Chapter 11 #2
She used me, night after night, her hands on my body, her commands in my ears. It was through her that I learned to bury everything I felt beneath a mask of compliance. I learned how to make my body respond. How to smile, and moan, and pretend it was real.
There were thousands more after her. And every single one of them added to the fire burning inside me. I fed it with every degradation. Stoked it with every touch I didn’t want. Banked it, hoarded it, and let it grow because someday … someday I would be free again.
That day is here, and if I have to use what I suffered to remain free, then that’s what I will do.
I lower my head and press my mouth to hers.
She goes rigid. Her lips clamp together, her jaw locks, and her body turns to stone under me. I angle my head, applying pressure, coaxing her mouth to soften. She tastes like salt from her tears, the sweet tea she drank downstairs …
And fear. She tastes like fear.
I had lovers before the Sealing. Females I chose, and who chose me. We kissed because I wanted to, because desire sparked between us, and because touch was a gift freely given. This isn’t that … and there’s no disguising it … not unless she stops fighting me.
My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and her head twists away, evading me. I bring one hand to her face, and turn it back to mine, so I can capture her mouth again. This time her lips part to protest, I have no doubt. I don’t give her the chance. I deepen the kiss instead.
For a second, she lies there frozen. Then slowly her lips move against mine, the tension in her shoulders easing, and her body softens beneath mine. I release her wrists, and she doesn’t move her arms, leaving them where they are, stretched out above her head.
I pull back to look at her. Her lips are parted, her eyes are glazed and unfocused. She looks like a woman who’s been thoroughly kissed.
There are voices in the hallway. The guards are talking to someone.
I still have time. A few more minutes.
I lower my mouth to her throat. Her skin is soft and warm, her pulse hammering beneath my lips.
I trail kisses down to her collarbone, then lower until I reach the curve of her breast. She’s trembling beneath me, small shivers that run through her body.
When I cup her breast in my palm, her hands fist into the sheet above her head.
I run my thumb across the peak, and she gasps—a sharp intake of breath that seems to surprise her.
I go still.
I’ve touched women before. More than I can count. Their bodies responded because I knew how to make them respond. I know every technique, every trick, every way to draw sounds from a woman’s throat.
But this is different.
She doesn’t want to respond. Shame and confusion covers her face, mixed with a look I recognize. A desperate wish to feel nothing. But her nipple hardens under my touch, and her back arches, pressing her breast more firmly into my palm.
Her body isn’t listening to her mind.
Neither is mine.
My lips close around her nipple, and I suck it gently into my mouth.
The sound she makes.
The moan comes from deep inside her. Her hands fly up from the sheets to grab my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin. Her back bows off the bed.
And I feel it. Low in my gut. A twist of heat I wasn’t expecting. My fingers tighten on her breast. Harder than necessary. Hard enough to bruise. I force them to loosen.
This is performance. This is survival. I’ve done this a thousand times before. I repeat it over and over in my head.
My tongue circles her nipple, teeth grazing over the sensitive peak. She writhes beneath me, hips shifting restlessly against the mattress. Small sounds keep escaping her throat. Whispers, moans, and broken gasps she can’t seem to control.
My fingers curve over her other breast, rolling the nipple between them, pinching hard enough to draw a cry from her, while my mouth continues to tease the other. She arches into me again, nails raking down my back.
The pain cuts through the haze I’m trying hard to ignore, and grounds me.
Survival. Performance.
But her hands are pulling me closer, and her thighs have parted, cradling my hips. Her body is moving in a rhythm she probably doesn’t even understand, seeking friction and release. She’s feeling every sensation for the first time, and her body is singing with a need she’s never felt before.
I hate that I notice. Hate the answering heat building in my body, and the way my blood is responding to her.
Three hundred years of being used by human females, and not once did any of them make me react like this.
I performed for their pleasure, gave them what they wanted, but never once did I allow myself to enjoy it.
I suck harder on her nipple, and she cries out.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “When they open that door, you need to look and sound like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I hate you.” Her voice is ragged. “I hate you for this.”
“I’m sure you have more than this to hate me for.”
I close my mouth around her nipple again, and the moan she gives me is long, low, and utterly genuine.
Her nails rake down my back, harder this time, and the pain mixes with pleasure in a way I’m not prepared for.
My hips shift against hers before I can stop them, just once, a single roll of pressure that drags a gasp from both of us.
I go still. My jaw locks.
Then three sharp knocks sound on the door. “Paper inspection.”
She freezes beneath me. I ignore them, and keep my mouth on her breast, my hand on the other, and my body covering hers. With a thought, I ensure the bolt has slid away, so the door is unlocked. It opens seconds later.
“Oh!”
The sound is strangled, choked off. I lift my head slowly, deliberately letting her nipple pull from between my teeth. Letting them see exactly what they’ve interrupted.
Their eyes move over her flushed face, her swollen lips, her breasts wet from my mouth. Then to me—the fae pet between his mistress’s thighs, caught in the middle of his duties.
I keep my expression docile. The collar wrapping my throat may be a glamour, but the mask is real.
I’ve worn it so long it fits better than my own face.
They will never be able to tell that I want to tear their throats out.
For making me kneel. For looking at me and seeing nothing more than a thing to be used or killed.
The female beneath me makes a strangled sound, and her hands fly to her breasts, trying to cover herself. I shift my body to block their view. The protective pet, shielding his mistress from prying eyes.
“Our apologies …” One of the guards is backing out of the doorway, his face crimson with embarrassment. “Didn’t realize … we’ll just … I’m so sorry, my lady.”
The door closes, and boots retreat down the hallway, followed by low, mortified voices. The stairs creak under their weight as they flee. Then silence wraps the room.
I’m still braced above her, my hands on either side of her head, my hips between her thighs. Her breasts are flushed and marked by my mouth. Her nipples are hard and wet. She’s staring up at me, eyes wide, bright with tears and shame, horror, and confusion.
But underneath all that …
There’s heat. She’s aroused. I can see it in the flush spreading down her neck. I can feel it in the slight tremors running through her. Her body hasn’t caught up to her mind yet. It’s still humming with sensation, wanting more.
Then her face crumples, and fresh tears spill down her cheeks.
I should move, get off her, and give her space to cover herself and pretend this never happened.
I don’t.
Instead, I look down at her, this woman who planned to hunt and kill me, who’s now lying half-naked beneath me with my marks on her skin.
She moaned for me. Arched for me. Dug her nails into my back because she wanted more.
And I can still taste her on my lips.
There’s heat in my blood that shouldn’t be there. When she cried out, when her body moved against mine, I felt it. I responded to it.
Responded to her.
It doesn’t mean anything. My body is simply doing what it was forced to do for centuries.
I shove myself away from her, grabbing my shirt and dragging it on, my back to her. Behind me, there’s the rustle of fabric as she sits up and covers herself.
My hands are shaking. I clench my fingers into fists until the tremors stop.
This was necessary. Tactical. I’ve done worse things to survive.
But I’ve never done them while my body burned for more.
Behind me, her breathing is ragged, uneven, but she doesn’t speak … doesn’t scream at me … doesn’t demand answers for what I just did.
There’s just this loaded silence, the taste of her still on my tongue, and the fury coiled so tight in my chest I can barely breathe around it.
It won’t be long now. Soon, I will let it out. Soon, they will all burn.