“I need to talk with you,” he said.
That quickly, her eyes took on the same steely quality he’d seen during their last and only other conversation. “Talk then.”
He took a deep breath, reminding himself this discussion was to be about peace. He sat down on her large trunk, now situated at the foot of the bed upon which she rested. “Maven, I’ll speak plainly. Despite the stories you may have heard, I’m not an unreasonable man. I wish to have an agreeable marriage and I would ask that you give that idea a chance.”
A hint of uncertainty, maybe even consideration, passed briefly through her eyes, but then her back went rigid, her voice cold. “You’re marrying me only as a stepping stone to the throne of Caralon.”
“True enough. But nothing says I can’t enjoy my stepping stone and she me.”
“I don’t take pleasure in being used.”
That stood to reason, yet… “You’re a ruler’s daughter—you have no choice in the matter.”
“Having no choice makes me no less offended, and I detest you for expecting me to coo and fawn over you like all of those within your employ.”
For some reason, her words incensed him—and challenged him. Or was it just her manner, the very idea that she continued to be so unyielding, even when he’d attempted to be kind and open with her? Combined with the aching cock barely contained in his pants, her attitude caused his ire to chisel itself into a sharp point. He narrowed his eyes, aware his blood was boiling with anger…and lust. “You will,” he said calmly, firmly. “In fact, you will do more than coo and fawn.”
“I find you repulsive.”
“You will beg,” he informed her with deep, unerring confidence. “You will beg for my touches. You will beg for my cock.”
“Never!” she spat.
“Never is a long time, bride.”
“Never is when I will want you.”
“We’ll see,” he said, then rose and exited the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Impudent little brat. He had a good mind to turn her over his knee and spank her, the same as if she were a child, for that was how she acted. To his surprise, his shaft seemed to stiffen further at the thought of her body stretched face down over his lap, her bare ass accepting the firm slaps of his hand.
Well, he wouldn’t spank her, at least not yet—but she’d just steeled his resolve once more. She would beg him. He would make absolutely, unequivocally certain that by the time he came to her on their wedding night, she would beg. The Maran tiles would assist in that, as in all royal marriages, but for Maven, he would provide even more stimulation.
Let’s see you resist me after the next two days, my virgin bride, he thought triumphantly as he glanced over his shoulder toward the room he’d just left. Then he smiled. He would see her beg for him on her knees, and maybe, just maybe, if she begged and pleaded hard enough, he’d give her the cock she craved.
* * * * *
An hour later, Maven sat on the same bed, in the same spot where Dane had promised her she would beg for him. Never! she declared to herself once again, but in the same instance, her stomach churned with fleeting memories—of his devouring eyes, his large, commanding frame, his utterly immense cock.
Oh Ares, what was she going to do? On one hand, he’d seemed almost reasonable—until he’d started the business about her craving him. Yet on the other, no matter how reasonable he might be, he still intended her to accept being his possession. And a possession that was a means to an end, at that. How could any woman have a happy marriage under such circumstances? Perhaps other royal girls were more accepting, but having been raised in a home where women were treated with respect and dignity, she simply couldn’t make peace with the notion.
Just then, she heard someone giggling, a woman. She glanced toward the narrow window in her first floor room, as the sound had come from outside.
When a masculine chuckle joined the feminine one, Maven grew curious enough to push to her feet and pad to the thin opening in the stone wall, peeking out. At first she saw nothing but flowers, shrubs, a trellis climbing with vibrant yellow roses—clearly it was a garden. But when the giggling continued and the male voice spoke, saying, “What a naughty girl you are,” her gaze was drawn to the left, where an attractive man and woman stood kissing, touching. The woman’s small hand cupped and massaged his bulging crotch.
She’d seen them both as part of the caravan and had been given the impression the man was one of high rank among Dane’s people. Now her heart skittered and her pussy began to tickle as she watched them.
“Does my hand feel good, Kells?” the girl asked.
