The Last Queen

by Christine McKay

  * * * * *

  Adrianne’s gaze swept over the professional-looking kitchen. Empty at last. Good, she’d finally beat Adonthe. She had been itching to cook for weeks. She was tired of being waited on hand and foot. She wasn’t glass. A little work that didn’t involve “queenly skills” wouldn’t shatter her.

  She pulled out a couple of dozen eggs Nikki had brought for her on their last visit. She’d been careful to hide them in the back of their cooler behind a large tub of what passed as butter. With their offspring born as eggs, she wasn’t at all sure how the Dragoon would accept chicken eggs. She doubted it would be with any warmth.

  Without really thinking about it, she had the ship turn the gray floor into slate, the countertops to a coordinating granite and the walls to a warm yellow with hints of rose in its faux finish. The Dragoon were still less than thrilled with her color palette but it almost seemed like they were warming to her changes. She actually caught Henley wearing a thick gold chain set with rubies beneath his tunic yesterday.

  Progress. They might be changing her, but she was altering them as well.

  The frying pans were heavy enough to be used as formidable weapons. Their dead weight hurt her wrists. She started warming the pans while she cracked the eggs into a bowl.

  “Just what are you up to?”

  She recognized Adonthe’s voice and didn’t bother to turn around. “Making breakfast.”

  “That is my duty.”

  “Well, I’m sick of doing nothing around here.” If he wanted her to leave, he’d have to forcibly remove her. And even without the self-defense skills she was learning from Henley, she was pretty sure she could take him on with just the frying pan.

  Adonthe crept closer. “With eggs?” Shock and outrage warred in his voice.

  She turned around, eggshells in her hands. “They’re chickens,” she said. “See. No little dragons in here.” She held the two shards out to him.

  “Ugh!” He put his hands up to ward her off.

  She liked Adonthe. He kept his sandy blond hair long, neatly tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Since she joined their group, she’d seen his hair no less than three different colors. Right now it was streaked with dark and light tones. His face was long and narrow, brows plucked into thin lines above green eyes she doubted were truly green. Even this early in the morning, he was perfectly groomed. His tunic matched the rust streaks in his hair and his trousers were the same sandy shade as his ponytail.

  “Come on,” she coaxed. “It’s not like you’re eating your own kind.” She cracked another egg and beat it into the bowl.

  “Cannibal,” he muttered.

  “I don’t think we’ve had any time to bond,” she replied cheerily.

  Sidling closer, he sniffed at her pancake batter. “Queens do not cook.”

  “I do.”

  “That remains to be seen.” He extended his finger toward the pancake batter.

  She slapped his hand away. “It has eggs in it.”

  He drew back as if it were acid.

  “Didn’t you like that lemon meringue pie I brought back from Nikki’s?”

  “Yes,” he replied cautiously.

  “Guess what the meringue is made of?” The look of horror on Adonthe’s face made her laugh. “Beaten egg whites,” she persisted.

  He looked thoughtful. “Well, I suppose the egg whites are not the actual creature.”

  “No, just its food source. You’re killing it either way.”

  “You can be quite a disagreeable person.”

  She finished cooking a pancake and offered it to him.

  “Temptress,” he muttered, but he took it off her spatula and tossed it from hand to hand until it was cool enough to eat. With a wary look, he took a tentative bite. “Mmm.”

  “Add some butter,” she suggested.

  “The Gods will strike me down for this.” He pulled up a stool. “It smells good.”

  “I missed cooking,” she said with a sigh, pouring the scrambled egg mess into a skillet.

  “I cannot mate with you, Dragoness,” he said abruptly.

  She paused and faced him. “Actually, the thought never crossed my mind.”

  He chuckled, not at all hurt. “It is common knowledge that you will fly Navarre.”

  “Is it now?” She kept her tone noncommittal.

  Adonthe leaned forward on his stool. “Is it not?”

  “For just stomping on my fragile ego, you’re a nosy thing.”

  “Please. I only ask out of polite interest.”

