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The boys barrelled into the hall, still in their Illyrian fighting leathers and practically rolling over each other like beetles. Rhys laughed, and looked around him. It had been years since they had been back at the Court of Nightmares, and although he was relieved to be away from the harsh winds and snows of the training camps, the stiff court culture here would take some getting used to. Cassian clapped him on the shoulder.
“Back to civilisation, huh brother?”
Rhys smirked. “No more freezing our balls off day in and day out.”
Cassian shrugged. “If I remember correctly, we’re still in danger of that in this particular court.”
It was true. Although the Illyrians were brutish and rough, the courtiers were cold and malicious in a way that the warriors never were. Or at least were to your face.
“An hour until we’re supposed to be at this banquet,” Azriel reminded them both, and they all headed into their respective rooms to wash up.
In his chambers, Rhys dropped his leathers to the ground and sank into the already-full bath. He knew that Cassian felt more comfortable in the mountains than at court, but he had to admit, the camps would be greatly improved if only he could have had a hot bath. Rhys slid down to get his wings fully under water, and then grabbed a hold of a sponge and cleaned every last bit of mud from his skin. He hadn’t been this clean in… mother save him, in years , and he found himself lingering in the hot water, letting it seep into his tired bones.
When at last he was ready, Rhys hauled himself out of the bath and towelled off. He tucked his wings away—not much use for them here, and besides, they were a part of him he was not willing to share with the Nightmare court. Not when they came from his mother. Not with the way his mother had been treated here.
Rhys shaved his face, pushed his hair into a shape he liked, and finally slid into his black suit and jacket. It was armour of a different kind, and he rolled his neck to get used to the feeling again, missing the weight of the sword between his shoulder blades. If he still had to be in armour, at least here he could be well dressed.
The banquet bored him. The fine food, the chandeliers, and the coiffed guests were all part of a ritual he hadn’t had to endure in five years, and the charade of it all grated against him like a coarse wool sweater under his suit. Rhys, the only son of the High Lord, sat at the head of the table, sinking lower and lower into his chair as he drained glass after glass of wine.
The High Lord himself was not in attendance. He and Rhys’ mother were away on business in another part of the court, which meant Rhys had to be there in his stead. Rhys didn’t know how his father could stand it, sitting in this court day after day. Then again, Rhys and his father never did have much in common.
After the banquet was over, the revel began. Rhys slid from his dining room chair to the throne, and draped himself over it like the insolent heir they all believed him to be. All he truly wanted was to go back to his room, and lie in the 1000 thread count sheets, but he was obligated to endure the debauchery for a few hours more until it would be acceptable for him to depart.
Cassian and Azriel joined him shortly after, the former clamping his hands on Rhys’ shoulders and squeezing, and the latter topping up his wine glass.
“Why so glum, chum?” Cassian asked him. Rhys gestured vaguely towards the raucous, glittering assemblage.
“I forgot just how vile it all was,” he said. “I would burn this court to the ground if I didn’t think my father would tear my wings off for it.”
“It is vapid and cruel,” Azriel agreed thoughtfully, “but, there are certain… perks.”
Rhys raised a brow. “Like what?”
Cassian rolled his eyes. “Like, you’re the son of the High Lord and half these females would give their right hand for a taste of your royal cock.”
“Which makes them all the less appealing,” Rhys said, grimacing in distaste.
“Since when do you turn down a free fuck?” Cassian asked.
He snorted. “Since I hate everyone here.”
“Surely not everyone? ”
Rhys turned at the amused, silken female voice. He lifted his head from his hand, and grinned.
“Morrigan,” he said, and rose out of his throne to embrace her. Cassian and Azriel stood as well.
“Mor, you’re looking absolutely delectable as usual,” Cassian drawled with a salacious grin.
“I know,” Mor said. She smiled at Azriel. “Good to see you, Shadowsinger.”
“And you,” Azriel said with a light bow.
“Boys, allow me to introduce my dear friend, Feyre Archeron.”
From behind Mor, another female stepped up, whom Rhys had never seen before in the court. She had honey gold hair, grey-blue eyes, and the customary cruel mouth. She bowed to him, and he inclined his head.
“Cas, Az, come with me. I want to show you this astounding new sword that I… acquired while you were gone,” Mor said archly, and led the two males away, leaving Rhys alone with Feyre on the dais. “Play nice while I’m gone, you two,” Mor called over her shoulder.
“Friend of Mor’s, are you?” Rhys said to her, figuring he may as well make small talk. He dropped back onto the throne, disappointed at Mor’s sudden departure.
“Yes. I hear you’ve been away with the Illyrians these past decades,” Feyre replied.
“I have. I only come back every few years when my father has a job for me.”
“And how do you find they compare?”
