Benedict
THE WOMAN FROM the confessional booth is sin in stilettos. Her angled bob accentuates her heart-shaped face, highlighting porcelain skin and perfect crimson-painted lips. While her mouth slants into a coy smile, eyes are said to be portals to the soul, and her violet-blue irises hint at secret pain.
“For the last time, who sent you?” I ask her gently, a wolf in lamb’s clothing. Because her unexpected performance has had the desired effect. My cock strains against the thick band of my boxer briefs, where I clamped it securely in place before pulling her out into the light. The air around us is perfumed by a salty, rich tang, a scent not unlike my own release, and yet beguilingly unique.
Is this what women smell like between their legs?
A muscle in my jaw twitches even as my nostrils involuntarily flare. My mouth waters.
“Sent me, Your Highness?” Her lilt reveals she is from Rosegate, the disputed territory on our northern border with Nightgardin.
Interesting.
Rosegate whores are notorious throughout Europe, hothouse flowers offered to elite clients for the price of what most people make in a year. And I can see the appeal. If I wasn’t planning on offering my inheritance to the church, I’d gladly use it to open this woman’s petals, to press my tongue to her bloom and drink in her dew.
“What makes you think someone sent me?”
I bunch my hands into fists, will my lust into an internal dungeon and padlock the door. My duty is to provide this woman respite from whatever spiritual matters weigh on her soul.
Nothing else.
“You passed by no less than four guard posts, then over acres upon acres of landscaped ground covered in Europe’s most state-of-the-art surveillance system. Yes, my child, someone indeed sent you to me.” But who would want to tempt me from the righteous path? Was it a trick of some discontented servant?
“Oh please.” She huffs a laugh but refuses to meet my gaze. “I’m no one’s child.”
She’s right, of course, even as she evades my question. Her ripe body is pure woman, but she is younger than my own twenty-seven years. If I were a betting man, I’d wager she was at most twenty, a young woman who should be busy studying at university, not here at the royal chapel, being paid to seduce an almost-priest.
“You have two choices.” I draw myself to my full six-foot-five-inch frame. “Either give up a name, or I’ll be forced to take you upstairs for questioning.” I don’t exactly know what that entails, but she can’t remain here in sight of Christ on the Cross. “Follow me.”
“Are we going to your bedchamber?” She skims her hands over her breasts, the tops spilling over her tight outfit, the skin soft and succulent as a peach.
“Not a chance.” I can’t question this woman anywhere near my bed.
That leaves one option.
I begin walking, my pace fast and unfaltering. I might not be heir, but I took my first steps in the throne room and arrogance is my default. I was raised to lead, to expect others to follow. After a moment, the sharp clicks of her heels behind me confirm my assumption that she is keeping up.
We enter my personal tower and I lead her up the spiral staircase. “Do we have far to go?” she asks after the second floor. “These boots aren’t made for walking.”
I’ll give her that, all right. They’re made to draw the eye to the lush curve of her shapely thighs.
“In here,” I say crisply as we stop in front of a carved oak door.
I open it, and the bright summer daylight shines dimly through the slitted windows, an architectural holdout from when medieval archers used these openings while stationed in the turret.
She scans the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and gasps. “I’ve never seen so many books in one place except at the royal library.”
I swallow a smile. My personal collection is rather extensive.”
Little does she know that hidden behind covers like A History of French Cathedral Gargoyles are entirely different reading materials: Story of O, The Joy of Sex, plus a stash of Greek and Egyptian erotic art. Studying sexual arts is something of a twisted hobby. While I may be inexperienced, I’m far from ignorant in the ways of giving and taking pleasure.
“Sit.” I gesture to a leather chair. It takes all my willpower not to revel in the length of her creamy thighs, exposed beneath her tiny skirt. I walk to an antique globe on a desk and give it a spin. “Were you sent by Nightgardin?”
Nightgardin is the kingdom to the north of our borders. Like Edenvale, it is small by modern standards, more a Luxembourg than France, but our mutual enmity has spanned centuries. For generations our two countries have warred through battles and of late, diplomacy, to control Rosegate, a much-admired city that sits on our border, claimed by both kingdoms.
Desperation darkens her gaze. “That’s not important.”
“I disagree. Nightgardin would take pleasure in exposing me as a hypocrite right before I take my holy vows.”
“Please, believe me.” Tears fill her eyes as her delectable bottom lip tremors. “I don’t know anything. The Madam simply informed me of my assignment. A town car picked me up and brought me here.”
My brow furrows at the anxiety in her voice.
“Crap.” She covers her face with her hands. “I am blowing this so hard. Madam will fire me without a second thought, and I will be royally screwed. Please, Highness. Father. Whatever. Let me suck you, fuck you. You can have me anywhere, penetrate any place.” She drops to her knees and tosses her hair back from her face.
“Anything?” Her offer warms my belly like a shot of scotch. “You’ll let me act out any fantasy? No inch of you is off-limits?”
Her pupils widen, the delicate vein in her neck pounds. “I am yours to command.”
Someone is hell-bent on sabotaging me. But the joke could be on them. Tonight’s encounter could grant me a path to redemption that no one has counted on.
This woman offers me the chance to break every rule. But what if I can withstand her angelic body? Here is the perfect way for me to cast doubt aside and prove myself worthy of taking my final vows.
“Stand up. I have a proposition.”
Ruby
I swallow hard. Whatever he proposes, it cannot be enough to sway me from my purpose. I must make him give in to his lust, make him trust me, or we will lose everything. I close my eyes and remind myself of the stories some of the other girls have told me, though these tales are nothing found in the books that line the library’s walls. They claim it wasn’t always like this, that the Madam had changed ever since she’d returned from a trip to Nightgardin a year ago. Now she punished her girls for losing a client—and let clients dole out whatever consequences they saw fit, as well.
I once lost a month’s wages for not swallowing when my client came in my mouth.
I know a girl who had her nose broken for telling her client he needed to bathe more often.
One girl got caught by her client’s wife. The Madam not only fired her but had them scar her face so no client would want her after that, just in case she tried to do business independent of The Jewel Box.
I don’t want to know who they are or how they enact physical punishment, but the prince has not yet kicked me out, so I will humor him and listen to what he proposes.
“What do you want from me?” I ask. “I’ve already offered you everything I have to give.”
Myself.
He