  She snorted.

  “Vespero is having a ball writing about you for just that reason.”

  “I’d imagine he is.” She shot him a sidelong glance. “Can you be bribed?”

  “Please.” He drew himself up, indignant. Then he sat back. “Maybe. Give me the recipe to that lemon meringue pie.”

  “Deal. I’d like to cook with you, Adonthe, especially since you’re not trying to sleep with me.”

  He sighed melodramatically. “Pity you’re not a water dragon. Vespero says I have excellent bloodlines.”

  “I’m sure every one of you does.”

  “No, they do not. But we need to make them all count now.”

  “Are you and Vespero close?” she asked on a hunch.

  “You need to be more direct. You are our Queen. You may command me to answer you.”

  That earned him a smile and an eye roll. “I choose not to.” She flipped off the last of the pancakes, filled two plates and put the rest in the oven to keep them warm.

  She offered Adonthe one plate with a generous helping of scrambled eggs. “Why don’t you tell me about your bloodlines?” she prompted.

  Adonthe put a small forkful of egg into his mouth. “Mmm.” He closed his eyes.

  “Cannibal,” she teased.

  “Dragoness, we have squandered your talent. What other skills do you possess that we have not utilized? Do you play an instrument? Paint? Compose poetry?”

  “I played piano long ago,” she said, pleased with the attention. “As for other talents, until the Dragoon dropped in, I was a teacher.”

  “That is a great skill in itself.”

  She shrugged. “It gave me a chance to travel. It was not my passion.”

  “And cooking is?”

  “I’m not sure.” She hesitated. No one had ever asked her that before. “But I do enjoy it. You’ve cleverly steered the conversation away from yourself.”

  Adonthe smiled and saluted her with his fork. “That too, can be a skill, my Queen.”

  * * * * *

  Quince’s command for her to shave made Nikki wet, actually dripping wet. She showered carefully, resisting the urge to self-pleasure. She wanted every nerve ending to be vibratingly alert for Quince. She had a habit of keeping everything well manicured down there, but shaving everything off was a new one for her. Glancing in the mirror, she frowned. She looked like a ten-year-old girl.

  Wrapping a towel around herself, she peeked into the hallway. A delicious odor wafted through the apartment. Where had he learned to cook Italian? She shook her head. Quince was full of surprises, wasn’t he? That thought made her even wetter.

  She tiptoed down the hall toward the kitchen. Quince met her at its entrance, arms folded. “I am not ready for you yet.”

  “Can I watch you cook?”

  “No.”

  She tried another tactic, shifting slightly so that her towel slipped just a fraction more, revealing the tops of her breasts. “It smells so good.”

  “You will wait in our bedroom until I fetch you.”

  Our bedroom. Normally that would be enough raise her hackles, but she was so mesmerized by the underlying currents between them, she let it slip by. “How long will that be?” The food did smell good. Her stomach rumbled in agreement.

  “Do not question me.”

  “Hey now.” She put her hands on her hips. Her towel slipped dangerously. “Just where are you going with this?”

  He
pointed to the bedroom.

  She felt like stamping her foot. Instead, she pulled off her towel, draped it over her arm, spun and walked nimbly down the hallway, swinging her hips. She heard Quince’s rough bark of laughter, but she didn’t bother to spare him a glance.

  She felt like a naughty child being sent to her room and while it wasn’t something she’d ever thought of as arousing, she found herself still feeling turned on rather than demeaned.

  What felt like hours later but was actually only the span of fifteen minutes, Quince returned for her. In defiance, she lay on her bed naked but for a pair of ridiculously high-heeled black boots that came to mid-calf. Her body draped artfully over the bed, her dark skin contrasting nicely with the off-white bedding.

  Quince’s gaze roved over her. “Good, you did not dress. That is well.”

  Foiled again, this time Nikki actually did allow herself a small pout. “So I’m dressed appropriately?”

  Quince frowned. “You are missing one article of clothing.” He handed her a piece of black silky material, one of her scarves.

