12. 11 #3
“Virgin or not,” he whispered, voice molten. “You came to burn too.”
She didn’t respond—couldn’t. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out thought, breath, reason. His closeness only made it worse.
Then his hands shifted, without hesitation, slipping to the front of her dress. His fingers traced the edge of the lace at her neckline, featherlight, daring. The fabric left little to the imagination, and his touch even less. She trembled beneath it.
His warmth vanished too quickly.
She couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped her. A whimper, barely audible, but real.
“Come,” he called, gathering their mugs before slipping into the crowd.
She followed without thinking. Not because she trusted him. But because the thought of being alone in this place was worse than following him into the unknown.
They wove through bodies, brushing past until Lance stopped at an empty lounge tucked into the corner. He gestured toward the cushions.
She hesitated.
“Sit.”
Slowly, she lowered herself onto the plush seat, eyes wary as she looked up at him. He handed her a mug, dark, cold, firelight flickering off the liquid.
“Drink it,” he said, tapping the base with a finger.
She raised it, hesitant. The bitter liquor hit hard and unforgiving. She winced. He nudged the bottom again in silent encouragement.
She tipped it back, swallowing fast. The burn clawed its way down her throat, settling hot in her chest. Lance slid in beside her with ease, arm curling around her shoulders, pulling her close like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And she let him.
He pushed the second mug into her hands.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” She eyed him suspiciously.
“No. I just need you to relax.” He snorted, squeezing around her shoulders.
She stared at the drink a moment longer before taking a breath and downing its contents.
His lips found her neck. The press of his mouth sent heat spiraling through her, and when his hand slipped over the curve of her thigh, fingers tightening just enough to draw a gasp, she couldn’t stop it.
“Lance,” she breathed, voice trembling with hesitation and something far more dangerous.
“Mabel,” he echoed, low and indulgent, before his tongue traced a slow line along the column of her throat.
“I-I don’t …” The words tangled in her mouth, lost beneath the weight of him.
“Let me take care of you,” he whispered against her skin. “It’s all I’ve wanted to do since I first saw you.”
He pulled back just enough to see her face, gaze locked on hers, waiting.
Her throat felt tight. How much of her old self was she giving up tonight? She decided she’d already given her up.
She didn’t speak. But she nodded.
His lips returned to her throat, teeth grazing the skin with a scrape that made her shudder.
“Words,” he groaned, breath hot against her. “Say it.”
“Y-yes,” she whispered, the sound fragile, trembling. She couldn’t believe she’d said it. Couldn’t believe she’d given in. But every inch of her ached for him. Every breath stoked the fire that had been simmering inside her for far too long.
His hand drifted higher, slow and teasing, pressing through the fabric of her dress. Her breath slipped out in a soft, involuntary sigh. “Tell me about your dreams.”
“Why? You know what happens,” she huffed.
“Mabel.” His voice dipped into a mock warning. His hand stilled on her thigh. “Tell me.”
Her teeth worried the inside of her lip, cheeks burning under his gaze. Her lips parted. “You’re there,” she admitted, barely audible.
His laugh was smug. “And?”
“Y-you’re touching me … like this.” Her voice trembled, trying to hold steady against his teasing strokes.
“I do far more than touch you, Mabel.” His lips against her skin were like fire to ice. His fingers slowed, teeth grazing her neck. “What else?”
“Lance.” She shook her head, eyes pleading.
“What else, baby?” he repeated, barely touching her where she needed him the most.
“Fuck—” Her hips bucked despite herself, chasing after any friction he would grant her. “You … you take me.”
“I fuck you,” he growled against her neck.
He offered her the relief she craved. His fingers pressed against her core through the silk and lace, rubbing slow circles. Each movement stole her breath.
She let out a cry, pleasure coursing through her. It wasn’t enough.
“What do you like more?” Lance scraped his tongue along the column of her throat.
A moan escaped her, trembling and needy. “When I’m on … on top of you.” Her cheeks flushed. She couldn’t believe what she was admitting.
She buried her face against his neck, breath catching in strangled bursts. The realization hit hard—how easily she’d become one of them. One of the bodies she’d watched with wide eyes and judgment. One of the tangled pairs she’d shied away from.
His fingers pulled away for a breath. Mabel cried from the loss, only to be hoisted onto his lap. Her eyes widened.
“Do you like the control?” he asked softly. The tenderness startled Mabel as she straddled him, resting on her knees, her hands clutching his shoulders.
“Yes.” She nodded. Her skirt rode up her thighs, exposing the soft skin under the candlelight.