The man groaned in reply and Maven felt that groan between her thighs. “Get it out,” he instructed.
The girl smiled up at him, then focused her attention on unlacing his pants. Within seconds, a cock nearly as large as Dane’s burst free from the leather.
“Oooh,” the girl said, “I love it. I want to kiss it.” She immediately dropped to her knees and proceeded to kiss a path from the base of his long shaft to the tip.
“Suck me,” he said, all playfulness gone from his voice.
His partner responded without hesitation, lowering her mouth onto the rod.
Maven’s cunt contracted, watching, wondering—could she really do that to Dane? Must she? Equal parts anticipation and trepidation warred inside her. She’d sworn she would never crave him or beg him for anything, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t have to perform the fucking act with him—this included, she presumed.
When she’d first seen Lavonia do it, she’d been overcome with shock, but with her Orientation a few days behind her now, she was able to watch the pretty girl in the garden sliding her lips up and down the handsome man’s shaft with an eye toward technique, skill.
The man named Kells moaned as the girl took him deep, deeper, into her mouth. Maven doubted she’d ever possess that much expertise, but as the sight aroused her, she began to try to envision herself taking Dane’s rod between her lips. What would it feel like to have her mouth filled with something so powerful? Would it make her ill—or would it be more like feasting on some delicious delicacy?
She cringed then—at the analogy. She’d sworn she would never crave him, yet already she was thinking of him like something delicious, just as Lavonia had advised. Stop it! she commanded herself, then focused once more on the lovers in the garden.
Kells had pulled the girl to her feet and now tugged on the leather bodice of her dress until a hook popped free, revealing her breasts. Smaller than Maven’s own, they were nonetheless pert and pretty, the girl’s pale pink nipples hard. Kells closed his hands over both, squeezing and massaging until she moaned.
“Fuck me,” she said softly. “Fuck me right here in the grass.” She lay down beneath the rose trellis and lifted her dress to her waist.
Kells groaned at the sight and dropped to his knees between her spread legs. He bent over, delivering one long, slow lick to the whole length of her bared pussy, then slid his shaft inside her so smoothly that Maven didn’t quite believe it had actually gone in until she heard the girl say, “Mmm, your cock fills me so well.”
“And your lovely pussy swallows it so easily,” he replied, beginning to thrust inside her.
Maven absently reached down to press her hand over her breast, finding her nipple pointed and erect. Ares, why does watching sex feel like torture? So many feelings swirled inside her that she could scarcely understand them.
As Kells drove his shaft into the girl again and again, his movements becoming harder, harsher, Maven’s free hand ventured down beneath the short dress she wore, between her thighs. She wasn’t surprised to find herself wet there, yet the sensation on her fingers and skittering through her body still shocked her. She’d grown to want sex so badly these past days—but not with Dane.
Perhaps with anyone but Dane. Donnell. Or this man before her now. Ares above, she’d sooner writhe around with the pretty girl beneath Kells than with her husban
d-to-be.
Truthfully, he was not repulsive to her physically. It was all that their marriage stood for that repelled her so deeply. That, and fear. Of that enormous cock. Of how forcefully he might fuck. Despite the calm tones she’d heard him use, the fiercer ones that always followed assured her he would be the same ruffian in bed that she’d heard he was in other aspects of life.
Outside, Kells’ tempo grew more and more wild until finally he let out a mighty groan, lunging against his partner one, two, three times—before slumping over on her in rest.
“Mmm, lover, was it good?” the girl asked.
Maven barely heard Kells’ quiet answer. “Astounding.”
To her surprise, something made her stop touching herself then. Because they were done? Because fear of Dane had squelched some of her arousal?
She tried to convince herself those were the reasons, but deep inside she knew it was something else.
She was to be married tomorrow, after all. She was to join Dane in his bed tomorrow night.
She still didn’t want to fuck him—certainly not. But if she had to, well then…something inside told her she may as well just let her next orgasm be one delivered the more traditional way, by someone else, rather than by her own hand.
