Page 35 of Eden's Deliverance

Roleplay isn’t usually my thing, but this is hot as fuck.

The way he looks—the way he’s looking at me—with his dark, curly locks falling into his eyes, is enough to make me want to cover my face and hide. I’ll give him one thing; he may not have that ferality I loved from Casanova, but he isn’t lacking intensity.

The Prince looks at me like he wants to devour me; body and soul.

As if reading my mind, he rips my top down, folding it over the bodice I’m wearing. When he licks the path between my breasts, I arch my back and rise into him, chasing his tongue with an embarrassingly whiny yelp before the diaphragm returns to my chest.

The pleased hum he releases tells me that my heart must be fucking pounding—not that I couldn’t tell, myself. I’m hanging off the edge of my seat, desperate for his touch.

I’m lost in the reverence of his affection, throwing my head back with eyes shut tight, soaking in the feel of his hands and lips on my breasts as they skate across my skin. From my collarbone to my shoulder, from my sternum to throat, he trails kisses across the expanse of my chest.

When I feel his hot breath covering my nipple, I gasp, rising to watch him suck the hardening bud with heavy-lidded eyes. He’s already glaring at me through his lashes, and when our eyes meet, it only spurs him on.

His tongue dances frantically across my nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, biting hard enough that my entire body wriggles like there’s electricity coursing through it.

My hips act on their own and buck up into him, seeking any kind of friction to ease the aching want between my thighs. But he doesn’t stop. “Please, please, please, pl—”

He shushes me, crawling up to whisper in my ear, and I’m grateful for the show of mercy on my throbbing nipple. “I’ll check on that next, don’t worry. Be a good girl. Patience.”

Good girl.

It’s not an uncommon phrase—especially not here, I’m sure. But now there’s no keeping Casanova out of my head. Not while The Prince nibbles on my earlobe, or when he licks into my ear with his hot, wet tongue, forcing goosebumps to span across my neck. Not when he kisses my throat, sucking on the skin as his lips trail a path down my chest. Not when he slides down the bed, grabbing the outside of my thighs tightly while his face dips underneath the hem of my skirt. Not when his tongue makes contact with my clit, or when his fingers enter me with a force that rattles my whole body.

No.

Nothing is keeping Casanova from creeping to the forefront of my mind and out of the deep chasm he was locked away in. I could almost imagine that it’s him in The Prince’s place, buried between my thighs.

But the tongue movements aren’t quite the same, nor is the grip on my thighs quite as demanding or controlling.

If I tried enough, I could imagine him standing here, watching with rage as The Prince eats my pussy like a starving man. My eyes drift towards the door,fantasy fresh in mind, attempting to conjure the image of him to fuel the fire burning in my core.

It takes me a second to adjust, unsure whether I’m going crazy or if my imagination is just that fucking good. The room is dark aside from the dim light of the LED strips lining the ceiling, but if I squint hard enough, I swear I can see someone.

The door is cracked a few inches, but I barely remember entering the room so I’m not sure if The Prince left it that way. I don’t know why he would, but who knows?

A small movement—a hand rising to press a finger to a pair of lips, signaling for me to keep quiet—is all I need to clear up the confusion. Someoneiswatching us. I can’t see their face or costume through the darkness, but do I really need to?

It’s him. Like a fucking manifestation of my sick fantasy, he’s here watching The Prince go down on me.

I could blame it on the precision of his tongue or the strategic curl of his fingers, but truthfully, it’s the desire to taunt Casanova that motivates me to put on the best show of my life. My fingers tangle into his hair, hips rising and falling as I command his mouth and close my thighs around his ears to trap him there.

But my eyes never leave the man in the doorway.

When the finger against his lips transforms into a tightened fist, I know it’s working. Looking back on this night, I’ll have to remind myself it was supposed to be The Prince’s skilled tongue that drove me over the edge, not the prospect of finally breaking Casanova.

Oh well, whatever gets the job done. I crumble in pieces, throwing my head back with a shrill cry as the orgasm washes over my body.

The bed shifts and I hear the faint sound of a zipper, then The Prince’s hands are prying my thighs apart to open me up for him. I’m so ready for it, aching to be filled with more than his fingers, but before he can even position himself between my legs, a blaring alarm echoes through the room. It doesn’t take a genius to make out the source of flashing white lights and aggressive racket.

The motherfucker set off the fire alarm.

I’m halfway to dragging The Prince in by the neck for a kiss—because fuck that asshole if he thinks he’s going to stop me from getting laid—but he won’t have it. He doesn’t know it’s a fluke. He doesn’t know it’s some fucking power play to hurt me.

Being the gentleman that he is, he corrects my top so my tits are covered back up, reties the cape around the base of my throat, then rushes me into the bar area.

Everyone but me is in an utter panic, running towards the exits while the staff does their best to herd them all to safety. Casanova is nowhere to be seen, otherwise he’d be getting a faceful of fist right about now.

The rage bubbling inside me is so fierce, and I have to seriously fight the urge to break the club’s rule of anonymity. All I want right now is to take The Prince home and get fucked properly in a safe, private place where we can’t be interrupted.

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