shoes shiny. Backstage…
” I swallow, afraid to let the words out into the room.
“Backstage he makes me laugh. He teaches me the word.”
“Periwinkle,” the King says softly.
I nod, pulse thundering in my ears. “Periwinkle.”
“I heard the music and it all came rushing back.” The late nights. The stage lights hot on my skin. Dancing until my feet ached. Being ushered away by my governess while the others stayed behind.
“There are no other children.”
“Arianette.”
I blink, snapping back. He’s standing over me now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his bare skin. “Arianette, answer me.”
“What?” I swallow. “What was the question?”
His jaw locks; the cords in his forearms stand out as his fists clench at his sides. “Did Whitaker Ashby hurt you?”
The boy with the halo. The one who played music like it was breathing. Hurt? I shake my head hard. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say quickly–maybe too quickly–because even through the mask I can feel the skepticism rolling off him. “Whitaker didn’t hurt, but he–”
A soft knock. The door opens just enough for Graves to slip inside with a tray: sliced meats, cheeses, crusty bread, a bowl of dark berries, a tall glass of chocolate milkshake with a long green straw poking out. He sets it on the bed beside me.
“For you,” he says gently. “Thought you might need a little sugar after such a long night.”
“Thank you, Graves.”
Graves glances between us–lingering on the King for a beat–then leaves without another word.
We’re alone again. I start building a small sandwich–ham, sharp cheddar, a thin slice of apple–fingers still unsteady. I don’t eat it. Instead I hold it out to him.
“For me?” He sounds almost confused.
I shrug, small. “You must be hungry.”
“I’m not,” he says, but he moves closer anyway, easing onto the edge of the bed.
Our fingers brush as he takes it. He takes a slow bite, chewing thoughtfully.
I wrap my lips around the straw, cold sweet chocolate flooding my mouth, soothing the raw edges inside me.
He eats two more sandwiches in quick succession after that, clearly hungrier than he let on.
“Arianette,” he says when he’s finished, voice softer now. “Tell me more. Tell me about periwinkle.” I set the milkshake down, press my cold fingertips to my knees. “Is it the color?”
I nod. “Soothing purple. Warm like a blanket.”
“Why did you say it tonight? Over and over?”
“It helps me when I’m anxious.”
“And he taught you that? Whitaker?” He takes my hand–big, warm, steady–threading his fingers through mine. I nod in answer and he asks, “How do you know Whitaker?”
I shake my head, small and frantic. “Don’t. Don’t make me tell.”
His other hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking down my jaw in a gentle arc. “I’m not just your King, Arianette. I’m your husband. Your protector. I will keep you safe, but I can only do that if I know the truth.” His fingers tighten slightly, linking us more securely. “Where did you meet him?”
The answer sits heavy on my tongue, forbidden. Of all the murky things in my head, this one was never supposed to be spoken. His fingertips slide under my chin, tilting my face up. I look into the shadowed green of his eyes beneath the mask.
I take a deep breath.
“Mayfield.”