“I did, your Majesty.” She inclined her head, unwilling to leave the comfort of the water for a more formal greeting—in any case; it was impossible to curtsey without a skirt to hold.
Her jaw dropped as he stripped off his clothing, revealing his body to her once more. “I brought you a present,” he said, approaching with a small drawstring bag.
“W-what are you doing?” she asked as he stepped into the tub.
He arched a brow. “Joining you, of course. Is there a problem?”
“No.” She mustn’t complain. He was being fairly lenient with her, after all.
“Good.” He pulled open the drawstring bag and upended it, pouring a stream of crystals into the water—bathing salts, she realized. The scent of jasmine filled the air, and she sighed. Bathing salts were a luxury she had never been able to afford.
She barely protested when he took the washcloth and soap from her hands and took over the job of cleaning her. His hands were gentle as he ran the soapy cloth over her back, shoulders, arms, and she shivered as he lathered her br**sts. The washcloth moved down her abdomen, then between her thighs, and she whimpered.
“Does that feel good?” he murmured in her ear, replacing the washcloth with his fingers.
“Oh, yes,” she breathed, gripping his bare shoulders as her head fell back.
He traced the shell of her ear with his tongue. “Do you want more?”
“I…” she had promised herself not to beg him. “If you so desire.”
Chuckling, he pushed a long finger inside her, and she cried out in shock and pleasure. “I will make you beg, Miss Thomas.”
Cordova gasped as he slowly worked his finger in and out, in and out. She would not beg. She would not.
He shrugged. “Don’t fight it,” he mocked, inserting another finger and coercing another cry from her. She bucked her hips, trying to grind herself against his fingers, but he gripped her h*ps tightly with his free hand, having none of it. Inserting another finger, he stretched her fully, but kept up his slow, torturous pace until she was trembling all over, tears threatening.
“Is something wrong?” he asked innocently, nibbling at her jawline.
“N-no…” Cordova stammered, then bit her lip to keep from crying out as he flicked his thumb across her sweet spot, lightning fast.
“You are sure?” he asked, lips twitching. “There is not anything you… need?”
“I…” she gasped as he ducked his head and swirled his tongue around her left nipple, tonguing the areola. “No. Nothing.” Her h*ps bucked instinctively as he flicked his thumb across the nub between her legs again, bellying her words, and he laughed.
“Rest assured, woman, I could do this all day.” It was perfectly true. He loved to watch her face—it was so open, expressive, and currently flushed with passion. “If you want release, you will have to tell me what you want.”
Cordova bit down on her lower lip to keep another moan from escaping as he continued to torture her with his fingers. She knew he wasn’t going to let her go, but surely he couldn’t let this go on forever. He would take pity on her. He had to.
“Well, if there’s nothing you need, I suppose I will just be on my way.” He started to withdraw his fingers, and arched his brow when her hand shot out to grip his wrist.
“Please,” she panted. “Don’t leave me like this.”
“Like what?” he asked. “I thought you were fine.”
She wanted to scream in frustration. “You know I’m not.”
“Then what is it you want?” he brushed his fingers gently against her folds, and her h*ps bucked.
“I want…” She swallowed. “I want you inside me.”
“Hmm.” He shifted to bring his shaft into contact with her core, and she moaned. “Do you now?”
“Yes!” she sobbed as he rubbed the head of his c*ck back and forth across her entrance. “Please! I… please!”
“You had but to ask,” he assured her, surging inside her with one smooth thrust, and they moaned simultaneously. Gripping her hips, he lifted her up, and then slammed her back down onto his shaft, repeating the motion over and over again, sending arcs of pleasure racing through both of them. Her br**sts bounced wildly as she mewled her pleasure and he caught a nipple between his teeth, nipping and suckling the taut, rosy bud. Gods, she tasted sweet. And those curves… he gripped her bottom in his hands, kneading the flesh with his fingers.
Cordova didn’t think it was possible, but the pleasure was even greater than it had been last time. Every time his shaft moved inside her it brushed against that sweet spot, heightening the pleasure further. Planting her knees firmly onto the bottom of the tub she rode him, undulating her h*ps to match his pace, delighted when his eyes darkened and another deep groan rumbled up from his chest. The orgasm slammed into her suddenly, sweeping her away so that she saw a blanket of stars, and her screams echoed off the walls.
“Cordova!” Lyon shouted as he spurt his seed, this time inside her. Gods, he’d meant to pull out, but she felt so good that he couldn’t bring himself to leave her body. She slumped on top of him and he cradled her head against his chest.
Cordova curled into his lap, content to listen to his heartbeat gradually slowing. She knew they couldn’t stay this way forever—the water would cool eventually—but she didn’t want him to leave just yet. He was her only company, after all.
“I chose to make you my mistress because I like your honesty.”
