Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
The thought of being watched…of having to act out the very fantasies that haunted his most secret self, was both horrifying and…fucking hot. The shame of Yonnie Six and his time with Mistress Lovelyone—the thing he kept locked in a dark box in his mind—was now the key to their mission’s success.
To touch Kaitlyn again, to serve her—not just in a private fantasy, but as part of his duty, well… it was a twisted permission slip his body was screaming to use.
He just had to maintain control. Braze told himself sternly. He couldn’t lose himself in this fantasy come true. And he needed to get hold of himself right away. If he came now, like an untried boy, just from the silken brush of fabric and the memory of her scent…
No. He clenched his jaw until it ached, focusing on the herald’s back, on the intricate gold embroidery of the man’s livery, on anything but the warm, willing woman walking beside him, her own breathing still slightly uneven and her scent still hot and tempting. Slowly, his need began to fade—or at least he had better control of it.
The opulent corridor gave way to a narrower, quieter wing. The pearl-stone was replaced by warm, honey-gold wood, intricately carved with patterns of intertwining vines. The cloying perfume faded, replaced by the cleaner scents of linen, starch, and fabric.
At last, they stopped before a small, unassuming door. It was made of the same golden wood, polished to a soft gleam. A simple plaque of brushed bronze was affixed to it at eye level. In elegant, flowing script, it read:
Mistress of the Wardrobe.
The herald gave a shallow bow, his face impassive.
“You will wait here. The Mistress will attend you shortly.” Without another word, he turned and glided away, leaving them standing alone in the silent hallway.
The silence was so thick he could have cut it with a knife. Braze didn’t know what to say. He could hear the rush of his own blood in his ears and the faint rustle of Kaitlyn’s skirt as she shifted her weight. He stared at the closed door, a new kind of dread settling over him. The throne room had been just the beginning of their act. This place—whatever lay behind this door—was about preparation for the banquet and the performance to come.
He didn’t trust himself to look at Kaitlyn. He wanted to apologize for sucking her nipples without permission, but he was afraid if he started talking, someone might hear and wonder why he was apologizing to his wife for giving her pleasure.
So, he just kept his gaze fixed on the bronze plaque, every nerve ending in his body begging for relief, his cock throbbing a relentless, desperate rhythm against its silken prison. Control, he needed control—he had to find it.
Somewhere.
7
KAITLYN
The silence in the golden-wood hallway was thick enough to choke on. Kaitlyn stood beside Braze, acutely aware of every inch of space between them… of the heat radiating from his big body…of the faint, damp patch she could see darkening the maroon silk panel at his groin. She felt like she ought to say something—maybe an apology for letting things go so far? A question about why he had sucked her nipples without talking about it first? Speculation about what the hell they were supposed to do next?
But the feeling of unseen eyes prickled at the back of her neck. The palace felt alive…watchful. So she stayed quiet, and Braze, a statue of tense muscle beside her, did the same. The big Kindred’s jaw was clenched and his golden eyes were fixed on the door with an intensity that suggested he was trying to burn a hole through it.
Just as she raised a hand, thinking she should probably knock, the door swung inward.
A small woman peered up at them. Her skin was a soft, rosy pink, covered in a delicate pattern of cobalt-blue spots that swirled like constellations across her cheeks and forehead. Her hair was pure white, piled in an elaborate braided crown atop her head, and her eyes were a sharp, intelligent black.
“Ah,” she said, her voice as dry as the rustle of parchment. “You must be the lovely couple Her Majesty said was coming. Come in, come in. Don’t dawdle in the hall.”
She ushered them into a chamber that was less a room and more a huge jumble of textiles. Kaitlyn looked around with wide eyes, momentarily overwhelmed. The space was vast, with ceilings lost in shadowy drapery.
Every wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling racks holding bolts of fabric in every imaginable hue and texture—shimmering silks that looked like captured moonlight…rich velvets the color of crushed berries in deep forests… diaphanous gauzes floating like colored mist, and sturdy, tooled leathers in blacks and browns. Long worktables were buried under swathes of lace, intricate beadwork, and spools of metallic thread. In one corner, dress forms of various sizes stood like silent sentinels, some draped in half-finished garments.