Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1)

by Clarrisa R. Smithe

  He must have heard the heavy fall of her breaths, or sensed the rising anticipation brewing at her core, for there was no other reason for him to stop so abruptly. Well, except, "Astrid, where are your undergarments?"

  Her eyes widened and she stiffened. A guess, surely, seeing as his hand hadn't ventured far enough to know she was without them. She hoped, no prayed, that he would understand why she was not wearing them and did not just assume that she did not know how to dress herself properly. "I-in the other room."

  The hand not flitted beneath her dress was placed to her waistside, the tips of his fingers thrumming softly over the slight swell of her belly. "Last I recall, when a lady leaves her chambers, such vestures were to accompany."

  "I like to feel the fresh air." It was no lie, for it was pleasant when she was not constrained by her underwear. "And I thought... thought you would not... mind."

  "Mm.." More thrumming, a trickle of silence. Then, "I don't."

  As she kept her eyes forward in the direction of the bed in which he slept, the adjacent desk in which he worked, he removed the one hand from her waist and there was a distinct shuffling noise to join the pop and crackle of the hearthside. Upon his return, he lifted the rest of the back of her dress to where she could indeed feel all of the air in which she pleased. But then he settled it down over something, and the sound of the chair thumping back the slightest followed.

  Both his hands were back to her waist, urging her towards him. "Carefully," he said, having given her permission to turn in the slightest lest she tumble. Though when she gazed behind her to watch her step, she noted he'd draped the back of her dress over his legs. Still, all he said was, "Sit."

  Sit carefully.

  She had not the slightest of idea what was going on, though if it pleased him she supposed it stood a chance of pleasing her. She shuffled backwards and he helped in lifting her up, which was odd, as it was not like it had been beside the bath, where he shuffled her over to one leg as they viewed the sketches together, but rather he was guiding her to the centre of him, the textile of his breeches rubbing against the bare backside of her legs.

  Sensing her hesitation, he paused. "It'll be fine, just sit close to me. Slowly."

  She nodded and did as he bid. Moving backwards further still until she was certain she was in the correct position, she began to steadily lower herself onto his lap. And that was when she felt the first prod. There, near to her heat's entrance, the smooth, stiff tip of something just barely glazed over her.

  The gasp of surprise could not be helped. "T-that's not your finger," she giggled.

  A single, low chuckle vibrated from behind her. "No, it is not. Merely a means for us to be closer. Now go on," he said, shifting to grip himself beneath her dress. "All the way down."

  This time, her lips parted, her gaze cast to the dancing flames as she tentatively followed his instruction, beginning to lower herself. The first moan was long and low as she felt him start to burrow inside of her, her walls stretching, still incredibly tight though without the struggle of the first time. She gripped the arms of the chair to steady herself, before she shifted down again, eliciting a hiss from him, his grip on her tightening just barely. She panted, a clipped rise and fall in rhythm to her surprise as pleasure danced close to the shortening thread of pain. Each sharp inhale, however, seemed to consequently make accommodating him easier. Her buttocks eventually reached the plane of his thighs and she settled, feeling impossibly full, her breaths coming in headily.

  "I like being this close," she half whispered, half panted.

  "You do then?" he whispered in turn, her back to his chest, the reverberation mending into an almost scolding heat at her spine. Then she felt his beard against her neck, his head turning an inch to smooth a kiss to her cheek. "Our special closeness, as this in its very essence, I've not done before you."

  There was a joy at being his first for this, just as he had been her first in many things. Delicately, she nudged her cheek against his lips as she giggled. "Just something Tristian and Astrid do. Our special thing." She paused, then suggested, "You should keep me close to you like this all the time. Do you think anyone would notice?"

  "Perhaps not this," His fingers flirted just below her belly to the top of her mound, where he pressed gently, sending a jolt through her. "But they're sure to question your seat atop me while dining—which you've eluded all morning. And now this soup here is cold."

