His cock was a rigid, aching brand against his belly, still trapped behind the maddeningly soft maroon silk. Every shift of the fabric as he walked was a torturous caress—a whisper against the over-sensitized flesh. The swollen knot at its base felt heavy and full—a persistent, demanding pulse that echoed the beat of his heart.
Fuck—kneeling beside Kaitlyn, sucking her sweet nipples, and having her put him on display the way Mistress Lovely one had often displayed him had made him so fucking hard. He needed release with a desperation that bordered on pain—there was a pressure building in his sac that made each step an exercise in sheer will.
But beneath the physical torment churned a cold sea of guilt.
What in the Seven Hells came over you? whispered a voice in the back of his head. Why did you do that? Why did you act that way?
He’d crossed a line that had no uncrossing. He’d put his mouth on her—on Ambassador Kaitlyn, his charge, his responsibility—without a word of permission.
It was a fundamental violation of every code he lived by. Kindred protocol was absolute—consent was sacred and asked for explicitly—especially outside the context of a formal Claiming. A Protector initiating sexual contact with his charge without her permission was grounds for immediate dismissal—for being stripped of his rank and exiled from the Mother Ship in disgrace. The Beast Kindred were warriors of control…yet he had exhibited none.
He replayed the moment in the throne room—the feel of her stiffening nipple against his tongue…the sweet, salty taste of her skin…the way her breath had caught in her throat. But she hadn’t pulled away and he’d been lost—submerged in his role and in the scent of her shock that had quickly melted into pure, undiluted arousal. That was the worst part—the thing that made his gut clench even now.
Because Kaitlyn hadn’t been angry. He’d braced for a slap or perhaps a hissed command to stop. Instead, he’d smelled her desire as he teased her nipples with his tongue and fingers. That warm, sweet, unmistakably feminine scent of a female getting hot and wet had tickled his nose.
And later, as he’d spoken to the Empress, his voice gravelly with a possessiveness he hadn't feigned, describing how he would thrust into his “wife,” how his knot would swell and lock inside her tight little pussy… the air around Kaitlyn had bloomed with her hot, sweet fragrance.
It had been unmistakable—a pheromonal call that had gone straight to his already straining cock. She had been aroused by his blunt, carnal description. By the idea of being taken…claimed…bound to him.
Gods, he wanted her so fucking badly!
The memory alone threatened to undo him. A fresh surge of pre-cum leaked from his tip, soaking the silk panel and adding a damp, cool patch rubbing against his cock to add to his torment. He adjusted his stride—a slight, awkward hitch in his gait, trying to find a position that didn’t make the ache worse.
It was impossible.
What the fuck comes next?
He didn’t know.
The Empress’s decree rang in his ears. Days—they were here for days. He had to continue this performance—to kneel, to submit, to play the devoted, pleasure-giving husband in public. And, the Empress had strongly implied, in more private situations too.
The thought of being watched…of having to act out the very fantasies that haunted his most secret self, was both horrifying and…fucking hot. The shame of Yonnie Six and his time with Mistress Lovelyone—the thing he kept locked in a dark box in his mind—was now the key to their mission’s success.
To touch Kaitlyn again, to serve her—not just in a private fantasy, but as part of his duty, well… it was a twisted permission slip his body was screaming to use.
He just had to maintain control. Braze told himself sternly. He couldn’t lose himself in this fantasy come true. And he needed to get hold of himself right away. If he came now, like an untried boy, just from the silken brush of fabric and the memory of her scent…
No. He clenched his jaw until it ached, focusing on the herald’s back, on the intricate gold embroidery of the man’s livery, on anything but the warm, willing woman walking beside him, her own breathing still slightly uneven and her scent still hot and tempting. Slowly, his need began to fade—or at least he had better control of it.
The opulent corridor gave way to a narrower, quieter wing. The pearl-stone was replaced by warm, honey-gold wood, intricately carved with patterns of intertwining vines. The cloying perfume faded, replaced by the cleaner scents of linen, starch, and fabric.
At last, they stopped before a small, unassuming door. It was made of the same golden wood, polished to a soft gleam. A simple plaque of brushed bronze was affixed to it at eye level. In elegant, flowing script, it read:
Mistress of the Wardrobe.
The herald gave a shallow bow, his face impassive.
“You will wait here. The Mistress will attend you shortly.” Without another word, he turned and glided away, leaving them standing alone in the silent hallway.
The silence was so thick he could have cut it with a knife. Braze didn’t know what to say. He could hear the rush of his own blood in his ears and the faint rustle of Kaitlyn’s skirt as she shifted her weight. He stared at the closed door, a new kind of dread settling over him. The throne room had been just the beginning of their act. This place—whatever lay behind this door—was about preparation for the banquet and the performance to come.
He didn’t trust himself to look at Kaitlyn. He wanted to apologize for sucking her nipples without permission, but he was afraid if he started talking, someone might hear and wonder why he was apologizing to his wife for giving her pleasure.
So, he just kept his gaze fixed on the bronze plaque, every nerve ending in his body begging for relief, his cock throbbing a relentless, desperate rhythm against its silken prison. Control, he needed control—he had to find it.
Somewhere.
7
