Page 15 of The Midnight King
“Ah. Well, the story is good. It’s meant to titillate, of course, but there’s substance beyond that.”
Another wave of hot embarrassment rolls over me, because not only did I disturb His Royal Majesty, the King of all the land, but I’m standing here, talking about naughty books, hearing him say words like “titillate” with that sinfully exquisite mouth of his.
It crosses my mind that he’s exempt from the command my stepmother placed on me, when she forbade me to have sex with any of the young men of the region. He’s old enough to be my father, outside the category of “young men.” And yet he’s more beautiful than any man I’ve ever seen, except perhaps my Faerie godfather.
The King’s eyes are wandering over my body with bold interest. His broad, smooth lips part, and he fuckinglicksthem, as if I’m a treat he’d like to taste.
And why shouldn’t he? Earlier, when the Faerie kissed me, I was re-awakened to the carnal needs of my body. I even thought about satisfying those needs tonight. Why not quench my sexual thirst with the King himself?
Besides, as the owner of this palace and ruler of the kingdom, he would be the one person who could grant me access to the vault where all the books on Faerie magic are kept. I could defy my stepmother, sate my own cravings, and get closer to my goals at the same time. All I have to do is seduce the King.
Judging by the bulge in his trousers, it won’t be difficult.
6
I relax my body a little and twirl a lock of hair around my finger. I’ve never seduced anyone before, but I’ve read about it, and I’ve watched other people flirt and fawn over each other.
“Do you read books like that often?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” he replies. “When I lack companionship.”
“I would think that a king could havecompanionshipanytime he desires it.”
“I could have companions,” he says, never taking his eyes from mine. “But I happen to be rather particular about that sort of company.”
“Are you?” I’m blushing hot at my own boldness, feeling wicked and brave and frightened all at the same time. “What kind of person meets the standards of the King?”
Slowly he closes the book. Lays it down. Rises to his full height. He’s taller than his son—taller than me. He isn’t smiling now, and there’s a wolfish gleam in those silver eyes.
“It’s not something I can define,” he says. “I know it when I see it.”
“Do you?” I squeak. Damn my voice for breaking, and damn my stupid nerves. I want to be sultry and winsome, not girlishly terrified. I’m twenty-six, for Fate’s sake. I should have had this experience by now. I should be married, with my own family, far beyond my stepmother’s grip.
But she will never let me live a normal life. She will never let me go. All I can do is seize moments of freedom when I’m given the chance. And a moment like this may never come again. I can scarcely believe this is happening—that the King is standing before me with hunger in his eyes. The tension is thickening between us, thrumming with sensuous promise until I can hardly breathe.
The King is a good man, from what I’ve heard. A decent ruler who tries to be honest and fair to his people. There are struggles in our kingdom, as with any nation, but he has always been generous with the poor. The worst thing I’ve heard about him is that ever since his wife died, many years ago, he overindulges his fondness for beautiful women and hasn’t seen fit to marry any of them. That lecherous nature of his could play in my favor tonight.
“Have you seen our winter roses?” asks the King, his voice deeper than ever. “They are something of a specialty here at the palace. A point of pride with our gardeners.”
“I saw some,” I reply. “By the windows, when I came in. They were… drenched in moonlight.”
Fuck, that sounded stupid.
“Drenched?” he repeats, and my body trembles. Forget the roses—I’mdrenched, soaking through the delicate panties my Faerie godfather conjured for me.
“Come with me,” says the King. “You can take a closer look at the roses.”
I’d rather take a closer look athim, but I follow obediently. We pause in front of the windows, both of us staring at the lush bouquets in the two matching urns.
“They’re beautiful,” I say, and he echoes, “Yes, indeed. Quite beautiful.” But his voice is closer, and his face is turned toward me, not the flowers.
He wants me, and he’s waiting for me to indicate whether I want him or not. But I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what to do or say.
He said he respects honesty. Perhaps I should tell him, plainly and clearly, what I want.
I move toward him and reach out, laying my fingers lightly along his waist. He smells rich—I don’t know how else to express it. His fragrance speaks of luxury, of wealth, of power.
Tipping my face up to his, I voice my request in the softest of whispers. “Will you fuck me?”