Page 72 of Slaying the Shifter Prince
His eyes flashed wide as I met his gaze, now on my back. I held it as I peeled the remains of my dress away and wriggled it over my hips to the floor. He watched its progress, pupils wide and so dark I could’ve drowned in them.
Bare before him, I nodded once.
His broad chest rose in a long, long breath.
The instant it lowered, it was like he made a decision. He tilted the candle, letting a drop of wax fall on my belly. At the same time, he reached out with his other hand and grabbed a bottle of oil from the table. The fae drizzled it over salad leaves, but now he poured its gold-green stream over my nipples.
Its sudden coolness caught my breath, a delicious contrast with the hot wax still stippling my stomach.
With a swipe of his thumb, he coated the oil over one nipple, then the other, shooting pleasure to my centre with those all-too-brief touches.
“It makes the wax easier to remove.” One side of his mouth rose. “But it doesn’t dull the heat.”
His gaze pierced me as he moved the candle over my breast and slowly, slowly tilted it.
A single drop of wax fell.
I cried out, arched, my mind momentarily a blank at the searing pain. It faded quickly, leaving me breathless.
He watched me with hooded eyes, his intensity scorching my nerves. He waited for my breathing to almost return to normal before he delivered another spot of wax.
My nails scratched over the table, searching for purchase, for some sense of reality in this waking dream.
There was none.
Reality had left us.
“That’s it, little bird, you can take it.” A roughness had taken over his voice, leaving it gravelly. He smiled, part cruel, part private pleasure. “I knew you could.”
It seemed he’d forgotten about lifting curses and punishment, too.
We were no longer a cruel prince and the witch who’d cursed him.
We were something else entirely.
Both master and possession. Both hate and want. Both driving and driven.
With each drop of wax, he stole my breath and his grew heavier. He stood between my legs, a telltale bulge in his trousers. He pinned my waist, claws prickling me in glorious spikes of sensation.
Finally, when my chest was coated, he discarded the candle and stood back, as though admiring his creation. My breasts felt contained, like I wore clothing too tight.
With a smile, he used a firm sweep of his thumbs to crumble the shell away.
Compared to the solidified wax, his skin was warm and living. I couldn’t help arching, biting my lip as I watched him massage it away.
His eyebrows peaked together as his gaze shifted from mine to his touch and back again. “Fuck.” It came out of him as he worked my nipples, circling their tight tips long after the wax was gone, then, “Zita.”
He said it like it was a curse.
Like it was a prayer.
Like it was loved and loathed and something he couldn’t live without, a bitter medicine he needed to survive.
Then his mouth closed over the peak of my breast. Hot and wet, a thundering of sensation. He ran the length of his tongue over me. Its roughness was harsh, so near painful it had me crying out. He sucked and lapped my nipple again, drawing every muscle in me taut as though I held a pose for an adoring audience.
He was my only audience, and he consumed me with his gaze as much as with his mouth.
Somehow, my hands were in his hair, holding him against me. I pulled off his crown and traced my nails over his scalp. He moaned onto me, the vibration shooting pleasure to my pussy, which was wet and wanting.