“They say the courtiers have better breeding, but I think they simply hide their brutality under beauty, and that makes them all the worse.” No point in lying about it. Rhys wasn’t interested in keeping in anyone’s good graces here.
But Feyre laughed then, and suddenly her whole face changed. Her eyes lit up and her grin warmed her, and she was suddenly, breathtakingly beautiful.
Then as quickly as it had appeared, the warmth left. She schooled her face into the perfect Nightmare mask, and Rhys watched the whole thing with fascination. He tipped his head, intrigued.
“I suppose one could find similarities between the cultures,” she said, now back to the expected level of cool boredom. But Rhys had seen through it, and now in an enormous hall of simpering fools, he had one bright spark of interest. And it was all he wanted to do to crack that damn mask again, to see what lay underneath.
“Sit a while, would you?” he said to her. If she wanted to play this game… well then. He could play.
Feyre assessed him with a cool glance, then her eyes slid to the throne he was currently sprawled over.
“It would appear that all the seats are taken,” she drawled, eyes glinting with something that looked like mischief.
Rhys patted the arm of the throne beside him, at once a dare and an invitation.
“Then I suppose we will have to make do.”
He watched the corner of her mouth twitch up before she stepped forward, sliding gracefully onto the arm of his throne. She braced her shoulder against the back, and boldly slid her heel so that it rested next to his hip on the seat.
“How come I’ve never seen you here before?” Rhys asked, fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to stroke the elegant curve of her ankle, to see whether her skin was truly as soft as it looked. Feyre shrugged, her eyes darting out towards the crowd where he saw two of the courtiers staring up at them—females who had the same golden brown hair, though only one shared the same stormy, blue-grey eyes as Feyre—the one currently glaring at her, while the other, softer female had large, brown doe-eyes, completely out of place in this room of razor sharp smiles and poison glares. They both looked completely aghast at Feyre’s current position upon his throne, disbelief warring with jealousy and rage.
“My sisters wouldn’t allow me to join the revels of the court for a long time, and the other times I wasn’t here because I was with my father while he traveled for his trading business.”
Something triggered in his memory, a conversation he’d overheard his father having about Archeron, and the wealth he was bringing to the Night Court through his shrewd business and trading deals with other courts. Rhys hadn’t realized the male had three daughters, and clearly if it were up to the other two, Rhys wouldn’t have known there were three at all. The thought enraged him more than was probably reasonable.
He shared a conspiratorial smile with her, and took her hand in his.
“A beautiful princess locked away in a tower by her sisters, unable to attend the ball? I’m sure I’ve read that story before,” he teased, tracing idle patterns over her palm. Feyre scoffed, but he didn’t miss the light blush that stole across her cheeks at his touch.
“There’s only one issue with that story,” she said pointedly, sliding her heel so that it brushed against the outside of his hip, and Rhys couldn’t believe the sudden heat that swept through him. He felt like a callow youth who had never felt a female’s touch before, and it threw him completely off balance for a moment. “I’m not a princess.”
“Hmm… is that so?” Rhys drawled, sizing Feyre up for a moment. He took in the cruel, bored mask she wore—the one so similar to his own, the daggers her sisters were glaring at her, and his smirk widened into a grin. “Then we’ll just have to change that, won’t we?”
He snapped his fingers, producing a tiara of onyx and diamonds so small and numerous they looked like glittering stars against a night sky. Feyre’s eyes widened, her rose bud lips parting in shock as he gestured for her to lean forward, and their eyes locked as she did. Lilac and amber filled his senses, and he breathed in greedily, wanting to drown in her scent. How had he lived over half a century and never smelled anything as good?
He slid the tiara onto her head, adjusting the golden locks of her hair until they flowed beautifully around it. He felt a quickening in his gut at the sight, surprised at how much it affected him. It suited her far more than he’d expected.
“You certainly like to play games, my Lord,” she murmured, tongue darting out to wet her lips, and damn her—he wanted to be the one to do that. The sudden, aching desire floored him with its intensity. There was just something about her that drew him in. All he wanted was more, more, more .
Rhys let a lazy smirk pull at his lips. “Would you like to play another?”
He tried not to look too eager as she gave him another long, assessing look. He could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, weighing her options.
“I’m listening.”
Reckless. Rhys was reckless and foolish for wanting her so suddenly and intensely, for wanting to punish those sisters for hiding this charming beauty away from him all those years. But he couldn’t stop himself as he patted his thigh, raising a dark brow expectantly. “It must be awfully uncomfortable sitting on the arm of the throne like that, Feyre. Come here and stay a while.”
Rhysand told himself he was imagining the heat that flared in her gaze, but after only a half moment’s hesitation she leaned in further, letting him tug her onto his lap with a hand around her waist.
