Page 44 of The Maleficent Faerie
His cheek reddens from the blow, and because he looks so beautiful that way I smack his other cheek. He growls a protest, low in his throat. The power of his tense body beneath me sends a flood of frenzied arousal through my belly.
I stand up on the bed, careful not to step on any of his wing bones. He goes utterly still, staring at me with ravenous lust in his dark eyes.
I discard my last scrap of clothing and toss it away.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispers.
A tiny thrill chases through my clit at the praise.
“Will you do something?” He speaks thickly, reluctantly, as if he wants something terribly but he hates himself for asking. “Put your foot on my neck.”
“Gladly.” Holding onto the bedpost and placing my left foot carefully so as not to hurt his wing, I plant my right foot on his throat.
“Shit, yes, little viper.” His cock jerks and his eyes roll up; he’s panting, his stomach flexing with each gasp. Relief and desperation churn in his gaze. “Tell me how much you hate me.”
“I despise you,” I grit out, pressing my toes more firmly against his warm skin. “I hate you for cursing me. I hate you for the twisted way you worship my goddess. I hate you for your demented attempt to control the Void and turn it into magic. I hate the way you think you know best for everyone in this realm, and the way you believe you’re better than my people, my teachers and my rulers.”
He gazes up at me, looking as pretty and pliant as he did in the forest. He’s not truly helpless, of course; he’s incredibly powerful. He could grab my ankle, throw me down, and snap my neck. He’s letting me do this because he needs it, because he’s in pain, like me. Pain, so much pain—
“I hate you for breaking the glamour and unveiling my real self,” I say hoarsely. “I hate that you’ve stolen away everything I once believed. I hate that you’ve made me question my faith. I hate you for showing me the lies of the people I loved and trusted. I hate you for being the only one who has told me the truth.”
The tender concern in his eyes—I can’t bear it. I push his jaw with my foot, knocking his head aside so he can’t look at me.
“Tell me you hate me, too,” I order.
“I hate you for making me crave your admiration, your touch, your glance,” he says, low. “I hate how my fucking body turns traitor in your presence. I hate the way I’m ravenous for your soft skin, your strength, your passion—I want it enveloping me, swallowing me whole. I hate you because you remind me of my own arrogance and idiocy, of the failings that drove me to speak the curse. I could have found another way, a better way. I was a fool.” He turns his face back toward me. “And I hate you for not hating me enough. For not being merciless, for not killing me in the forest, when you set that blade to my throat.”
I switch positions, settling astride his chest, riding the swell of his breath. My thumbnail strokes along his jugular vein. “I could fix that. I could kill you now.”
His eyes darken. “I won’t stop you.”
Angrily I slap his cheek—a light smack this time. “Quit asking to die.”
“Why does it upset you?”
“Because—I—” I blow out a frustrated breath. “Stop talking.”
“Make me.” He lowers his dark lashes, blinking at me slowly, insolently. Then he runs his tongue across his lips, a suggestive wet glide.
“If I sit on your face,” I say, breathless, “you won’t be able to talk.”
“True.” A spark of rabid excitement leaps into his eyes.
My stomach jumps and thrills, but I refuse to let him know what the idea does to me, how it terrifies and exhilarates me at the same time. Instead, I lift my chin in my most haughty, royal manner. “Ask me nicely.”
“Please, Princess.” His deep voice vibrates through his chest into my body. “Please sit on my face.”
16
I don’t care that my wings are awkwardly pinned beneath me, or that my horns are tearing up the mattress, or that my magic is suppressed by the bluesteel shackle.
My entire body and brain are celebrating the fact that Aura is kneeling astride my face. That the shining lips of her sex are hovering over my mouth. That I can see her clit, a small bit of pink flesh, the part I’ll need to tend with special care. Her inner thighs are glazed with the glistening evidence of how much I arouse her.
But she hesitates, murmuring breathlessly, “What am I doing?”
Oh goddess—is she reconsidering? If she doesn’t let me taste her, I think I will die.
And yet, I don’t want her to do this because of the wine. I want her to choose this act because she needs it as much as I do.
