Page 43 of Spearcrest Prince

Or maybe they’re all the right thing to say.

The shrill sound of a whistle pierces the air. We both freeze, our bodies stiffening. Around us, everything is plunged into shadows. When did that happen? I didn’t even notice the night falling.

I get to my feet and pull Anaïs up by her arm. She glares at me but lets me help her up.

“Come on, trésor.” I sigh, suddenly tired. “We don’t want to end up spending the night stranded here, do we?”

Even in the purple light of dusk, she looks like an absolute fucking mess. Mud stains her skin and clothes. Her hair looks like she’s been living in the forest all her life. A crimson bite mark glows on her already-red cheek.

She looks torn up and damaged and dirtied.

She looks like I had my way with her right there on the forest floor. I wish I had.

I pick up her sketchbook from where it landed at the foot of a tree, wipe the cover with my sleeve and hand it to her. She snatches it from my hands, clutches it to her chest and stomps away. I follow her, brushing my hand through my sweat-dampened hair. It’s a good thing the whistle just blew because who knows what might have happened otherwise.

I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. Or worked up. Or conflicted.

This is definitely something I should never do again. It was uncharacteristic, unwise, and, let’s be honest, utterly uncivilised.

And I can’t stop thinking about doing it again.

AssoonasIget back to the cottage, I head straight for my bedroom and run the shower as hot as it will go. I peel off my dirty clothes and throw them into the hamper. I tragically disrespected Yves Saint Laurent today.

I’m about to step into the shower when I spot my reflection in the bathroom. My eyes widen.

If Anaïs looked a fucking state, then she at least got her revenge. My hair is a tangled, sweaty mess, my skin is covered in mud and scratches. There’s a bright red handprint on my face, finger-shaped welts splayed across my cheek.

So the rotten little Nishihara treasure isn’t at all as quiet and composed as she would have me believe. The revelation tastes like victory. Even the welts on my face—this raw, painful evidence that she’s just as capable of emotions as I am—feel like a win, a shining trophy.

I capture a few snapshots of my post-Anaïs face, wishing I had managed to take some shots of her post-Séverin face. Then I step into the shower, letting the hot water run over me. I close my eyes with a blissful sigh.

Memories from earlier run through the darkness behind my eyelids. Anaïs snatching her sketchbook from my hands. Anaïs running from me and the pounding blood in my veins as I gave pursuit. The exhilaration of tackling her to the ground, wrestling her down, pinning her under me. Her body under mine, the warmth of her, my hips pressed against hers. Her flushed cheeks, those bright, shining eyes, her blows and insults.

Wrapping my hand around my cock, I stroke myself slowly. I’m already hard, and touching myself is the relief I need but not the relief I want.

What do I want?

I don’t like Anaïs. She’s plain, boring, pretentious. I don’t want her. She’s mine, all but gifted to me, but I want nothing to do with her. I don’t want her company; I don’t want to get to know her; I don’t want to spend time with her.

What I want is to get under her skin. She acts so superior, so unbothered—but I want to bother her. Make her squirm. I want to kiss her again, taste her mouth. Pin her down and reach underneath those unflattering baggy clothes of hers and touch her all over. I want to fuck a spectrum of emotions across that impassive face of hers.

Anger, hatred, excitement, resentment, desire, regret.

Pleasure.

My hand moves faster, pumping my cock. I’d give anything to see what she looks like when she comes, what she looks like when I’m the one making her come. Would she arch her back or would her thighs tremble uncontrollably? Would her eyes squeeze shut or open wide? Would she let out a whimpering sigh or a broken cry?

I want to make her do all those things. Kiss her moans and suck on her nipples. Grip her trembling thighs and let her chase her own pleasure on my tongue.

My cock twitches as my orgasm crashes into me, tearing a groan of surprise from my mouth. My entire body tenses as I come hard. When I’m done, I feel empty and exhausted.

A few minutes later, I crawl into my bed and shove my face into my pillow with a sigh.

I don’t know what I’m doing right now, but if I hoped a good wank was going to be enough to calm me down, I was deluding myself. I’m Séverin Montcroix, for fuck’s sake. Since when have I been the kind of guy to sit and wallow and feel sorry for myself with my cock in my hand? I’ve never been a one-girl type of guy, so this little fixation needs to stop.

Before I fall asleep, I make myself a solemn promise: tomorrow night, I’m going to make my way to a girl’s room—Mellie, her friend, any girl that wants me—and drive every thought of Anaïs out of my system once and for all.

Bottleofwineinhand, I leave my room. Mellie’s room is down the corridor—having to go past Anaïs’s room on my way there feels satisfyingly symbolic—and she already knows I’m coming. I’m going to get us both tipsy and have slow, lazy sex all over her bedroom.

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