Page 115 of Collared by the Vampire Prince

No. I know better. Even if my cock doesn’t.

I release a long breath and survey the alcove. I have cornered her here twice now. Neither instance is my fault—she instigated both. But each time…I lingered.

I lean out to scan the walkway and training yard.

The passage beyond lies deserted, the castle hushed around me, shadows swallowing both entrances.

No witnesses. No one to interrupt me if I were to see to my needs.

I hesitate.

No one would ever know.

Well. If she insists upon casting me as the villain, I may as well earn the role.

I brace one hand against the broken neck of the same wolf statue where I found her hiding with that absurd tea tray. With the other, I free myself, cursing under my breath as I unfasten my trouser lacings.

My cock throbs as I fist it, stroking the thick length slowly.

I close my eyes.

Oh, yes.

Each rough stroke pulls a low groan from my throat. It has been far too long.

As if I have time to bed anyone when I spend my days navigating problems no one else even knows exist. The betrothal only added another complication to an already overcrowded life. Victoria has never interested me that way, and she is mistaken if she believes letting Felix between her legs will change that.

Irritated that Victoria has intruded upon the moment at all, I banish her from my mind.

I picture Kira instead—strong and slender, her body honed with lean muscle yet softened by the curves I felt beneath my hands, the way she pressed back against me even while snarling.

I imagine her beneath me. And I imagine her yielding. Eyes glazed, lips parted on a broken moan as she takes every inch of me, still pretending she hates it. Still fighting even as her body begs for more.

Despite the words I had spoken to her, I would not take her like that. Not the first time. Maybe not even the second.

No. Slow and deep, buried to the hilt inside her tight heat. It would feel incredible, thrusting into her, and I would watch her face, and taste her lips and throat as I take her. I would not stop until she was trembling and soaked and moaning my name. An impossibility, even in fantasy.

But what a fantasy.

Above all, I would make her feel good. I would make both of us feel very, very good. Until we forgot who we were and every wretched thing between us.

My hand speeds up, urgent and rough, my breath leaving me in harsh pants as I picture filling her. As I delude myself into believing she might want me to. Burning for me as badly as I am burning for her.

Yes. In this fantasy, she wants me to. She is asking for it, and I am only too willing to oblige.

Heat coils low and vicious at the base of my spine, winding tighter and tighter until it snaps with brutal force.

Pleasure crashes through me. My mind blanks as I come hard with a stifled gasp, hips jerking uncontrollably while thick ropes of seed pulse across the statue’s feet.

“Fuck,” I groan, lightning ripping through me, dark and delicious and agonisingly good.

For a long moment I simply breathe, forehead pressed to the cool stone, pulse thundering in my ears.

Really, Nathaniel, I admonish myself, a flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck.

I straighten on unsteady legs, tuck myself away, wipe my hand on my trousers, and drag a hand through my hair. With a wry shake of my head I pat the statue once in silent apology and leave.

I wonder whether the wolves will be able to smell it on me tomorrow even after I’ve showered.