Page 43 of The Gambler's Prize
“My trousers,” he pants. “Please.”
With one hand I unbutton them for him and then go back to holding his arms. He gets forceful. Rubbing himself against me without shame.
“I need more,” he breathes. “Talk dirty to me.”
Fuck. Might as well go all in now. I dip my face close to his, close to those soft, soft lips.
“Dirty? You like that?” I say.
He nods, sunburned nose brushing mine. His skin smells like salt and very expensive soap and red dirt.
“How’d I know?” I say, voice hoarse with lust. And some annoyance. He’s still Lord Florian, after all. Still a pain in the ass. “Maybe I should take you into town and report you to the authorities for slacking off. Rubbing yourself against me instead of working like I pay you for.”
“Barelypay me for,” he mutters with a flash of sulky defiance on his lips.
I tighten my grip on his forearms until he winces. “Careful,” I whisper. “Don’t push me too far.”
The threat brings fire rushing to his eyes. He bites his lip. My cock throbs with need.
“What would happen to me if you reported me, Boss?” he says.
I press my hardness against his thigh, close to his cock but not touching. Teasing him. “You’d be taken to the town square for punishment.”
He grinds harder against me until it almost hurts. Like he’s trying to meld our bodies. His pretty pink lips are bright red now, those innocent eyes hungry.
“How does that work?” he says.
I want to dip my mouth to his lips and steal the last of his breath, but I hold back. Kissing is too soft, too intimate.
“First they’d tie your hands,” I say. “Shove your head down. Make you put that ass up in the air. And then you’d be whipped in front of the whole town.”
He moans. Friction sears against my thigh. He ruts against me like an animal in heat. I drink it in like a man who hasn’t drunk in days. Like I’m in a daze. But I remember to move my cloak aside so his precum soaks only my shirt, which is easier to wash. What the fuck am I doing? My enemy’s precum is all over me. Do I plan to stop? No fucking way.
“Who would administer the whipping?” he says. “The city guards?”
I laugh softly, making a painful effort to sound cool and in control. “Not a chance. As your master, the honor would fall to me.”
His eyes flash at the wordmaster. His breathing gets dangerously fast. He pushes himself against me like it’ll save his life. Hot little grunts come from his throat, going straight for my cock. I hold myself back from going farther, body burning up with the effort. Florian, not so much. He lets out a moan, long and low and filthy as a whorehouse. His eyes close. Warm wetness seeps into my shirt. His eyes pop open again in a moment. They zero in right on mine with disconcerting affection.
“You’re amazing at dirty talk,” he says. “How’d you think up all that on the spot?”
I raise myself up so that my erection isn’t pressing into him. It’s late to play cool now, but I try.
“I didn’t think anything up,” I say. “A public whipping is exactly what happens when a master complains about an indentured servant.”
“Really? You could have me whipped anytime?”
“Of course.”
He thinks about it. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I know you’d never do that to me.”
His eyes close again. Satisfied. I’m still pent-up and mad about it, sweat trickling under my hood, my swollen cock torturing me.
“Anyway, I’m not really into pain,” he adds dreamily. “Light spanking only.”
Why is he talking about what he’sintoas though it’s any concern of mine?
“Florian,” I snap.
