Page 12 of Spearcrest Prince

I’ve never begged before—I’ll never beg again. But in this moment, begging feels like the right thing to do. In this moment, I’d get on my knees and do anything he asked.

His response is immediate and more satisfying than anything I could have expected. He lets out a sharp sigh like a growl, his mouth finds my neck, and he kisses a wet line up to my jaw.

And then he does. Exactly. What. I. Asked.

His touch is confident yet tender. He strokes me first over the fabric of my panties, featherlight friction to drive me insane. I grind into his touch, craving more. It’s been a while, and Spearcrest has been so lonely. And this guy, in spite of his pretty boy looks and his rich kid outfit, knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s not the first person I’ve hooked up with at a party, but he’s the first to get me this close to climax this fast.

When he pushes the fabric of my panties aside, I let out a keening whimper. His fingers slide between the wet folds of my pussy, and my hips buck against him, pushing back against his hard cock. A breathy laugh slips from his mouth, the wind of it sending strands of my hair flying against my cheek.

“Ah, so you really do like this,” he whispers.

His tone is cocky, and I’d find it obnoxious if his arrogance wasn’t so justified. I press my hips back against him, pushing impatiently.

“Are you sure?” he asks. The cockiness disappears from his voice, replaced by an earnestness that makes me shiver.

I nod. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom. Biting down on one corner, he pulls, ripping open the packet. His weight lifts from me, and I wait, my heart a deafening beat echoing through my body. I hope it’s loud enough to drown out the logical, sensible part of my brain, which is insisting I’m making a mistake.

“Hurry,” I mutter against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut.

“So eager.” Green-Eyes chuckles. Though his voice still drips with confidence, there’s excitement in it, too. And impatience that matches mine. He lowers his head to mine, kissing my cheek. “What’s your name, pretty thing?”

“Anaïs.” My real name slips from my lips before I can even think of a fake name to give him.

He jerks back so fast it makes me jump. “T’es française?”

His question is a bucket of cold water to the face. I fix my panties and push my skirt down, turning sharply around.

“Oui. Toi?”

“Bien sur.” His entire body language has changed. His shoulders are tight, his jaw clenched. He steps back, closing his trousers and buckling his belt. “How long have you been here?”

He frowns at me, his expression full of mistrust. Now that his expression has changed so radically, he looks even more familiar than before. The uncomfortable thought that I’ve definitely seen him somewhere before settles heavily on my mind. I straighten my clothes and tuck my hair behind my ears. I’m still embarrassingly, torturously wet.

“I just moved,” I answer truthfully.

He nods. His eyes are really a very beautiful shade of green. But there’s a hint of cruelty in the shape of his lips. “To London?”

“No.”

“Fuck.” He groans, wiping his hand across his face. “You know who I am?”

I roll my eyes. Assuming his earlier cockiness was just because he’s a good lover and knows it was a mistake. He’s just arrogant—arrogant and overly emotional. Typical rich French guy behaviour.

I suppose it’s easy to ignore red flags when you’re seeing through a crimson mist of lust.

“No,” I reply. “Should I?”

“Why did you move here?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.

Arrogant, moody andsuspicious. This guy is French and probably a Scorpio. I might have to return home sexually frustrated, but at least I dodged a bullet. A volatile and pompous bullet.

Still. I’ve not done anything wrong. Why should I lie? “For school.”

“What school?”

“Some private school not far from here.”

“Fuck!” he exclaims in a raspy roar, startling me. He rakes his hand through his black hair, an expression of anguish on his face. He paces up and down the tiny room as if in the throes of some great struggle.

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