  Sitting up, she draped it across her breasts, propping them up. She always did feel a teensy bit self-conscious about her small breasts. Most men, in her experience, preferred a rack like Adri’s.

  Quince watched her, lips pressed flat. She stood and let one end of the scarf flutter between her legs. Seizing the free end, she slid it between her thighs. The silky fabric rubbed soundlessly against her freshly denuded skin.

  He shook his head slightly.

  “Where would you like it?” she purred.

  Wordlessly, he took the scarf from her hands, folded it and wrapped it over her eyes.

  “Now that’s no fun.” She kept the purr in her voice by sheer effort alone. She wasn’t fond of the dark and was even less fond of Blind Man’s Bluff.

  He took both her hands in one of his and said simply, “Come.”

  She wanted to retort with some wickedly naughty comment of her own, but she was at a loss for words. She, queen of the fetish underworld, was left tongue-tied by an alien and her own scarf. It was pathetic.

  He led her down the hallway carefully for which she was very grateful. She felt clumsy blindfolded and that ungracefulness left her feeling very vulnerable. When they reached the kitchen, she fully expected the blindfold to be pulled off. It wasn’t.

  “Gently, lady.” She felt his hands on her shoulders as he turned her to face him.

  She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. “I like it rough,” she teased, though even she could hear the tense lilt in her voice.

  Quince chuckled. “I know, lady, you think you do.” She felt his hands on her elbows. He hoisted her up and set her bare bottom on what could only be her kitchen table. “Lie back.”

  “Quince, I am starving.” Really, though, she’d lost her appetite. She shivered, her heart thudding dully in her ears.

  “Do you trust me?” His voice was very low, breath tickling her ear.

  No. He saved her life. Yes. She was the one who started this whole seduction plot. She bit her lip. “I’m not sure.” She couldn’t remember the last time she felt like this.

  “You dislike not having control?”

  She let out a pent-up burst of air. “God, yes.”

  “Why is that?”

  Because when she didn’t have control, she had no power to prevent herself from getting hurt. Just like when she was a child, unable to escape. But Quince didn’t want to hurt her. “You know, don’t you?” she whispered.

  Quince stroked her cheek, wiping away tears she didn’t realize she was shedding until he touched them. “Some beings should never be allowed in a position of power. But life does not always function that way, does it?”

  She shook her head, mute.

  “I will not abuse this gift of power.” He laid a trail of kisses where her tears had slid down her cheeks. “Lie back.”

  She knew this to be healing of sorts. When he left her, and she knew he would as all the others did or were pushed by her to do so, he would leave her whole. The others had done nothing to fill the void, only staved off the emptiness for a while.

  She lay back, clenching one of his hands. He gently slid her body farther up the table so her legs no longer dangled off the end. He eased his hand out of her death grip and instead, positioned them palm up on either side of her.

  Her heart was racing so badly she thought she was going to pass out. She licked her lips.

  “You are very quiet. Are you still well?”

  “I am coping. You better make this worth it.”

  He laughed quietly. “Aye, I promise.”

  Something warm and wet was spread across her belly. She arched her back. The warmth slipped lazily between her legs.

  “Too hot?” Quince asked.

  “No. What is it?”

  “Patience.” He dribbled the warmth over her breasts. It smelled so darn good. “Open.” She spread her legs, deliberately misunderstanding him. He laughed again. “Your mouth, woman, your mouth.”

  “Oh, of course.” She giggled, giving herself away. He offered her a spoon. Spicy Italian sauce trickled down her throat. She licked the spoon greedily.

  “Is that how you take a man in your mouth?”

  She paused at that. He withdrew the spoon, loaded it with sauce and offered it to her again. She took the spoon this time with care, working her way up to his fingertips. He ran his fingers through her hair while she licked the spoon sparkling clean.

  “Good girl.”

  Two little words but they meant so much.