  He pushed the bowl he'd prepared away in exchange for a new one, once more pouring the carafe's red contents into the new dish. It sloshed out hot with little curls of steam rising from it. This close, she could smell the peppers she hadn't before.

  "It's to make sure you remain clear," he informed, but he didn't turn over the spoon to her, rather he shifted forward to have a spoon of it himself.

  She watched him prepare a spoonful and waited for when he decreed it to be her turn. It was unwise to push him, to press for when it might be her turn, or even just to ask him what he was doing, when he had something in mind. He had made it quite clear that he was keen for her to eat and she would. He would not have her grow hungry.

  "Is it nice and hot?" she chose to ask instead. "It smells nice."

  He yielded no response at first, seeming to run the flavour over his tongue once or twice before he sampled a second spoon and decided, "Rather spicy. Tangy." The spoon was then offered to her. "Try it."

  Her fingers closed over his as if to steady the utensil further before she leaned in to close her mouth over the bowl and draw the soup into her mouth.

  He stopped her, his fingers pushing her hair from her face. "Blow it first, Princess Immune to Cold."

  She giggled and supposed he did have a point. It might have been too hot for her, even though he was able to handle the heat. The same rule applied for soup as it did the temperature outside. She made a small ring with her mouth to blow gently upon the spoon, watching the liquid ripple.

  "I think it's cool enough now."

  "Is it then?" he asked in an out of sorts playful tone and she watched as his own mouth closed around the laboured over spoonful. "So it was."

  "Yes it was." She looked from the spoon to him with a slight look of bemusement. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Would you like another spoon?"

  "Not at all," he said. "It tastes disgusting."

  She pursed her lips and gazed at him from beneath her lashes, feeling a burst of confidence through her. "Do you need something sweet to take the taste away?"

  "Perhaps, but what I need more is for you to eat."

  "It will be a second of sweetness and the taste will be gone, I promise. Then I will eat everything you wish to feed me."

  She couldn't be sure, but it seemed the rod lodged inside of her grew the slightest, as though before it'd been obeying for entertainment's sake, but was now fully invested. If anything, the dark cloud to settle over Tristian's gaze was a certain indicator. And if not that, then the nondiscrete way his eyes slowly looked to the bed, contemplating.

  "A second of sweetness if I must," he said bravely.

  "It's not that bad, I promise," she stated before she leaned in to allow their lips to meet. She was as tender as before, but took the time to suck his lower lip between her teeth. The lingering taste of the soup was not too unpleasant, for there was still the underlying flavour of him. Her teeth grazed the flesh either side and she allowed them to remain for but a second as she pulled away. "Better?"

  Slowly, sluggish, his pupils noticeably larger, he shook his head.

  She smiled. "Would you like another taste?"

  A nod.

  The second kiss was the same as before initially, until she sucked harder upon his lip. There was more noise too, though it was hardly a concern, for they were both noisy enough when engaging in more intimate matters than this. She paused for a moment and considered her confidence before she slid her tongue between his teeth and touched the tip of his with her own. The dance of their tongues began immediately, his hold of her from beh
ind firming. The taste of him grew stronger and she supposed he did have a sweetness to him, despite his taste having previously been considered 'savoury'.

  Her hands went to his hair and as light as pattering rain, her fingers smoothed through his beard. It was then she moved in closer and bucked her hips, unintentionally causing him to flinch within her. She broke away and stared down at her skirt, only putting the pieces together of what her movement had caused when she felt a throb.

  She stared at him briefly, he stared in return, and the silence between them only served to encourage her further. With a sudden passion, she moved back to his lips, their tongues coming together in fire and ice, a fiercer dance than before, teasing and pulling away only to come crashing together, twisting and twirling as if they were attracting the most attention on the ballroom floor—and in the space of a heartbeat, he had her folded over the table, a steadied hand right beside her own, the other buried deep in her mane.

