He fucking loved having Kaitlyn sit on him. The weight of her…the soft, lush curve of her ass pressing down on his lower belly…the possessive way she was claiming him in front of this entire twisted court—it sent a surge of primal satisfaction through him that clashed violently with the desperate ache in his groin.
But it was worse than that—so much worse. Or better. He really couldn’t decide.
The thin, silky barrier of her panties was a maddening tease. He could feel every thread of the lace against the ultrasensitive skin of his shaft, which was trapped—rigid and throbbing—in the hot, tight channel between her body and his. With every shallow breath she took, the fabric whispered over him. And he knew—he knew—there was a slit in those panties. He’d put them on her himself—had seen the vertical opening that framed her sweet pussy.
Now, he could feel the proof of it. A different heat radiated from that spot—a damp, searing warmth that was all Kaitlyn. It was like a beacon, calling to the most primitive part of his brain. And occasionally, when she made the smallest adjustment—a nervous shift, or a lean to one side or the other—the slit in the panties would part and her body would move just enough that her pussy would kiss him.
Braze felt it every time it happened. When she moved, the soft, swollen, slick flesh of her hot inner cunt would brush against the head of his straining cock. It was a fleeting, molten touch that lasted less than a heartbeat but sent lightning arcing up his spine.
Each tiny, accidental contact was a bolt of pure sensation, and each one told him the same undeniable truth—she was wet. Fucking soaking. So slippery and hot that if she had raised up just a little and moved forward, he could have slipped deep inside her with no effort at all on his part.
The thought made him even harder—as did her scent. Her feminine arousal was a tangible perfume in the air between them, and her body was betraying her own need just as blatantly as his was.
He cursed the cock ring silently. It was a merciless taskmaster—keeping him engorged, preventing any hope of release, and turning what should be a building pleasure into a constant, low-grade groan of frustration. It made every pulse of his blood a throb of desperate want…every brush of lace against his cock a torturous promise. Gods, he’d been in need for so long at this point he was sure he could come from just that—from those little kisses alone—if not for the cruel, unyielding circle of metal and leather around the base of his shaft.
And yet, he wouldn’t trade places with anyone in the whole fucking universe right now. Not the freest warrior on the Kindred home world…not the richest male in the universe—not even the Emperor of the Seven Galaxies.
This was his place—here—under her, serving at her pleasure. His Mistress…his wife. The scent of her…the feel of her…the quiet, shared tension thrumming between them—it was a drug more potent than any he’d ever had. He was on display—bound by protocol and metal—being used as her furniture—and it felt more right than any victory in battle ever had.
His hands, resting on the arms of the strange, reclined chair, gripped the wood until it creaked in protest. Braze focused on the pressure, using the bite of pain in his palms to ground himself, to keep from bucking his hips up into that maddening, silky heat.
He stared at the back of her head, at the elegant line of her neck where he’d kissed her, at the way the starry gown cascaded over the curve of her shoulders and left her back bare. He committed every detail to memory, using her beauty and his commitment to their shared mission as an anchor.
Hold on, he told himself. Just hold on. It can’t last forever.
The feast swirled around them—servants bearing platters of glazed, unrecognizable meats…the clatter of cutlery…the drone of conversation…and the wet, obscene sounds from the Empress’s concubine who was still tasting her pussy enthusiastically a few feet away.
It was a scene filled with opulence and depravity. But for Braze, the world had narrowed to a single, burning point of contact.
He wondered how long the feast would last and the thought was a dual-edged blade. Part of him—the part that needed so badly to come—hated it. He needed movement…friction…release. He needed to flip Kaitlyn over, tear those pretty lace panties aside, and plunge into her slick, wet heat—he needed to fuck her until they both forgot their own names. Being unable to do that was physically painful.
But the other part of him—the part that whispered “Mistress” when he thought of her—never wanted it to end. This suspended state of wanting…this public yet secret intimacy…was its own kind of perfection. It was a slow burn of tension that threatened to consume him utterly, and he found he was willing to burn for her—more than willing.
So he sat in the reclined chair—a living statue of desperate lust—and endured his painful paradise. He counted Kaitlyn’s breaths. He memorized the pattern of stars on her gown.
And he waited, in sweet, endless agony, for whatever came next.
13
KAITLYN
A lull in the conversation was filled by the arrival of servants bringing in a dish. They placed a heavy, iridescent bowl that reminded Kaitlyn of a huge clam shell before each guest at the high table. She looked down into hers and felt her stomach give a queasy roll.
It looked like some kind of escargot, but utterly alien. The snails themselves were huge—each one the size of her thumb—with fist-sized, spiral shells that weren’t pearlescent, but a dull, mottled grey-green that seemed to absorb the light. They were submerged in a thick, viscous gravy the color of pond scum—a green so deep it was nearly black—from which tiny, iridescent bubbles rose and popped with barely audible pffts.
Strangely, cutting through the visual horror was a smell that didn’t seem to go with the dish at all. It was cloyingly sweet—unmistakably the scent of overripe strawberries.
The conflict between the disgusting sight and overwhelmingly sweet smell was deeply unsettling, Kaitlyn thought.
“Ah, the glimmer-marsh are here!” the Empress exclaimed with delight, not pausing the rhythmic rocking of her hips against her concubine’s face. “You must try one, my dear Ambassadress. They are a delicacy.”
“Oh, thank you,” Kaitlyn said automatically, reaching to pluck one of the shells out of the grayish-green slime.
But the Empress shook her head.
“Oh no, my dear! The shell is far too caustic to touch. Use the tongs, and the extractor.”
Kaitlyn looked and saw that beside the bowl were two utensils—a pair of delicate, bone-white tongs, and a long, needle-like fork with four wickedly sharp, slender tines that looked more like surgical instruments or torture devices than cutlery.
