Page 50 of His Prince

“You do that. I’m going to go in and get dinner ready.”

But Casey is already stalking toward Jake, and I’m left to wander back into the house alone.

My mind is suddenly reeling with the fact I have someone to help me in the garden who I think will become a good friend, as well as the information Jake gave me about death permeating the space.

I need to ask around about that.

No one has mentioned anything to me before.

Mikhail did mention his family had passed, but I never thought to push.

Maybe it’s time I do.

Maybe it’s time for some answers.

I try to ask around about the garden while I’m making dinner, but everyone dodges my questions. Nina even warns me against bringing it up. At that moment, I realize I’m going to have to ask Mikhail about it.

But not tonight.

Tonight I have plans.

When I make my way into our bedroom after dinner, Mikhail is already there, his chest and feet bare, his legs clad only in flannel pajama bottoms. New ones, I assume, since I shredded the others.

That thought makes me incredibly gleeful in the midst of what I’m about to do.

I close the door behind me and lock it, catching Mikhail’s eyes as I do so.

I don’t say anything, words unable to form on my lips, and instead move into the bathroom and shower, washing the scent of food and dirt from my skin before exiting and staring at myself in the large bathroom mirror.

I can keep sex meaningless.

It means nothing.

Bending down, I grab the lube from underneath the sink, shoving that cute plug out of the way. It just reminds me of our wedding night and how he left me. Alone. Hurt.

I grit my teeth as I work myself open, stuffing myself full, making sure there’s enough lube inside of me to make the sting of sex almost nonexistent. When I’m satisfied he will enter me without any issue, I wash my hands and make my way toward him, the bottle of lube clenched between my fingers.

As I approach, his eyes slash to mine, taking in my naked state, and I see his cock start to stiffen beneath those pajama bottoms.

Seems he’s somewhat attracted to me. Or maybe he’s just eager to fuck a hole.

That’s all I am to him,I remind myself.

A hole.

I come to a stop near the edge of the bed and stare down at him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t give me any indication of what he’s feeling. Then again, looking back, he never has.

He’s always kept that tucked away.

“I’ve decided. I’ll fuck you, but you don’t get to touch me.”

He blinks and then dips his chin in affirmation, still unmoving, saying nothing.

If he’s surprised he doesn’t say it, doesn’t acknowledge it. Which is fine. Romance is dead. Sex is the only thing at play here.

And I don’t want his hands on me.

“Take those off,” I command, pointing to his pajama pants with shaking fingers.