Feyre was only tense for a moment before she allowed herself to relax into him. She breathed out a low chuckle when she saw the utter rage cross her sisters’ faces, and turned resolutely back to him, as if they no longer mattered in the slightest. With a daring smirk, she took the wine glass straight from his hand, and took a long sip from it where his lips had been.
A female drinking wine was not that attractive. It wasn’t . But he would be damned if he hadn’t seen anything as sexy as the way her lips curved over it, the motion of her throat—
Cauldron damn him. Two could play at this game. When she handed the glass back, he turned it deliberately and took a drink from the same spot, letting his tongue dart out to catch an errant drop. Satisfaction curled through him as her eyes flickered down to watch the motion, and lingered longer than they should have. He let his free hand curved around her waist drift forwards, brushing along her hipbone with casual strokes, and he was rewarded with a stutter in her breathing and heartbeat. Not to be outdone, Feyre leaned back, swinging an irreverent leg over his knee, her other curling up beside her. She settled comfortably against him, like she always sat here, like she belonged on this throne and in his lap. Rhys glanced down, and he could tell from the cut of her dress she was wearing nothing underneath.
Biting back a curse, he took another deep draught of wine to steady his nerves.
“Something wrong, my Lord?” she breathed, batting her lashes up at him like the damned vixen she was. She knew exactly what she was doing to him, how every move she made was pushing him further and further towards the edge of his self-control. He narrowed his eyes at her, fighting desperately to keep his mask in place, to maintain the air of cruelty he relied on to garner respect from this vile court, but her lilac and amber scent was surrounding him, muddying his thoughts.
“Not at all,” he purred, letting his fingers trail lower until they brushed over the top of her thigh, and he was rewarded with her eyes glazing over with desire.
Yes, control. That was what he needed- get back in control. Cauldron damn him if he was going to lose to this little slip of a thing. So he passed the wine glass back to her, held her eyes as she sipped and then scratched his nails down the leg she had so callously thrown over him. Over the bare, cream and silk skin of her. Hip to knee. Slowly. And fuck, she felt better than he had even imagined.
Goosebumps trailed in his wake, and Rhys grinned feline at the responsiveness of her body. His free hand slid up her side and his fingers drifted over the bare skin over her ribcage. Coasting under her breast. She had stopped drinking now, her teeth set on the edge of the glass, unmoving. Her eyes burned on his. Rhys repeated the motion over her thigh, scratching harder this time, and in his peripherals he watched with delight as her legs fell open further. Just a little. Feyre hadn’t dropped her gaze from his but now, she didn’t see him. Saw nothing, and Rhys didn’t need to reach into her mind to know where she had gone. He loved it.
This time, instead of his nails, Rhys stroked lightly up and then smoothed the whole, hot flat of his palm downward, fingers curving over her thigh and fitting so perfectly over the shape of her that his control slipped, just for a second and he had to clamp down on the shudder that went through him. His fingers at her side squeezed reflexively. Feyre’s eyelids fluttered closed, and she leaned into him like she needed more of his touch. Oh yes. She was his.
Until her movement meant her ass moved right over his cock, and she realised he was completely hard underneath her.
Feyre’s eyes flickered back to the present, and the unseeing, glaze of lust cracked. A slow, predatory grin spread across her face. No no no, Rhys thought. Get back in control. Win the game. But now the wine glass was being set aside, and Feyre was sliding her hands around the back of his neck, her fingers curling in his hair making his concentration slide.
“My my,” she said silkily. “Well you do like to play games. I didn’t realise quite how much.” She started to move then, torturously slow and sinuously, so that if any revelers gave them a passing glance they might not notice. But up on the throne, her ass ground down on his lap, and through the gossamer of her dress, he could swear he could feel the delicious heat of her. Right over his pounding erection. Rhys pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, using every ounce of self-control he had not to lift his hips up to get more friction. His fingers tightened on her, cock aching and screaming at him to just grab her and pull her down on to him. Her waist was so small that his fingers covered her stomach easily. Itched to move lower.
“Tell me, my Lord,” she whispered in his ear, and the feel of her breath at his neck drove him wild. “Who do you think is winning this round?” She moved her face and slid the tip of her nose down his. “We could call it a draw, if you wish.” He stared at her gorgeous, full mouth, close enough that in one breath he could be kissing her. And then she ran her tongue over the edge of his bottom lip.
The tight leash he had on his control snapped entirely. Rhys caught her mouth in his and squeezed his hands, dragging her hips back and forth down his rock hard length just as his body had been demanding him to. Feyre’s breath caught and her gasp was only fuel to the raging inferno of desire that consumed him, made him forget entirely this infernal court and its inhabitants. There was only her, the feel of her lips, the heat of her pressed against him. He never wanted it to end.
