Page 165 of Their Princess

“I am a monster.” He shrugged.

I eyed him. Sas was many things, and at one time, I would’ve thought he was a monster. I knew better.

“You’re not,” I murmured.

Throwing back his head, he laughed. “Careful what you wish for, princess.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and jutted my hip. “What does that mean?”

“It means my name is Simeon Tate.” Then he stepped back, holding out his hands.

“What’s wrong with that name?” I asked.

I liked it, though I wasn’t sure if it fit him. It was certainly better than Sasquatch. And Tate would be my last name someday.

Adelina Tate. Kind of boring. Very abrupt. It was missing a flare, but I guessed Simeon made up for it.

“It’s not me.” He backed all the way across the room. “My turn.”

He had that devilish look back in his eyes, and it usually meant he was about to become a royal pain in my ass. My problem now was that the look also sent a thrill through me. My knees quaked, and my breath hitched in my throat.

“For what?” I asked.

“The tit-for-tat.” He rubbed his hands together. “You got an answer. Now I want something.”

“As long as it’s not an orgasm,” I dryly reminded him.

He smiled broadly. “Trust me, I’m not the one who needs to come.”

I stiffened, unsure where this was going. It left me scared, especially as he pointed the forefinger that had once been inside me to the floor.

“Crawl to me,” he said.

“Crawl?” I asked, like I didn’t quite hear him because, well . . . what the fuck did he just say? “That’s not tit-for-tat. I just asked you a question.”

“Crawl to me,” he repeated. “Like the good princess you are.”

I shook my head. I wasn’t fucking doing that. I wasn’t a baby. Or his bitch. I started for the door but knew I wouldn’t be able to escape easily. I had to move a fucking lounge chair out of the way, and he would stop me.

“If you walk out that door,” he threatened, “you’ll never come again. Not from me. Graff. Or any brother in the MC.”

Looking down, I considered it and weighed my options. I was crazy for even thinking about this. And especially for lowering to my knees with my hands flat on the floor. The skirt of my dress flaring even more. Immediately, the rough carpet dug into my shins.

Sas slapped his thighs, calling me over like a dog as he said, “Come on. Come get your orgasm.”

Yes, my orgasm. I wanted to come, and I wanted him to make me. With each step—hand and knee, hand and knee—my thighs rubbed against one another. Friction slipped across my swollen pussy lips and my clit. I could’ve come now, but when I glanced up at Sas from under my eyelashes, I really knew I would never come on his cock or fingers if I orgasmed now.

I swallowed and focused on the pattern on the carpet. When I stopped at his feet, I raised my head to face him, and Sas reached down and brushed my hair behind my ear. I waited for him to pat me on my head like a proper bitch.

“What do you want now?” he asked.

“My orgasm,” I said without a second thought.

“So needy.”

Having done what he demanded, I tried to push up to my feet. And the ass put his hand on my head, keeping me down. I clenched my jaw. What did the bastard want from me now?

“Take off your dress,” he said.

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