Suddenly, Llywelyn’s channel clenches around me. His muscles spasm as he cums hard and long. It’s all I need to tip me over the edge into my own release.
I see stars. My body shudders as my cock pumps ropes of cum deep into Prince Llywelyn’s ass. I want to yell my triumph. Punch the air in celebration of my victory.
Dazed and wheezing, I withdraw and stagger back a step.
The prince straightens, his nightgown falling into place and covering him once more. He hurries to his bathroom, back ramrod straight, and he doesn’t even glance at me.
The door shuts, and just like that, I am alone.
In a room that reeks of sex and sweat.
I wipe a hand over my brow and try to catch my breath. Slowly, my brain cells reform. My lust drains away. My rage extinguishes. A thousand conflicting emotions rush in to feel the void.
I gasp out a strange noise as one thought takes centre stage.
What the fuck just happened?
Chapter five
I’ve been standing here, mentally spiralling, all alone in Llywelyn’s bedchamber for ages. Is he not coming back?
I take a deep breath and run my hand over my face. I mean, I guess I can’t blame him. Not afterthat.
My gaze goes to the bed, to the very spot he bent over, as if I’m going to see an echo of what just happened, some kind of ghostly replay. But my eyes see nothing. My mind, however, is very happy to give me a full and vivid rerun.
I wince and look away from the bed, even though it does nothing to stop my memories from playing. Sickeningly, my cock begins to stir. Some twisted part of myself really enjoyed behaving like an animal.
What the fuck is wrong with me? How did that just happen? Why did I do that?
I’m not the kind of person who behaves like that. I’m really not. So there has to be an explanation. I just need to figure it out.
Maybe the infamous depravity and cruelty of the fey court has somehow seeped into me? Perhaps Llywelyn put a spell on me or drugged me? Though, what would be the motive? Surely he can’t have been craving a hate fuck that badly?
I suck in a breath. Is the answer simply thatI amthe one who wanted a hate fuck that badly? I do hate the arrogant tosser, that’s true enough. But do I want him?
A montage of images flow through my mind. Hair like spun sunlight. Exotic amber eyes. Flawless skin the colour of freshly fallen snow. Pale pink pouty lips. A long lithe body. Regal antlersand pointy ears, both striking and compelling because they are so very exceptional, so veryotherworldly.And god, that ass. Even Michelangelo could not carve better if he had the finest marble.
I groan and pull at my hair. Fucking hell. Prince Llywelyn is hot. So, very, very hot. This is awful.
It seems likely that there is no great mystery, no devious plot. I probably just wanted to hate fuck him. But why did he let me? Why did I allow myself to lose control?
And where the fuck has he gone?
Growling to myself, I stalk out of the bedroom and go in search of him. I find him in the sixth room I check, and he is not alone. He is fully dressed and having breakfast in a cosy dining room, with a young fey man with midnight dark hair that falls loose all the way to his waist.
Wearing your hair untied is sacrilege to the fey. Shocking, shameful and lewd. Nobody does it in public by choice. It is akin to being naked. Therefore, this man must be a rhocyn, a disgrace amongst his people. And with his dark hair and eyes, I’m pretty sure this is Prince Dyfri Y Mhorriganogi. Llywelyn’s youngest brother.
Dark eyes sweep over me as he takes me in. Assessing my hairless chest and my pyjama trousers. I see the bright blaze of his keen intelligence. This is a man to be wary of.
He turns his attention back to his brother and pops a grape in his mouth with nonchalant ease.
“This is the human you risked Rhydian’s ire for?” he says idly.
Llywelyn doesn’t look at me. He simply shrugs and pours himself some more tea. The tea set is exquisite. Carved from pure jade, if I’m not mistaken. And all the small plates the dizzying selection of fruit and cheeses are on look like solid silver etched with swirling patterns.
Dyfri sips his own drink. “He looks more Mabon’s type than yours.”
“I fancied a change,” Llywelyn says with an icy calm.
