Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
That’s the last I see of him all evening. I take a bath with the latest fantasy novel I’m caught up in, but not even reading about dragons and curses distracts my mind from Liam Castle.
I’m tempted to slide my hand between my legs to find relief, but I don’t.
Because he forbade it.
And I want that first with him.
I want him to take it so the others can’t.
I want him to win the auction, too, so the others have no chance of stealing my virginity.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. I toss and turn for hours, wracked by images of twelve sets of hands touching me, punishing me, using me for their pleasure.
The reality is terrifying, the pictures in my head irrevocable. I’m certain I’ll be up all night plagued by duty and destiny…
Until the bed shifts, and I realize I dozed off. At first, I think I’m caught between that weird moment between deep sleep and the more restless, partially alert variety. The kind of slumber where you twitch and it feels like someone’s sitting on the bed. It’s an eerie sensation, feeling a phantom weight when you know you’re alone.
Except…I’m not alone.
With a gasp, I lurch upright, and a firm hand sends me sprawling to the mattress again.
“Do you know what time it is?” Liam’s voice hovers only inches away in the darkness, his tone infused with the lustful rasp I crave.
I swallow hard, caught off-guard. “The middle of the night?”
“It’s past midnight.”
His speech is off, slower than usual and lacking inhibition. If I couldn’t tell by his mannerisms, the spiciness of whiskey in the air is telling enough.
“Are you drunk?”
“I never drink to excess. I’m merely armed with the right amount of celebratory scotch.”
“What are you celebrating?”
“My birthday.”
My gaze darts to the nightstand and the green glow of the numbers on the clock sitting there. It’s past midnight, indeed.
I make out the outline of his face in my darkened quarters. “Happy Birthday, Chancellor.”
The bed shifts again as he sits on his haunches, and then his hands are on my chest, knuckles skimming my ribs as he tears my pajama shirt from breast to navel. Buttons go flying. He lifts me long enough to remove the ruined top, and my nipples peak as if expecting the heat of his gaze.
The warmth of his mouth.
The pinch of his fingers.
His hands drift over the sensitive buds, and I can’t help but arch into his warm palms.
“Have you touched yourself without my permission, Novalee?”
I moan a “no,” my body begging for more. Begging for what he’s refused to give me.
“If I make you come, I want something from you in return. Consider it a birthday request.”
“Anything.”
“For the next eleven months after you leave my house, I want your word that you won’t touch yourself when you’re alone.”
“What if I’m ordered to touch myself?”
“That’s out of our control. But what you do when you’re alone…” He braces himself above me and dips his head, mouth grazing my ear. “That’s up to you, and I want you to promise me your fingers won’t come in contact with your beautiful pussy.”
“You’ll make me come?”
“All night long, my sweet girl.”
I shudder in the circle of his arms. “What if I’m thinking of you when I touch myself?”
“Those are fighting words.” He groans, and then his mouth covers mine, the weight of his body pressing us into the mattress as he plunders my mouth. I thrust my fingers into his thick hair, pulling at the strands as I wrap my legs around his waist. The position brings us together in an explosive way, his hardness against my softness.
Tearing away with a painful groan, he crawls to the end of the bed and grabs my ankles. Next thing I know, I’m sliding down the mattress. He hefts me over his shoulder and carries me from my quarters to his. The door barely makes a sound as it shuts us away, alone, in the one place I’m not allowed.
The place where he sleeps.
The place he swore he wouldn’t have me until after we’re married.
He pushes his pajama pants down his legs and kicks the clothing free. I freeze, ogling his glorious naked body. Guided by moonlight, I take him in from the definition of his biceps to the muscular build of his thighs.
And everything in between.
Breaths shallow and thready, I dart my tongue out to wet my lips. His nostrils flare, and a low growl emanates from his throat. He’s at his most base self, raw and animalistic and struggling to hold himself in check.
“If it weren’t for the contract,” he says, fisting his hands at his sides, “I’d make you bleed for me. Only me, Novalee.”
But there is a contract, and we’re both bound by it.
He takes a step closer, eating up the inches between us, and the spiciness of his cologne infuses my nose. His rough breathing fills my ears. I crane my neck to meet his eyes.