Page 58 of The Traitor's Curse
But that couldn’t happen. Not until I’d saved his life, and perhaps not even then. But certainly not until I knew he’d be alive to apologize and hold me close.
“I’m glad,” he said. “Even if you don’t mean it. It’s kind to let me die thinking you don’t. Lucian, listen to me, there’s something else I need to—”
“No.” I pushed up on my knees again.
Benedict blinked at me. “No? Yes. Lucian, I need to—”
“And I said no. No more confessions.” I rose up on my knees, caught at the hem of my tunic, and yanked it up, pulling it over my head and flinging it away. It left my hair a curly,tousled mess, and I shoved it out of my eyes. “Anything else can wait. Unless you also killed Fabian. Actually, that can wait, too. At this point I don’t even care, and I don’t think you did, because whoever murdered him almost certainly knew about Tavius.”
And knew Fabian’s corroboration would be necessary to get Tavius on the throne, and who therefore wouldn’t have killed Fabian unless he wanted Tavius’s claim to fail. That thought teased at me, something that had to be pursued, but not now. I didn’t have the time. Benedict didn’t have the time.
He stared up at me, mouth dropping open, as I whipped my shirt over my head and sent it sailing after the tunic. Despite everything, I couldn’t help the frisson of power and pleasure it gave me that he seemed struck dumb by the sight of my body. No one had ever looked at me like that when I took off my shirt.
“I didn’t kill Fabian,” he said as I reached for my trouser buttons. “I have no idea who did. But you don’t want to do this. You have to let me tell you—”
“Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you,” I said, with a lot more bravado than I felt, and shoved my trousers down over my hips. “And lie down on your back. The floor’s not the most pleasant, but I don’t think I’m strong enough to get you on the bed again. And I think I need to do the work this time.”
Benedict shuddered, and he leaned over for a moment, breathing deeply. “Fuck. I need—you. Lucian, I needyou.” He slid down, rolled, and fell onto his back on the floor. “If I didn’t think I might die before you finished, I’d tell you to come up here and shut my mouth with that pretty cock.”
He fumbled with his own trousers, made a frustrated sound, and tore them open, ripping the placket and sending the buttons flying.
It was my turn to stare. His rampant cock had flushed eggplant-purple at the head, and the veins stood out along the thick shaft.
Benedict’s ragged, bitten-off moan pulled me out of my fascination. “Please,” he said. “Fuck, Lucian, please, the curse is—I can’t, I can’t—”
“It’s all right, I will, I promise,” and I kept on talking, reassuring him the best I could, and I’d gotten my shoes and all my clothes off, but—fuck, I’d need oil. Something. “Benedict, can you slick me up? Like you did before.” I leaned down over him. “Benedict!”
He only moaned again, arching his back, one hand on his cock now, stroking and squeezing as if he meant to throttle it.
Stupid, I was so stupid, of course he couldn’t use magic under the influence of the potion. If he could, he’d have done it long before now, and he’d die while I fumbled about at this rate. Sweat damped my temples and beaded on my spine as I jumped up and went to his dressing table, rummaging until I found something likely. I pulled the stopper and sniffed. A hint of rosemary. Something for his hair, probably, the vain bastard, but it’d do well enough.
I dropped down beside him, cursing as he tried to roll onto his side and curl around the pain. I shoved him back over and straddled him. Gods, this would have to be quick, and probably it’d hurt. Oil spattered everywhere as I poured it liberally all over my hand, with more dripping down my thighs as I forced two fingers inside myself, wincing at the suddenness of it. Benedict had fucked me only last night, but it felt like years in every way except for the lingering soreness I hadn’t had time to recover from.
If this worked, I’d never recover from his cock again. He’d have me every day, perhaps more than once, and unless I wanted to let him die in agony like this, I’d never have a choice again.
Benedict would belong to me forever.
And I to him. Because I never would let him die. Even if I found I did hate him and couldn’t forgive him after all, evenif he betrayed me or hurt me or killed the rest of my relatives—though two seemed like more than enough to be getting on with—I wouldn’t abandon him.
That shook me to the core, and I stopped, frozen with two fingers stretching my hole, Benedict writhing beneath me and my heart galloping frantically.
Of course, he wouldn’t have a choice either. Perhaps he didn’t now, except…he’d said he needed me.
So had I. I’d admitted it first, in fact, and no revelations about my father’s death could change that. It might make me a terrible son and a terrible person—but no one had ever accused me of being soft or sentimental.
Except perhaps when it came to him, gods. I leaned down and pressed my lips to his in a quick, desperate kiss, carrying the warmth and taste of him with me for strength as I grasped his cock and guided it between my cheeks.
I lowered myself down, letting out small moans with every incremental push, until his cockhead popped in and wedged inside me.
Fuck, but it was big, and I had to lean my hands on his chest and let my head hang down, catching my breath.
Benedict groaned and bucked his hips, thrusting up into me, and it was too much, too much, I needed to adjust to the stretch of him—but he reached up and grasped me around the waist.
My head came up, my eyes probably wide as saucers, meeting his—which were open again, glittering, and fixed on me with a look in them that might have frightened me if I’d had the time to spare for fear.
“Benedict, wait,” I gasped, but he only bared his teeth at me and slammed me down, thrusting up to meet me, impaling me so deeply I couldn’t draw enough breath to cry out.
And then he lifted me, suspended me there while Isquirmed on his cock, kicking my feet against the floor in a desperate bid for leverage…
