Chapter 48 The Unexpected Luncheon
The Unexpected Luncheon
When I return to my chambers, I draw a bath and sink into it while the water is still almost painfully hot.
For a moment I simply sit there, unmoving, because the scent of him still lingers on my skin and washing it away feels strangely like erasing evidence of something I am not yet ready to lose.
I close my eyes and slide deeper beneath the water before finally reaching for the cloth and beginning to scrub my skin clean.
Afterward I sit by the window and begin carving, letting the afternoon light fall across the small block of wood in my hands.
The knife moves easily through the grain, coaxing simple shapes into being.
Little figures. Bears with rounded backs.
Wings that never quite look symmetrical.
Boats. A lopsided horse that resembles a loaf of bread more than anything noble.
The orphanage always needs toys, and I find a quiet comfort in imagining the children who will hold them.
Orsan will demand one painted orange, of course; it has been his favorite color since the first day I met him.
There is a certain peace in the work itself, in taking something rough and watching its edges soften beneath patient hands.
I am smoothing the side of the hull when the air behind me shifts. No knock announces him. He is simply there, too early.
“Is it noon already?” I ask without looking up.
“It is nowhere near noon,” he says.
I turn. He is leaning in the doorway like he belongs to it.
“I could not wait,” he continues. “All I could think about was my beautiful wife. And how hungry I was for her.”
My breath stutters.
He crosses the room in three strides, lifts me easily, and sets me on the wide windowsill. Light pours in around us, warm and gold.
“How was council?” I ask, because I must.
He exhales slowly. “The Threns and our men are still clashing at the border. Alarna claims neutrality. Again.”
“They must know that once one side gains enough power, neutrality will not save them.”
His mouth tightens slightly. “They were sworn allies of the Threns once.”
“Were?”
“No one knows for certain what they are now,” he says. “These days they call hiding behind their wards neutrality.”
I study his face. “That sounds more like waiting.”
“It is,” he says. “They are gambling.”
“And Sevrin?”
“He is trying to keep any sign of unrest quiet,” he says. “Especially the attack in the woods.”
“Why?”
He frowns. “He thinks it was personal.”
My stomach dips. “And what do you think?” I ask softly.
His hand slides slowly along my thigh. “I think,” he says, voice lowering, “that someone touched what is mine.”
My breath catches.
“And if I see another here,” he continues, fingers inching higher beneath the edge of my skirt, “I will mobilize allies myself. I will draft every able man across the continent if I have to.”
His thumb presses into the inside of my thigh and I have to brace my hands against his shoulders.
“We have to go to luncheon,” I whisper.
“But that is not what I want to eat right now, Asha.”
Heat floods my face. “Colsar—”
His mouth brushes my lips. “I had a small sample last night. Now I need more.”
His brow rests briefly against mine. “It is another thing I have never done,” he admits quietly. “I never let anyone close enough for this.”
“But?”
“But now I need to be close to you all the time.” His voice roughens. “You took whatever restraint I had left.”
“I like this mad prince,” I murmur.
We are still standing in the window light.
The sun catches in his pale hair, turning it almost silver.
His mismatched eyes hold mine without apology.
Then he turns and walks to the chair near the hearth, lowering himself into it slowly.
He rests one ankle over the opposite knee, like a man with all the time in the world.
“Be good,” he says, his voice low but unhurried. “Take off your dress.”
Light from the window spills across my shoulders, tracing the curve of my collarbone and the line of my throat, and he does not move to help me, does not close the distance between us, does nothing but remain exactly where he is and watch.
I hesitate only a fraction of a second, aware of the space between us and the weight of his attention filling it.
His head shifts just slightly. “I said everything.” The words are calm, which makes them more dangerous.
My fingers rise to the ties at my back. I do not rush.
I loosen them one by one, feeling the fabric give beneath my hands, feeling the air touch skin that had been hidden a moment before.
The laces fall slack. The dress slides down my arms, grazing my waist, then my hips, until it gathers in a quiet pool at my feet.
I am still in my undergarments.
His eyes darken. “Slower.”
I hook my thumbs into the fabric at my hips and drag it down inch by inch, never breaking eye contact. It slides over my thighs and falls to the floor.
I stand there, bare. It is my first time fully undressed in front of a man, and yet I do not feel shy or ashamed. I only feel...anticipation.
His boots are planted wide. His forearms rest loosely on the arms of the chair. He is still fully dressed. Shirt half unbuttoned from earlier. Dark trousers.
His eyes drag over me. "Fuck, you are perfect."
“Come here,” he rasps.
I don’t move fast enough.
“Closer.”
I step forward.
“Straddle me.”
I climb into his lap slowly, my knees sliding over his thighs. I can feel the heat of him even through the fabric of his clothes.
His hands wrap firmly around my waist. “I can feel how much you want this,” he murmurs. “You’re shaking.”
“You’re staring at me like you’re about to devour me.”
“I am.”
His mouth brushes just beneath my ear. “I should warn you.” His voice drops lower. “I don’t want you sometimes.” His grip tightens slightly. “I want you constantly.” His tongue traces the center of my chest, his fingers grazing over my nipples. “And I am done pretending I don’t.”
The air between us feels heavy. Charged.
Something older than restraint moves through him. “Tell me,” he says quietly. “Who do you belong to?”
My pulse kicks hard in my throat. “I’m yours.”
His hand closes fully around my hip. “Again.”
“I’m yours.”
His grip tightens just slightly. “Louder.”
“I’m yours.”