It had nothing to do with wanting it to come from Dane, she told herself once more for good measure—no, nothing to do with that at all.
It was about…tradition. Yes, tradition. Lavonia had told her fucking came with many ancient urges and traditions and that, ideally, your partner should make you come. And just because Maven didn’t believe in the traditions surrounding royal marriage didn’t mean she didn’t believe in the traditions of sex.
That was the only reason she was saving her next orgasm for Dane. The only reason.
* * * * *
Dane lay on his bed comfortably watching the two maids travel back and forth into his chamber with ewers of hot water, slowly filling his bathing tub. Dahlia and Ofran were both pretty young women in their twenties, a few years younger than himself, and both had pleasured him on more than one occasion.
“Dahlia,” he said to the raven-haired girl, “before your next trip, summon my bride here.”
Looking up from where she poured the water, Dahlia quirked a small smile. “Before the wedding, master?”
Clearly, it was possible to wear impudence much better than Maven had—one, like Dahlia, could even make it appealing. He knew he should reprimand her for the question, but her flirtatious smile was all it took to quell his complaint. He simply returned her amused expression. “Don’t worry, I can wait until tonight to take her virginity.”
“Then for what purpose—?”
His smile faded. “That is not you’re concern. Just summon her.” He’d given her an inch and she’d taken much more. He should have chastised her in the first place. Still, the fact that he hadn’t, that he’d been momentarily won over by a bit of flirtation, made him all the angrier at his bride. All it would take from her would be a smile, a kind word, and he’d feel so much more lenient toward her, so much more forgiving.
But she was such a stubborn little innocent that he didn’t expect to see a smile from her anytime soon—so his methods of torturing her would continue. Yesterday he’d sent Kells and Lonya into the garden outside her window, knowing full well she’d be too bored and curious to resist looking out. According to his friend, Maven’s eyes had been seen at the narrow window for the length of their encounter. Surely her pussy had been left humming with desire and her mind spinning with curiosity about sex. One couldn’t know exactly what her Orientation had entailed—that was a very private business—but whether or not she’d actually been trained by example, he felt confident that watching Kells and Lonya had heightened all the longings that had surely been brewing for some time in a ripe virgin of bride’s age.
Now he would take his sensual torture a step further.
He lay with his hands propped behind his head, his feet crossed at the ankles, when a soft knock came on the door. “Enter,” he said.
Maven came in dressed casually, wearing a fitted tunic of pale tan leather and a short skirt of thin fur. As always, her hair was braided behind her head—he looked forward to seeing it down around her shoulders later tonight.
She shifted her gaze from him to the tub, looking as belligerent as usual. “What is this?”
“It’s a bathing tub. An artifact certainly, but surely a wealthy ruler like Enrick owns one or two.”
She let out a small huff. “I know what it is, but…why am I here?”
He sat up on the bed and removed his own leather tunic over his head. “As it is our wedding day,” he said, “I’m going to bathe.” Only then did he look her squarely in the eye, unconcerned if a hint of amusement shone in his gaze. “I want you to watch.”
She flinched. “Why?”
He simply smiled as he pushed to his feet and reached down to begin undoing his pants’ lacings. “I thought this would be a good opportunity for you to become acquainted with my body. We’re to be married, you know. I thought this might make tonight less jarring for you.”
She blinked, looking outraged. “I saw your…” She stopped, clearly unbalanced. He couldn’t have enjoyed it more. “Well, I saw enough of you at the Giving Ceremony and am in no rush to see you again.”
He grinned. “Too bad. And the Giving Ceremony was too brief. I want you to see all of me, Maven. I want you to look your fill. When I take your virginity tonight, I want you to be ready for me.”
She lowered her chin defiantly. “I will never be ready for you, never want you. Ever.”