  He layered what she could only guess to be noodles across her chest, spending some time curling noodles around her nipples and the curves of her breasts. Deprived of sight, she was acutely aware of his touch. Noodles slipped across her belly, between her legs and along her thighs. He offered her a few. She sucked them slowly from his fingers.

  Meatballs and Parmesan cheese followed, dotting her nipples, belly button and vulva. Each addition was added methodically with such care to their placement she felt she was a piece of erotic artwork.

  Finally he ceased. He cupped her head, his thumbs stroking her jawline with feathery caresses that sent shivers through her. Her nipples speared the meatballs. Raising her head, he placed a firm pillow beneath it to support her neck.

  His fingers crept to the blindfold and slid it up. His eyes were incredibly bright, almost fathomless. She took a deep trembling breath. “What now?”

  “I eat,” he replied. Keeping his gaze on her, he seized a meatball from her right breast and ate it slowly. His tongue circled her nipple, causing her to clench deep inside.

  If he kept moving this slowly, she’d die before he ever got to her clitoris. That appeared to be his intent. He started licking at the nape of her neck, his touch like liquid fire. Lifting his head, he kissed her. She tasted cheese and sauce on his lips.

  His tongue strolled down the length of her arms, then moved to the sides of her breasts. She moaned and wriggled beneath him.

  “Be still,” he commanded in a husky voice.

  “I’m dying,” she whimpered.

  He nipped her bare breast with his teeth. She hissed. “My lady, but you are the experienced one. This should come as no great surprise to you.” He ate the meatball off her other breast, then nibbled at the noodles ringing it.

  “Fuck you,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “I am not familiar with that vernacular, but I can assume its meaning. With a master’s degree in business and advanced studies in psychology, one would think you could be more expressive in your choice of words.”

  “You were poking through my belongings.” She should feel more angry. Right now though, it took everything she had just to focus on what his incredible tongue was doing to the undersides of her breasts and its exploratory forays farther down.

  “You should display your certificate with pride.”

  “I don’t need to. I know what I’m capable of.”

  “Are
you certain?” His eyes gleamed, devilish. His head dipped out of her sight and she felt his tongue and teeth upon her clitoris.

  Her muscles clenched slowly, starting at her toes. Her foot arched, stiff. She closed her eyes. His tongue dipped inside her while his fingertip rubbed her erect nodule. Her inner tsunami built, the blood cresting in her ears. Sound- and sight-deprived, she could only concentrate on his gentle ministrations. When she came, it was with enough force to make her bolt upright with a gasp, eyes blind, hands grasping.

  Quince caught her hands and held her. “I can see I will have to tie you down next time.”

  She gasped again, trying to catch her breath. Her mind felt like sludge. Her body continued to twitch. When she finally leaned against him, sticky with sauce and damp from his tongue, she realized somewhere along the line he’d taken his shirt off.

  “I believe you have ruined my buffet,” he added, not at all contrite.

  Picking her up off the table, he carried her to the bathroom. She wound her arms around his neck. His body was incredibly hot. Pressing her cheek to his chest, she heard the fast throb of his heart. So he was as affected as she. He had decades to learn how to control himself. Despite his professed lack of partners, he apparently made good use of his time.

  “You are very quiet,” he murmured as he set her on her feet in the shower. She clung to his shoulders while he bent and worked her boots off.

  His concern was touching. “I’m not quite sure what to say. Thank you?”

  She heard his laughter as it bubbled up through his chest. “I shall bathe you now. Are you able to stand on your own?”

  “I think so.”

  The look his dark eyes gave her was full of mirth. He shed his jeans and underwear, then stepped back into the shower with her. Turning the water on, he proceeded to lather her up. The scent of the soap was unfamiliar to her. Sandalwood. He started with her back, taking his time on sudsing the curve of her hips and the arc of her buttocks. Wriggling in his grasp, she reached for the soap. “Let me scrub you.”

  He held the bar out of her reach. “This gives me pleasure. Do you wish to pleasure me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then stand still and submit.” His tone brooked no disagreement.