“What?” she looked up at him. Where had this come from?
“You asked me why I spared you yesterday.” He arched his brows. “The majority of the ladies at court are greedy, conniving creatures—they will do anything to get into my bed because they want the wealth I can provide them should I choose, and the prestige of having lain with the King. But you dared to speak what was on your mind, regardless of the consequences, and I find that refreshing.” He stroked her cheek gently. “And despite that hideous dress you were brought before me wearing, I could already see that none of those women could hold a candle to your beauty. You are exquisite.”
“I still think you are a tyrant,” she reminded him, doing the best to ignore the flush of pleasure his words caused. “No amount of flattering is going to change that.”
His eyes cooled, the tenderness leaving them. “That is your choice.” He stood, water sluicing off his body, and stepped from the tub. “Just remember that you would do well to remind yourself that you are still at my mercy. And that for as long as I choose to keep you, your body is mine to do with as I wish.”
Cordova watched him leave, barely refraining from heaving the bar of soap at him. She wanted to cry in frustration at the hand that fate dealt her, but she would not. Be strong, she reminded herself. Strong women did not cry at the drop of a hat.
****
The King did not return, and Cordova spent the rest of the day in peaceful, if not lonely solitude. She’d donned her grey dress again, both in defiance of the King and because she was not yet willing to try on any of the fine clothes in her new wardrobe, no matter how soft and wonderful the material looked and felt. The suite had a pantry of sorts, and she’d helped herself to the dried meats and fruit within.
Aside from the guard who came to deliver her luncheon and supper, she saw no one. The drawing room had a piano, and so after supper she spent a long while relearning the keys and practicing the pieces she’d learned in childhood. Her parents had never been able to afford a piano or a tutor, but an elderly neighbor who’d owned one had taught her a few things in her spare time.
The music relaxed her, so that she did not notice the King had entered the drawing room and now stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb as he watched her play. Her hands flew over the keys with the same depth of precision that another woman’s might handle a loom—the difference being that one wove threads, while the other wove sounds into a tapestry of delight.
He stood there for a long time, simply content to listen to her play—which surprised him. After all, he’d only come down for a quick tumble, to relieve some of his pent up frustration that the day’s proceedings had left him with. He knew she didn’t like him, didn’t approve of his ways, and since he wasn’t going to try and change that there was no point in cultivating a real relationship.
Yet there he stood, making no move to interrupt her, simply enjoying her as she was.
Cordova’s hands stilled as she finished the piece, and then stiffened when she heard someone clapping. Turning slowly, she saw King Lyon, and a flush crept over her face that wasn’t entirely due to embarrassment.
“How long have you been standing there?” she demanded, forgetting that she’d decided to subdue herself so as not to get into any more trouble.
“Long enough to know that with proper training, you could be an extraordinary pianist.” He smiled, the expression at odds with the hungry look in his eyes. Did he always have to look at her in quite that way? Didn’t it know that it turned her brains to mush, her knees to jelly?
“Be that as it may, it is very rude to intrude unannounced. Surely you knew I was not expecting an audience.”
“I don’t recall the necessity of asking your permission,” the King replied smoothly, and there was annoyance in his eyes now. He crossed the distance between them and Cordova stiffened further, unsure as to his intentions. She was surprised when, rather than kissing her or laying a hand on her as his behavior suggested he wanted to do, he sat down beside her on the piano bench.
“Play something,” he demanded.
Cordova sucked in a breath. She wanted to retort, but found his proximity robbed her of speech—his powerful thigh muscles brushed against hers, inciting more shivers along with a quivering in her womb. Knowing it would be unwise to refuse, she flexed her fingers to stop their trembling, then placed her hands on the keys and allowed the first melody that came to mind to flow through her fingers—a ballad.
She nearly missed a note when the King began to sing, and had to make a conscious effort to keep her eyes focused on the keys instead of turning to look at him like she so desperately wanted. His voice was wonderful, rich and flowing and masculine, like sound spun into heavy silk. What surprised her most was that he knew the lyrics; it was a song about forgiveness, passion, and tender words between lovers. To be able to sing it with such a depth of emotion indicated that he empathized, even understood, and that was not something she expected. Or could easily accept.
When the last strains of the melody faded away, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “You have a lovely voice.”
His eyes were intent on hers; unreadable. “Taking the frown on your face into consideration, I am not sure that I believe you.”
Cordova hesitated. “I just never…”
“… Thought that I sang? I am not surprised, Miss. Thomas.” He laughed bitterly. “To you I am just a lout, a petty tyrant who revels in war and suffering. Of course in your mind it shouldn’t be possible for me to have an appreciation for the finer, more delicate things in life. And I shouldn’t, not when my grandfather worked so hard to beat it out of me at such a young age.”