“So you keep saying. But if that’s the case, then it shouldn’t bother you to sit and watch me bathe. So sit.” He pointed to a chair positioned near the tub. “And watch.” He’d added a commanding tone to the instruction and now waited as she decided whether or not to disobey.
After a few seconds’ hesitation, she seated herself in the chair and scowled at him. He took the opportunity to push down his pants, revealing his erection, still rock hard.
She gasped at the sight, and he couldn’t resist a grin. “Like what you see, my little bride?”
She clearly tried—and failed—to look aloof and unconcerned. “Not particularly. I’ve seen better.”
He gave his head an inquisitive tilt. “Seen a great many cocks, have you?”
He liked the blush that climbed her cheeks, even though she attempted to sound worldly when she answered. “During my Orientation. And…actually, I saw one just yesterday. In your garden.”
He nodded slightly, as if that were commonplace, then said, “Despite how many you may have seen, I’d wager you’ve seen none as big as mine.”
As he’d hoped, the words drew her gaze back to his shaft—rising hard from the nest of hair between his legs, a gleam of moisture shining on its head. He stroked it lightly while she watched.
Yet she only shrugged and refused to answer.
“Well, my little virgin, whether or not you like my cock, you will be getting to know it. So whether or not you want to, you will watch me bathe.”
With that, he kicked off his pants and strode to the ancient white tub, stepping into the warm water. He sensed her tensing now that he’d moved nearer, and he took his time sitting down, to give her a good long perusal of his stiff shaft.
He’d ordered the bathing tub to be filled to a depth from which his rod would still be quite visible, so even after he’d reclined, he knew she would not be able to resist looking.
Once in the tub, he reached for a sea sponge and lathered it with a square of soap, then unhurriedly began to wash himself. First, he slowly dragged the soapy sponge across his chest, aware when trails of bubbles began to run down over his stomach, then around his cock. He didn’t look up from his task, but felt his young, rebellious bride watching—unable to help herself.
He made leisurely work of moving the sponge down the length of his arm, his skin subtly beginning to tingle at the gradual motions. Despit
e himself, he was getting aroused, too—well, even more aroused than his constant erection of the past days kept him. He was imagining her in a bathing tub, imagining the sponge passing over her silky white skin.
He bent one knee up from the water, slowly washing over top of it and beneath, then sliding the sponge up his inner thigh, letting it linger over each inch of his skin. He’d never actually thought to have a woman watch him bathe before, and it was more erotic than he’d imagined. He only hoped it was having the same effect on her.
Finally, he swept the sponge in a lingering circle around his cock, making certain to get the length of it soapy, and enjoying the sensation that edged up through him as he performed the task in a most time-consuming manner.
He found himself wanting to keep moving the sponge over his engorged rod, wanting to caress himself until he came. How much would that excite her? he wondered. Or—he thought with a silent chuckle—would it send his virgin bride shrieking from the room?
But no, he’d waited this long for her. Despite her insolence—or maybe even because of it—he wanted to give her everything he had, every ounce of seed that was building up inside him. He wanted to fuck her with the power of all these days and nights of self-torture, and before that happened he wanted to make her beg for it.
He bit his lip to quell the rise of passion inside him as he drew the sponge away from his shaft, then lifted his gaze to her for the first time since he’d begun washing. She darted her eyes away from his cock. He tried not to grin as he looked back down to begin rinsing the soap suds from his body.
When he stood up in the tub, water sluicing from his skin, she flinched, drawing his gaze. This time, however, she didn’t look away from his nudity. Couldn’t, he guessed. The knowledge made him want to erupt that much more, but tonight was their wedding, he reminded himself. Soon enough he would have the quarrelsome girl, soon enough he would sink his agonized shaft into her warm virgin cunt.
“I seem to have forgotten a drying cloth,” he said, then pointed toward a rack the maids had placed next to the tub, but which he’d moved farther away before Maven’s arrival. “Hand one to me.”
Rituals of Passion (Brides of Caralon, Book One) Page 8
