I wanted to tell him that I liked him both ways. All ways, really. But couldn’t find the courage for such a confession. And he kept my mouth quite busy that day, anyway.
Or yesterday at the Eyrie, up against the wall in a hidden corner of the barn after self-defense class. We were both fully clothed as he moved inside me, his warm, rough palm over my mouth to silence my screams. Apparently Icanbe loud with the right motivation.
It takes all my willpower not to glance back to where he’s keeping pace with Sir Quinn.
“I do believe my muse has been restored, Your Grace,” I answer. “So kind of you to inquire. I feel I’ve gained an entirely new perspective these past few days.”
A soft chuckle tickles my mind, and for one reckless second, I imagine slipping the duke and Sir Quinn and dragging Lachlan to a cave somewhere. A private place where I can hide him away from the world, hoard him like the precious treasure he is. Maybe after a year or seven, I’d finally have my fill of him. Unlikely, but what fun I’d have trying.
We’ve still not spent the full night together. It’s too dangerous for a number of reasons, not the least of which is possible discovery by Aowen or Vesper. The latter has taken to waking me in the morning by burrowing beneath my blanketsand nipping my heels. I cannot tell if she’s being playful or if she’s figuring out which spices to use when she finally succumbs to her violent pixie instincts and makes a meal out of me.
The other reasons, well … I do not want to get used to something I cannot keep. There’s a big difference between letting Lachlan fuck me, use my body however he pleases, and waking up in his arms.
In any case, the end of …whateverthis is between us is inevitable. When I make Desmond king, Lachlan is leaving his service. Desmond knows this. If I requested Lachlan stay on, that would look rather suspicious, no? I do not get the impression that Desmond would be open to sharing me.
No, it’s best to appreciate this for what it is. Sex, pure and simple.
Well, maybe not entirely pure.
I dare a peek over my shoulder to find Lachlan staring at me with an amused sort of intensity.
He looks impossibly handsome today—no different than any other day, really—in his white metal armour, with his auburn hair neatly braided back and the sunlight reflecting off his piercings. I swear, I can still feel his lip ring crawling over my flesh and?—
Eyes on your duke, little queen. Before he can discern where your depraved mind has strayed.
I swivel forward.You know exactly where it’s strayed. Right to thoughts of your teeth on my breast.
Metal clanks as Lachlan’s steps falter, and I bury a soft laugh into my bodice.
When we arrive at the salon, Torvil strides to the mantel while Lachlan and Sir Quinn post themselves on either side of the arched entrance.
I uncover the canvas; today I’ll be working on the final highlights that will bring the piece to life. Despite my distastefor its subject, I am quite proud of the painting. It’s perhaps the most skillful I’ve ever created. Is it because of the fine materials I’ve been given to work with? Or has my muse been sufficiently nourished by all the orgasms?
“So,” I begin, once the duke has settled into position, “this will be our last session. I only have a few finishing touches.” Over the top of the canvas, I find disappointment glazing his violet eyes. Is he going to miss this? “Do you have any idea where you might want to place it?”
He sniffs, picking at his shirt cuff. “I thought I might send it on a tour throughout Tír na Lune. My people deserve to bask in any representation of their duke. After its debut at the Harvest Ball, of course.”
“Oh?” I feign delight. “I am honored by your faith in me, Your Grace. Would you like to come check my progress?”
He comes up behind me and peers over my shoulder. “Remarkable. I must say, Miss Fitzroy, I had no idea you were so talented. I don’t believe any artist has ever so perfectly captured my likeness.”
I bite back a snort. I’ve broadened his shoulders. Lengthened his legs. Filled out his chest and squared off his chin. He’s still recognizably Duke Áine, but he appears much more regal than the vain prat breathing down my neck.
“Would that you could do all my portraits,” he murmurs.
I turn, emboldened. “And why shouldn’t I? If you claim me during the Wild Hunt, if I am fortunate enough to become your queen, I could record all your achievements. Together, we could tell the great history of King Torvil Áine through art. Every home in the celestial kingdom would demand a replica to display in your honor.”
He nods, his smile swelling.
“Of course,” I say, “such an outcome feels terribly out of reach.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, forgive my candor, but you have not yet shared your clue. How am I to retrieve your Bannrhorn fragment without it? I fear the Wild Hunt may not occur.”
He steps closer, places a hand on my upper arm. His touch is cold, his grip limp. Worlds away from that of the knight observing us. Lachlan’s almost inscrutable, but I catch his eyes darting our way every few seconds.
“Would such a thing upset you, Miss Fitzroy?” Torvil whispers.
