“I think it does.” I can feel myself getting slick against him, and the bastard’s fully aware of this as well. He removes his hand, and I feel the hard press of him against my opening.
I’m still sore from last night, so when he pushes himself inside me, air whistles through my teeth as I inhale. And just like last night, the soreness is soon replaced by the first stirrings of pleasure. The whole thing is wrong, wrong, wrong. Then again, I’m not the most morally righteous person; war hasn’t afforded me that luxury. So instead of retreating into my mind, I tentatively begin to touch the king.
First my hands glide over his shoulders and arms, stroking the bunched muscles beneath the skin. Above me the king stills, and I meet his gaze.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Discovering my . . . husband.” It’s hard for me to call him that—to think of him like that, but some wars are won by surrendering certain, doomed battles, and this is one of them.
He watches me, unmoving, and I squirm against him. “Why have you stopped?”
Something a whole lot like affection—or maybe victory—brightens his eyes. He leans in and kisses me, and the feeling of being joined in two places nearly throws me over the edge. Who knew that beneath my tough exterior was a sex-starved woman?
When the kiss ends, he begins moving again. “Does that feel better?” he whispers.
I close my eyes and hum in response. We continue like that, enjoying extremely sinful and morally questionable sex for a while, before I open my eyes again and run my fingers down his cheek. His large, dark eyes shutter at my touch and his tempo increases.
Heat builds at my core, and finally I cry out and clutch him as my orgasm lashes through me. His strokes become harder and deeper, and I feel him throb inside me as he finds his own release.
He collapses against me, and we’re both slick with sweat. In some ways sex is a lot like the lifestyle I’m used to, and that surprises me. I’d always imagined that it was something purely soft and sweet, but what we’ve done tonight proves otherwise. That there’s something primal in the act—some strange combo of pain and pleasure, an adrenaline rush, exertion—just like there is in war.
I’d never really thought through marrying the king. The horror of it eclipsed any curiosity I might’ve had at being someone’s partner. I’m greatly surprised to find that in private the king can be gentle and—dare I think it—caring.
I watch him as morning sunlight streams through our balcony windows and find I want to touch him again. His tan skin dips and rises over corded muscles. I see a solitary freckle just below his shoulder blade.
He’s human.
It’s the stupid freckle that reminds me. He may be broken and wicked and narcissistic, but he’s human. He bleeds, he feels.
Thinking like this is risky, particularly when I still plan on killing him. I don’t want to grow close to this man, but I can’t seem to help myself, even after all he’s done. Maybe he doesn’t need to die. Maybe he can be changed.
I scoff at my own ridiculous thought. If nothing has swayed the king into growing a conscience before now, I doubt I’ll be what does.
His thick hair dusts his cheekbones, hiding his features. Before I can think twice, I reach out and push the dark locks away from his face. In sleep, he’s lovely. At my touch, he stirs but doesn’t wake.
I didn’t quite realize humans could savor each other the way we did last night. In the bunker, people didn’t talk about these things, and if they did them, they kept their business private.
The bed shifts next to me, and when I refocus my attention on the king, his eyes open. “What is my queen doing up?” Sleep roughens his voice, and again, I’m reminded that at the end of the day—or the beginning of it, rather—the king is just a man.
He scoops me to him when I don’t respond, and we spend a minute staring at each other. “Sore?” he finally asks.
I feel my cheeks flush. I hate that this subject still makes me uncomfortable. “I’m fine.”
His fingers brush across my face. “Hmm. I thought we were past the lies.”
Lying and discussing this with the king seem like two very different things. My eyes move between his. “Are you happy now that you finally have me?”
The king shakes his head. “I don’t have you—yet. But I will.”
Someone brings in strawberries and champagne shortly after we wake up, and now it’s clear that not only can one enjoy good food and good sex, but also enjoy the two together. It seems outrageously gluttonous, but it doesn’t stop me from reaching over to the platter and picking up a strawberry while the king pours champagne.
Just as I open my mouth, the king catches my hand and makes a tsk-ing sound. “This, I believe, is my job.”
He takes the strawberry from me and presses a champagne flute into my hand.
“So now I’m permitted to drink?”
“As long as I’m the one pouring, you are.”
“You’re a control freak.”
The king scoops cream onto the strawberry from a nearby bowl. “This surprises you?” he asks.
“No, but you could try loosening up for once in your life.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What, exactly, do you think I’ve been doing for the last twelve hours?”
“Punishing me,” I say without missing a beat.
He sighs. “You keep lying. Hasn’t anyone told you the key to a healthy marriage is trust and honesty?”
I scoff at him. “There are so many things I could say to that statement.”
The king smirks and lifts the strawberry like he wants to feed me.
“Do that, and I’ll bite your fingers off.”
“You like my fingers too much to do them harm. Now, open your mouth.”
I eye him like a wary creature even as I part my lips and he feeds the berry to me. My annoyance with him is less compelling than my desire to eat the fruit.
My eyes close as I bite down on it and enjoy the taste. I can’t remember the last time I had a strawberry.