  The first thrust sent the tomato soup onto the polished wood with a rather ungraceful clatter, and an even more ungraceful grunt erupted from somewhere deep inside of her. The second jolted her body forward with enough roughness to shift her hair into her face, the long tresses falling... into the second bowl of soup.

  But his fervor stopped with the suddency of death, his body going bolt still behind her. "You're...with child." By the guttural growl to the words, it was apparent how desperately, in that moment, he wished to disregard the fact.

  She was gripping the table's edge when he spoke and at first she wished to declare him Prince Obvious who spoke only obvious things. The ire may have been due to being stopped when she was in the throes of passion, but she knew better than to speak it.

  "Does that repulse you?" she asked in a raspy whisper.

  His lips went to her shoulder, his length sliding out slightly and sending shivers down her spine and to her core. "No. But the child's safety is a concern of mine."

  Her heart was touched at the sentiment, for truly he did care about their baby. She hid her smile and shook her head, for sex would not hurt. Not unless he threw her around the room with the intention of deliberately hurting her when he was preparing to thrust within her.

  "It won't hurt the baby, Tristian."

  Which seemed to be the only encouragement he required before the delicious burying of his shaft resumed with double the passion of before. Between the primitive grunts escaping his lungs and sharp cries of her own upon each impaling, the breakfast didn't survive long. Not that it'd stood a chance to begin with when the prince turned her to face him, and when noticing her hair fall back into the contents, a single sweep of his forearm sent it all to the floors. He throned her in its place atop the table, sinking into her with calmer impetus, his lips feathering over hers, then suckling relentlessly until she was completely heavy-lidded and breathless.

  "This," he murmured. "Is how I like you. Your hair, your eyes, your taste, your closeness..." Another kiss, this one lazily drawn across her cheek, black curls tickling in its wake. "Only thing missing is a smile. Smile for me, Astrid."

  A smile was already playing on her lips when he complimented her. This was the way he liked her, and if she had to be messy, covered in soup and whatever else, then so be it. She looked down lazily as her lips spread into the desired crescent and her eyes creased as she gazed up at him.

  "I am so happy."

  With that, he lifted her and walked her to the bed, laying her across his sheets, mess and all, where he paused only briefly, gazing beside her. Resting near her head atop the adjacent pillow was a thick leather bound book with flowers settled into its spine. It seemed to steal the prince's attention for a number of seconds, creating that distance in his eyes that seemed as far away as valley mountains, and just when it seemed he would certainly withdraw from her folds and become the somber face of before, he simply pushed the well-cared for volume onto the floor and came back to her lips readily.

  She gasped, both from feeling the growing pressure, the one she was so very fond of during their first encounter, and due to her relief that he had not been distracted by a book, albeit a very pretty one. Her hands looped through his curls, tugging and massaging as she dug her nails with a conservative pressure into the area above his nape.

  "I think I'm close," she said breathlessly. How was she to hold on when he moved inside of her with complete disregard of the quaking pleasure building within, adding to it? She could sense her legs tingling, her toes curling in her shoes. "I don't think I can hold it."

  He stopped moving, and she was sure madness would drown her, but the look he beset onto her next through those dark lashes said she would do well to find a way. Then he was moving inside of her again, sliding against the tight knot and aches of pleasure that were cutting away her air supply.

  "Tristian!" She called his name as she was sure she was fit to burst. The force seemed ready to send anything below her hips exploding from her body. Her hands tightened around his curls, though not once did she tug too hard for fear of angering him. "Tristian! I'm trying to hold it... but.... but... it feels like my legs are going to fall off. Tristian!"

  His thrusts had since quickened, his own breaths shortening. He rose up from her grip of his hair, secured her hips in his hands, and said, "Very well then," as he dove into her with merciless pounds.

  Which sent them both shattering in tandem.