His hands dragged up her skin, grazing the plump flesh until he dipped under the dark fabric pooling at her hips.
Her head fell back in a moan as he traced her warmth.
“So wet,” he groaned to himself. “Do you wake up like this every morning? Dripping fucking wet, wishing I’d march in there and finish you off myself?
” His finger teased at her entrance, daring.
“Y-yes,” she admitted.
“Do you touch yourself?”
She quickly shook her head.
“No?” He laughed softly. “I do. I can’t help myself. You behave so well in our dreams.” He sunk a finger deep inside her, his thumb lazily rubbing her clit. “Fuck.”
Mabel tensed, walls clenching around him. “Lance—”
“Move your hips,” he whispered into her ear, his free hand rising to rest on her waist. He guided her with a patience she’d never seen from him. “Good girl. Just like that.”
She rocked against his palm, quiet breaths leaving her with each thrust of his finger. Her eyes searched his golden ones. He watched her face; every flicker of pleasure he drew from her.
His thumb moved in slow, lazy arcs at first, teasing. Then the motion shifted, more chasing, more certain, pressing against her sensitive bundle of nerves.
Her breath hitched. A soft sound escaped her lips—half-whimper, half-surrender.
He heard it. And it thrilled him.
He moved slowly, as if committing every curve of her to memory. Her body betrayed her. He could feel it in the way she leaned into him, in the way her breath hitched with every thrust of his hand.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered against him, voice raw with need.
So, he didn’t. Not until her words dissolved into breathy moans and half-formed pleas, incoherent and raw. Not until her body trembled beneath his touch, gasping, unraveling, the tension he’d built so carefully finally breaking loose.
She clung to him, knuckles white as they fisted his tunic, face buried against his neck. Her cries spilled out, soft and broken, his name tangled in every breath like it belonged there.
And when he began to pull away, she didn’t let go. She held on tighter.
She clung to him through the waves that rippled across her skin, ripe with pleasure and disbelief. Her body trembled with the release, her breath shallow, her thoughts scattered.
She’d never felt anything like it.
“You did so good, baby,” he praised her, voice warm. His fingers found her chin, lifting gently, coaxing her gaze to meet his.
The blush on her cheeks bloomed deep, radiant. He drank in every detail. The dazed softness in her eyes, the way her lips were parted and pink, bitten from trying to stay quiet.
She looked undone.
And he looked at her as if she were the most exquisite thing he’d ever touched. “You’re beautiful,” he admitted, eyes tracing every inch of her flushed, breathless face.
“You’re pretty,” she giggled.
“Pretty?” He smirked, tilting his head.
“Very.” Mabel sat up, meeting his gaze. She felt the press of him underneath her, warming her once again. Her hand trailed from his chest to the waistband of his trousers, eyes never leaving his.
His hand caught hers easily, gently. “Not now. Not here.” He pulled her palm up to his lips, pressing a kiss on her skin. He guided her hand to rest against his chest. Her fingers greedily slipped beneath the fabric.
“Oh, so just me then?” she scoffed. “Is that what this is? Get me here—alone—and let me make a fool of myself?”
“Mabel, no—”
“I’m teasing,” she whispered, a laugh bubbling up. “Though I am curious why you’re suddenly so shy.”
Relief flooded his features before he leveled a playful glare at her. “I’m curious why you’re suddenly so brave.”
She raised her hand, a piercing blue flame igniting in her palm. It danced along her fingers, fluttering with the pulse of her heart. “It might have something to do with this.”
A smile spread across his face with pride and something that might’ve been admiration. “How did you figure it out?”
She stilled in his lap. Her palm paused over his chest, pale fingers dimpling into ebony skin. The flame dimmed, just slightly, before flaring bright with her rage. “Your stupid brother.”
“Careful.” Lance grabbed her wrist, a spell disarming the flame with a jolt that made her wince. “What happened?”
Mabel pursed her lips, unable to meet his gaze. “I think I need another drink.”
“Come,” Lance said, helping her to stand and weaving through the crowd. Mabel glanced down at their fingers, laced together like they belonged that way. Her heart gave a flicker she didn’t want to name.
At the bar, Branley stood drying mugs with a frayed cloth. He groaned when he spotted them. “You are bad for business,” he snapped. “I should’ve banned you after last time.”
“Last time?” Mabel asked, brows lifting.
Branley’s gaze flicked to her, then softened. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, that you must deal with such insufferable men.”
Mabel giggled, the sound slipping out before she could stop it. “They really are, aren’t they?”