“Good.” His voice is ragged, his control slipping. “Condoms for now.” The drawer to the bedside table is open and he already has a condom in hand. He must have grabbed it when I was having an argument with the prudent, cautious, and totally boring part of myself.
He pauses to roll the condom on and every thought flies out of my head when I get a good glimpse of his dick. It’s hard and large and proud, with an arrogant tilt to it. Can a penis be arrogant? Benedict’s manages it. Of course it does.
I giggle again. Arrogant prick. Literally. I don't dare say anything out loud, but he catches my grin and shakes his head.
“You are incorrigible.”
I'm about to repeat my firm stance that I am entirely corrigible and will you please fuck me now? when he slides inside. It burns a little and he goes slowly, waiting for me to stretch around him. It has been a while, and I'm glad I warned him.
He rocks a little, stretching me out. The inner walls of my pussy kiss along his cock, welcoming him into my tight heat. I want to feel him deep inside me, and he's big enough that when he's all the way in, I will. I rest my cheek against his pec and cling to him. I’ve totally forgotten to keep my hands locked down. He's going to have to tie me up to get me to obey. Maybe that's something we'll save for next time.
“Feeling all right?” He checks in on me. Such a gentleman. Will he ask ‘please’ before he comes? I hope not.
He’s seated deep inside me. His body is heavy over mine, but he’s holding most of his weight on taut forearms. I slide my hand up around his neck, stroking his thick hair as my tight channel adjusts to his girth. Then I grip his shoulders and crane my neck to lick his ear.
“Fuck me, Benedict. Fuck me hard.” I want to feel him the next day.
A sharp inhale. Then he glides almost all the way out. A pause, and then he slams back in. I topple over into orgasm with a shout.
He removes my hands from hanging on to him and pins them to either side of my head. His cheeks are flushed. His dark eyes glitter. He's beautiful and wicked, a fallen angel. His dick is doing sinful things to my insides. Another orgasm rises again as he grinds down, somehow hitting my clit and my G-spot all at once. He drags his cock out slowly. Sparks fly and then fireworks explode in my body.
His grip is hard on my wrists as he drives into me. Each thrust slams me further up the bed. White lights dance behind my eyes—the aftermath of the last orgasm, or the beginning of another.
Then he presses his forehead to mine and groans. His cock feels bigger inside me, throbbing, pumping his cum into the condom. His lips catch mine and then he lets my arms free. Immediately I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders.
“Control freak much?” I whisper and he laughs back at me, letting me tug him down to rest his weight on me. He’s heavier than I’d expect—must be all those muscles he’s hidden all this time under his suit.
He turns his head and kisses between my breasts, then rises to deal with the condom. The second he rises, I miss his weight on me. I’m not sure how I got here, into the duke’s bed, my skin tingling from the orgasms he gave me, but now I'm here, I don't want to leave. Our false engagement, the vows I made to not let him get close, even the crazy night at the ball with the fireworks—it all seems so far away.
And then Benedict is back and helping me up to give me a drink of water. He strokes my hair back and kisses me again. And that leads to us tangled together, skin on sweaty skin. Safe and warm and happy. He rolls and traps me with a heavy leg over mine. “Stay with me,” he whispers. In answer, I snuggle deeper into his chest. He reaches over to click off the light, then puts his arm around me. Within seconds, I’m asleep.
Frankie
It's awkward sleeping with someone through the night. Maybe they move too much, or you move too. Someone’s gonna hog the covers or sprawl over more their fair share of the bed. The heat, the sweat, the way two unfamiliar bodies knock together—there are so many micro-discomforts that prod you awake, and leave you wishing for your own bed. My ex, Ben, was a sweet guy, but he and I only spent the night together in the same bed a few times. Enough for me to realize it wasn’t comfortable. The guy I was with before Ben was the first guy I’d ever been with. My first, back when I was young and believed in fairytales. He and I were always in a rush, sneaking around. There was no time for cuddles or intimacy. Looking back, that was the biggest red flag. When a guy tries to hustle you out of sight so parents or staff don’t know he’s meeting with you, you know it's not going to end well.
But I don't want to dwell on that.
Morning light filters through the blinds and I wake slowly, cradled in the muted blue shadows of Benedict’s cozy bedroom. His big body slumbers next to me, a mountain of warmth and comfort. I stretch slowly, unwilling to leave. At first he kept me tucked against him all night, as if preventing me from sneaking off. At some point he moved to the side but still kept a big hand splayed over my stomach possessively. I slept deeply. I haven't slept that way since I was a girl—without worry or troubled dreams. Without a care.
Shifting carefully to my side, I face my slumbering fiancé. His dark hair falls over his face and firm lips. His long lashes fan under his eyes. He left his shirt off, and I get a chance to properly examine his muscled chest. The smooth contours are sprinkled with dark, coarse hair. I remember with delight how his chest hair rubbed against my skin, chafing it. And my wrists still hold the memory of Benedict’s fingers shackling them, pinning them to the bed.
He’s beautiful in slumber. Maybe it’s his size but he’s still a solid, forceful presence, even asleep. Maybe that’s why I slept so well—my subconscious relaxed, knowing my bedmate could protect me.
How in the hell has this man remained unmarried and eligible for so long?
I want to touch his face, stroke his features, but I don’t want to wake him. His body is heavy with muscle—but when does he have time to work out? He rules his body with the same discipline as everything else.
I don't totally understand the succession rules of this kingdom and the huge headache of their complicated big deal and pomp and ceremony. But Benedict would make a great king. The country would be safe in his hands.
I misjudged him as arrogant. I hope others don’t make the same mistake. Yes, Benedict’s had every privilege, but he's worked so hard to prove himself. He deserves to rule. I hope I can help him achieve that, or at least make things easier for him.
But first a bath, or at least a shower. I'm a little sore in the best way. Besides, the duke might wake up presentable, but I need a little more help.
When I walk into the gorgeous master bath, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. With my wild mermaid hair, I look like a figure in a John William Waterhouse painting. My cheeks are flushed as if I've just orgasmed. Desire certainly is a great beautifier.
Not that the duke ever had a problem being attracted to me. It was always there, despite our wishes. I smirk at my reflection before heading to the gorgeous, Roman style tiled tub. Next to it is a wonder of chrome and glass and technology—a steam shower with about seven hundred knobs and buttons to regulate water pressure. Bath or shower, which to choose?
I decide on the bath, because if I press the wrong knob in the ultra-modern shower, it might shoot me into outer space. Again, the tub is right near the window, but the natural light and view of the tree outside is welcome.