He leans forward just enough that I have to brace my hands against his shoulders to stay upright. “Mine,” he says. “Say it properly.”
“I’m yours. I belong to you.”
That does it. His mouth drags slowly down the center of my chest, unhurried. His tongue traces the line of bone between my breasts before slowly circling one nipple, then the other. I make a sound, and he answers it with his teeth, just enough to remind.
“You understand what I am, don’t you?” he murmurs against my skin.
“Yes.”
His hand slides between my thighs, not touching where I need him yet. Just resting there. “How many times have you walked these corridors alone?” he asks softly. “How many men have looked at you?”
My breath stutters. “I don’t know.”
“I do.”
His fingers press higher. Still not giving me what I want.
“And if they ever look again,” he continues, voice lowering, “I will remind them who you belong to.”
A slow stroke of his thumb. My hips shift without permission.
His grip tightens immediately. “Do not move.”
I freeze.
He studies my face like he is learning the exact moment I unravel.
“You do not take from me,” he says quietly. “You wait.”
Another slow drag of his mouth downward. Lower.
“If you have ever wondered what I am, this is it,” he continues, barely above a whisper. “This is it.”
My fingers tangle in his hair. “When we’re like this, I will do exactly as I’m told.” My lips nip at his ear. “But I will not behave.”
A sound escapes him at that, almost a laugh, but darker. “Good.”
He leans back in the chair, forcing me to remain upright over him.
“Lift.”
I hesitate only a moment before rising slightly on my knees.
His hands slide to the backs of my thighs, strong and certain as he guides my legs over his shoulders.
The shift in position steals the breath from my lungs.
My balance changes instantly, my body opening above him in a way that leaves nowhere to hide.
Now I am exposed to him. Completely.
His hands grip my hips, anchoring me there. “Stay,” he says quietly.
And then his head tilts up, mouth finding me where I’m aching above him. His hands lock my hips in place as his tongue moves in slow, firm strokes. My body jerks, but he holds me still.
“Don’t move,” he growls.
He shifts between light touches and deeper pressure, pulling sounds from me. My fingers grip his hair, the strain of the position amplifying everything. He doesn’t stop, pushing me toward the edge.
“Look down at me,” he commands, lips slick with me.
I meet his intense stare from above. His mouth returns, relentless, licking and sucking until I’m trembling.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, tone low and dominant. “I want all of it.”
My body spasms.
His grip tightens. “You wait for my permission,” he says. His lips shine with me, his stare unyielding. "Yes?"
“Yes,” I gasp.
“Again.”
“Yes,” I say louder, my thighs quaking.
“Good. Look there.” I turn my head to the narrow mirror by the hearth, catching us raw in the glass. Me, bare, my legs on his shoulders, trembling below him. His face between my thighs, pale hair stark in the light. It hits hard.
His mouth returns, barely grazing me, keeping me on edge. My hips strain.
I stare, heat spiking as I track his mouth in the reflection, slick with me. “Colsar,” I rasp, voice cracking. My body jolts.
He clamps down harder. “I said wait.”
His mouth returns, tracing tight lines, and in the mirror, my face twists, mouth slack, hands knotted in his hair. He stops again, right at the edge. “Ask for it. Say it.”
I try to speak, but only a moan escapes.
"Hm? Use your words, Princess."
"I need...to finish,” I force out, eyes on the glass.
"Ask nicely."
"Please, Colsar."
“No.”
Bastard.
He resumes, sucking lightly, then harder, pushing me to the brink before stopping again.
“Keep looking,” he cuts in. “Don’t turn away. Watch what I do.”
The need claws at me as his tongue traces just short of relief. I whimper.
"Tell me what you need, Asha Bear."
"You."
He pulls back, eyes piercing mine. “Now,” he commands, voice a knife’s edge. “Give me everything.”
His tongue presses harder, circling tight, and I shatter with a raw cry, body shaking above him. He speaks through it, words clipped. “Good. Keep going. I want it all.”
My body shudders harder at his words, the wave still pulsing.
My release drags on as I whimper, unable to stop the sounds spilling out. In the glass, I see myself trembling, chest heaving, skin flushed, completely undone. My knees give, but his hands hold me as I unravel, drawing out every shudder until I’m spent.
“Mine,” he says quietly, a claim against me.
He eases back, lips brushing my thigh, guiding my legs down. I’m unsteady, but his hands on my waist hold firm.
He rises slowly after, lips lingering at my hip before he stands fully. His shirt is damp at the collar, mouth glistening.
His mouth is still close to my ear when he says, “There will never be a Jessamy.”
“But I will warn you, Asha.”
His hand tightens at my waist. “I am insatiable when it comes to you.”
He brushes his thumb along my lower lip. “My appetite for you will not stop.”
“I don’t want it to.”
He smiles slightly at that. “Good.”
He pulls me back into his lap again, holding me there until my breathing evens and my legs stop trembling.
“We should go to luncheon,” I manage eventually.
He huffs a quiet laugh against my shoulder.
“We will,” he says. “But understand something.”
His fingers tilt my chin upward.
“If anyone touches you again. If anyone thinks they can take what is mine.”
His mismatched eyes harden. “I will not be civilized about it.”
A knock sounds faintly in the corridor, reality pressing back in.
He presses one last slow kiss to my mouth.
“Get dressed,” he murmurs. “Before I change my mind.”
And this time, when I step away from him, my legs are still unsteady, but my voice is not.
“I’m yours,” I say again softly.
He watches me as I gather my clothes.
“I know.”