Page 32 of The Traitor's Curse
“Feel free,” he said.
And if he sounded angry, good. That’s what I’d wanted. Not his lying tenderness that he apparently spread all over the city every time he paid a whore. Did he expect praise for his noblesse oblige? What an ass.
I breathed as deeply and slowly as I could, keeping perfectly still as Benedict stood up and then leaned back down again, this time with his cock bare and pushing between my thighs.
He lined himself up, pressing the head against my hole until it forced me open, popping inside.
Even after being fucked that morning and thoroughlyprepared with his fingers and mouth a few minutes before, the stretch took my breath away. I bit my lip and braced myself as best I could, not resisting, moving with him as he started to thrust. Benedict’s breath echoed harshly, the rhythmic underpinning to the symphony of the slap of his balls against my ass, the creak of the bed frame, the wet sound of his cock driving into my body.
As he’d promised, he seemed to be trying to go easy on me, but at last he lost control and pounded into me, the arm braced near my head rigid with strain and the other hand gripping my hip possessively and holding me in place for him to take. I felt every inch of him, lighting me up on the inside, ripples of sensation radiating out from where he filled me.
He groaned, stiffened, and stilled. This time, perhaps because it hadn’t been long enough since the last for his magic’s curse to build up its strength, I only felt the faintest frisson of something otherworldly along with the hot spurts of Benedict himself.
But it was more than enough to make me gasp and clench around him, a final spasm of pleasure that wrung me out and left me utterly limp.
Every cell in my body hummed with the aftermath of what he’d done to me, my mind floating away on the tide.
Benedict pulled out, leaving me hollow and soaked and shaking.
“Come on, Lucian,” he said, and started to tug at my dressing gown where it still clung to my shoulders. “Get under the covers.”
“Bath,” I mumbled. “So sticky.”
But I couldn’t quite get my eyes open, catching snippets of the dim room from under my eyelashes: the bedposts, a flicker of dying candlelight reflecting from the mirror on the wall, the shadowy ceiling. And I certainly couldn’t do much with mylimbs, which flopped every which way.
Benedict wrestled my other arm out of its sleeve and tossed the ruined garment on the floor, rolling me into the bed and folding a blanket over me. It settled like a cloud, wrapping me in warmth, and the mattress and pillows rose up to embrace me.
“I’m still sticky,” I said into one of them.
A moment later Benedict slipped into bed behind me. He’d stripped the rest of his clothes, and he curled his body around mine, hard chest bracing my back, muscular thighs lined up with mine, and his cock slipping between my cheeks as if awaiting another opportunity. Gods, but he was big, and warm, and solid, and when his arm wrapped around me I went boneless, melting into the bed.
And into his embrace, gods help me.
He spread his hand over my stomach and went still.
This time I knew to expect his magic, the unfurling of delicate ribbons of tiny cold pinpricks, dancing through me and taking away the sweat and spend and the wine I’d spilled on myself halfway through supper.
“Better?” he asked me, and kissed my hair.
No. So much worse, because as much as I’d wanted to I hadn’t hated the way he’d taken his pleasure with my body so quickly and carelessly. I’d loved every moment of it. And when he inevitably took me again when we woke in the morning, I’d want that, too.
Unless I could persuade him to go away. I could take my chances with assassins. Surely they wouldn’t try again so soon after the last attempt.
“You could sleep on the floor,” I said. “Or the sitting room sofa.”
Benedict’s low laugh rumbled through my back as he pulled me closer, snugging me against his body so tightly I couldfeel every hard inch of him.
If I could stay awake a moment or two longer, I could compose the most scathing response to that offensive laugh…but I slid into sleep between one mental insult and the next.
Chapter Eleven
Coming to consciousness the next morning made me feel as if I’d entered some alternate reality. To begin with, Benedict woke me long before the winter sun even thought about crawling over the horizon.
Fabian had used to rouse me by clearing his throat and rattling the curtain rings along the rods in a purposefully jarring way.
Benedict’s methods were equally startling, at least to a man like me who’d always been alone in his bed—but they were far more rousing. His hand sliding down to stroke my cock, and the other, that he’d slipped under my pillow in the night so that my head rested on his arm, curling around to rest across my throat, keeping my upper body arched back into his. A whisper of magic, and more summoned oil slicked my hole, Benedict’s cock already rampantly erect and pushing into me. Trying to move only bucked me into his hand and then back to impale myself on his length, and both of his hands tightened, the pressure around my windpipe cutting off the whimper I might have let out as he squeezed the base of my cock just this side of too firmly.
Neither of us said a word. I reached up and caught my hands around his forearms, anchoring myself, and he drove inside me, using me as if he owned me, as if I were his bedslave and not just his blackmailed whore.
