Page 43 of The Maleficent Faerie
He wants the opposite of a woman’s submission. This man who must stay strong, who must always maintain appearances before his people—he longs to lose control. To be broken down and ruled by someone else.
I release his throat and grip his jaw instead, forcing him to look down at me. “You’re not the one in control anymore,” I say softly. “Tell me who is.”
The words change everything. They charge the air between us with lightning, with a scintillating awareness and a naked opportunity. He can resist… or he can yield. My whole body aches with the need for him to bend, to bow, to submit. I need this. I need to take back some measure of power and autonomy, any way I can get it. And I’ve wanted him—fuck, I’ve wanted his body since the minute he dragged me from the royal carriage.
The King releases a shuddering breath. “You’re in control,” he breathes.
Euphoria surges through me. He’s going to play the game.
I’ve been with a couple of men who enjoyed it when I was rough with them verbally and physically during sex. I’m not entirely unused to this kind of thing.
But this isn’t just any man. This is the fucking King of Daenalla, wielder of heretical dark magic, enemy of my people, nemesis of my family. Doing this with him is deeply transgressive. My mothers and my real parents would hate it.
They would hate it so much.
Which is perfect.
A savage, furious glee blazes through me, and I collar the King’s throat again, squeezing until he chokes. His wings flare slightly, and his pupils dilate.
Goddess, he’s beautiful.
Releasing him, I notch a finger in his belt and tug. “Take these off.”
Despite the cuff around his wrist, he manages the task without too much difficulty, thanks to the length of the chain. He unbuckles his belt and slides it off, then shucks off his boots and pulls down the pants. His cock bobs free, a huge shaft, thick and veined. Kicking the pants aside, he stands before me, one wrist chained to the bedpost, dark wings half-extended, his entire lean, muscled body bared to my view.
Wine and wonder mingle in my head, blurring my thoughts in a moment of speechless admiration.
And then his mouth slants up at the corner.
He’s smirking at me. Because I’m staring at his body like a virgin schoolgirl.
I react the way I always react to mockery—with a burst of violence.
I deliver a swift kick to his balls with my bare toes.
He cries out, cupping himself. “Fucking damn you!”
I throw myself at him, bowling him over onto the bed in a tangle of black wings and powerful limbs. His four horns grind along the headboard and shred the pillows as we wrestle on the mattress. My heart pounds like an earthquake, violent enough to rattle my bones.
He’s bucking against me, but not fighting me as fiercely as I know he could. He wants to be ruled by force.
I manage to pin one of his sinewy forearms to the bed—the wrist that wasn’t chained—but his hips buck upward, nearly dislodging me from my place astride his body. I’m not used to fighting like this, with my breasts hanging loose instead of secure in a corset. It’s disconcerting.
“Be still,” I bite out, struggling to pin him down.
“Is that a command, Highness?”
“Yes.”
He stops fighting me. But despite his obedience, I vengefully twist one of his nipples until he gasps with pain.
“What was that for?” he seethes.
“That was for cursing me. Asshole.”
“Bitch.”
I slap him.
