Page 73 of Spearcrest Prince

“Does that feel good, mon trésor?”

I open my mouth to tell him I’m not his trésor, that I’m not his. But the words refuse to come out. I lick my lips and nod. “Mm-hm.”

“Ah, good. Now…” He lowers his head and kisses my thigh right above my knee, his eyes still on mine. “Spread your legs for me.”

His hands are on my thighs—he could spread my legs with the slightest push. But his request, in his low, husky voice, makes me tighten with pleasure.

I obey him, spreading my legs open.

“Mm,” he murmurs against my thigh. “Good girl.”

He kisses a slow, wet path up my thigh. His kisses are unhurried, torturous. By the time he reaches the top of my thigh, I have to stop myself from grinding against the seat. My core is an aching pulse, desperate for friction.

It’s not just his mouth or his touch that’s making me like this.

Anyone could have kissed my nipples, kissed my thighs. But there’s something about Séverin I can’t explain. All the things I despise about him—his arrogance, the heat of his emotions, his imperiousness—all those things become tantalising now he’s on his knees in front of me.

His mouth finally reaches the apex of my legs, and he kisses me through the fabric of my panties. Soft, sweet kisses, closed lips.

He takes my hips in his hands and pulls me towards him, making me slump back into the couch. I reach out and slide my fingers into his hair, holding his head for balance.

He looks up and murmurs, “You’re so fucking wet for me.”

The shameless pride with which he says this sends heat flooding into my face. Then, as if to reward me, he kisses me, deeply and wetly, through my panties. If the fabric wasn’t sodden before, it soon is.

I wriggle my hips, struggling against his grip, arching desperately against his mouth, craving more. More of his mouth, more wetness, more friction.

More everything.

Moving one hand away from my hips, he touches me through the wet fabric. He rubs his thumb up and down the line of my pussy, repeatedly brushing over my clit. A whimper of pleasure finally breaks through my barrier of silence. He looks up once more.

“Ah,” he says, low and husky, “you like that, too.”

Of course, I like that, I want to say. I’d have to be a robot not to. But I can’t speak. His touch is casting a spell on me, a spell that’s turning my bones into brittle sugar and my blood into warm honey.

He hooks my panties with his thumb, gathering them aside. Cold air touches my wet pussy, then the hot ghost of his breath. His thumb resumes the same motion as before, brushing lightly up and down, gliding through hot wetness.

“Oh fuck,” I whimper. “Sev, please—”

He doesn’t stop. My hips writhe uncontrollably against him as he continues his slow, steady rhythm. He watches me with a solemn expression. I stare at him in shock, realising I’m about to come.

Then he stops. He glances up at me and shakes his head slowly.

“No,” he says. “Not yet, mon trésor.”

He kisses my inner thighs. I fist my fingers in his hair, pulling.

“Please, Sev.”

“Yes, trésor,” he murmurs. “I’m going to give you exactly what you want, I promise.” He sits up suddenly, pushing my hands away. He kisses me on my mouth. “But not like this. I want you to come on my tongue. I want you to fuck yourself on my mouth. Use my face for your own pleasure. Can you do that for me?”

I stare at him half in disbelief, my face burning at his words.

He leans into me and speaks against my ear. “Answer me, Anaïs. My little treasure, my pretty slut. Will you come on my tongue?”

“Yes,” I whisper, as if it’s a secret between us.

He nods. “Good girl.”

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