  They were a noisy enough pair with their cries, but what did it matter? Their passion was all that mattered as they mingled together, being as close as close could be when their releases mixed, congregating within her. Her back arched and her hands trailed to his upper arms, where she squeezed the almost impossibly hard muscular contours.

  It was only when the final quiver, the final ache had subsided down below that she truly focused on his expression. Half moons dragged down his lids, his lips parted and showing her those teeth she loved, the side incisors slightly pointed. Her own lids felt heavy and she imagined that this was what it was like to be intoxicated.

  "Tristian..." she murmured with a lazy smile. "You know I love you even more now."

  Beads of sweat had formed at his temple, and only when he went down beside her, adjusting his breeches, did she realise they'd both been fully clothed and that she still wore even her shoes. He himself wore a face of inebriation, arm draped over his forehead as he watched her. "And I am more fond of you."

  The blissful aftermath of their time together would not just be temporary it seemed. She shuffled an inch in his direction, just to be closer to him, though as she moved she noted the puddle in which her buttocks seemed to smooth through. Surely his seed was not that plentiful? When her hand trailed down below she noted that it was and curious to examine it further, she swiped her middle finger through the pool. The collected residue carried a glistening appearance and really was terribly pretty.

  She turned her head to find him watching her very closely now. She was then deliberately slow in bringing the finger to her lips where she sucked hard enough to bring her skin tight over her cheekbones. His seed was lapped up until her finger was clean, coated with her own saliva, and she was not surprised to find the taste to be so strong considering the man who had produced it.

  The finger was removed from her mouth with a small 'pop' and she smiled, raising her brows in a light-hearted almost innocent fashion.

  "It's savoury."

  All the while, he'd stared as though in a trance, and at the sound of her voice, the sight of her smile, he reeled in close to her, eyes hungry as he clamoured atop her and in some odd way, his member had managed to stiffen once again, pressing into her thigh as he went in to kiss her.

  Just as he did so, a loud, familiar pound on the door sounded.

  She'd never seen Tristian move as fast as he did in that moment. He leapt from the bed and in what felt like the same heartbeat, he appeared back beside her, the discarded book in hand as he yanked down her dress. In the second heartbeat, Prince Rhenan was standing before them, the door dang
ling wide open behind him.

  He'd been about to say something, but something else seemed to stall his tongue. Wide honey-coloured eyes assessed first the lit fireplace, the ruined affair of the table, spilled soup upon the floors, tumbled platters, drinks, broken glass plates, green vegetables and bread rolls, all in one devastating heap. Slowly, his gaze made its way back to the bed, which was in no better condition with its black sheets and blankets and pillows either strewn any which way or fallen to their death upon the floors.

  Rhenan looked between her and his brother. Then again. Then he looked at her hair. Blinked. And tried speech once more. This time, he succeeded, though she had a feeling his original message had been drastically summarised. "Mama was curious if Astrid would join us. I told her you were probably sleeping. Which was far off the mark apparently."

  Tristian opened his mouth, then cleared his throat. "We were reading."

  "Uh...huh. So.. should I tell her you're schooling the pale lily now?"

  Tristian's face was wiped clean of expression as he waved a hand. "Tell her whatever you please."

  "Considering the environment right now, I don't think you want to allow me that much creativity."

  His brother popped his tongue. "Get out, you parasite."

  Rhenan snorted. "It's not my fault you decided to have a food battle with the girl; which you so clearly lost, Astrid."

  She tried not to make a sound of amusement, even though the banter between the two brothers had tickled her sense of humour. On the contrary, Rhenan, they had both won that 'battle'.

  "I don't mind losing to Prince Tristian," she stated. "He is a kind victor."

  "Do not speak to it, Astrid. It only encourages it to linger." With that, Tristian flung a pillow across the room which Rhenan watched thump against his shoulder, who then shrugged and turned to make his departure, though not before noting, "Your breeches aren't tied, so if you do join us, I'd suggest you fix that. And the lily's hair."