And then Feyre laughed. A breathless, wild laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. Rhys snapped his eyes onto hers, and in her flushed face, her eyes gleamed bright. Damn her. Damn her, she was winning. And he could not have that. Rhys forced his limbs to cool, although his heart still thundered in his chest.
“Something funny, my Lady?” he asked her tightly. “Am I so amusing to you?”
“Oh,” she said lightly, “it’s just that I like the look of you when you’re losing.” Rhys’ eyes flared.
“Is that so?” he demanded. “Is that how you speak to your High Lord?”
“To be,” Feyre purred. “High Lord to be. ”
Rhys’ eyes widened in mock indignation. “You dare speak to me like this?” He ran his hands over her roughly, jostling her in his lap. She laughed again, genuinely this time, and the silver-bell peal of it had him breaking apart. He did it again, hoping to hear that laugh once more. Only this time, he made a mistake. Hands sliding slightly too far. Slightly too high, where he had only meant to graze her inner thigh. And entirely accidentally, discovered she was utterly, soaking wet from grinding on him.
Feyre went rigid as his fingers brushed against her, and for a second both of them just sat there in shock. Then Rhys bared his teeth.
“Oh you are in so. Much. Trouble,” he said. Then without further ado, he rose fluidly from the throne and in one smooth movement put Feyre right over his shoulder. She squeaked in surprise, and he adjusted her dress to make sure she wasn’t exposed to the court. Because a glance told him that they were all indeed now staring at them. Feyre’s sisters had not moved an inch from where they had stood when Feyre had first sat down.
“As you were,” he said cheerfully to the revelers. “And you, my dear,” he said quietly, just to Feyre as he walked away with her, “are going to learn a thing or two about paying deference to your High Lord.”
“ Almost High Lord,” she corrected again. The cheek of her, even slung over his shoulder and upside down. He landed a stinging slap across her backside in response. Feyre yelped and then giggled, and as he took them down the hall he was thrilled to realise that it was a real, genuine laugh. He hoped he could be rid of her damn mask entirely, because this Feyre, the one still cackling even with her face at his back was more radiant than the gods-damned moon itself.
Finally, when they were far enough down the hallway for the shadows to cloak them fully, he put her down on her feet. She leaned back, and Rhys placed his hands on the wall either side of her head and kissed her like he would devour her whole.
Feyre moaned into his mouth, and Rhys nearly went up in flames. She had the softest, sweetest lips. He slid one arm around her waist, tugging her closer until every delicious curve was pressed against him, her breasts crushed to his chest as his lips and tongue mated with hers, coaxing more of those delightful sounds from her. He couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t kiss her hard enough. One taste and he was addicted. Lost. Who was winning now? He no longer cared.
Rhys’ self control was already hanging on by a thread when Feyre hitched her leg around his hip, and he didn’t even think, just winnowed them to his room and pressed her to the closed door, capturing her lower lip between his teeth as he ground his throbbing cock into the v of her hips, earning a husky moan from her. He let his lips explore their way down to the hollow of her neck, kissing and sucking the skin there until she was a mewling, writhing mess in his arms. He couldn’t hold back his growl as he scraped his teeth along the soft line of her throat, his hands brushing down to squeeze her ass and pull her hips harder into the firm line of his cock.
“Rhys…” she sighed, and he gave a low, dark laugh.
“Yes darling?” He punctuated his words with another hard roll of his hips, and she gasped.
“Stop teasing me,” she demanded in a breathless whine, and Rhys smirked, pulling away.
Feyre opened her mouth to protest, but her words cut off when he dropped to his knees.
She watched, mouth agape as he trailed his fingers up the backs of her legs, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses in a trail from her knee to her hip. He raised a brow in question, lightly nipping the soft skin of her thigh.
“Never seen a high lord to be on his knees before, Feyre?”
She bit her lip, shaking her head as she lifted one leg and draped it over his shoulder. Used it to hook him in closer. His cock throbbed at her brazenness, but he wasn’t about to be the only one suffering from need.
He leaned in, ghosting a breath over the clothed apex of her thighs and her head fell back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. He watched the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing grew ragged, her nails digging into the stone wall behind her, and he tutted.
“You’ve been so demanding all night, Feyre darling. Don’t stop now. Tell me, what would you like your Lord to do?”
He scented the hot wave of lust that rolled off her at his words, and hid his smirk of triumph in a kiss against her inner thigh, so close to where he knew she really wanted him. Her eyes were like storms as she looked down at him, a flush mounted high on her cheekbones at the sight of him on his knees, between her thighs.
“Touch me, damn you,” she bit out, voice trembling slightly. He was relieved to know he wasn’t the only one affected.
“Hmm…” he sighed, brushing his nose back and forth over the line of her hip oh so slowly, teasing her. “Like this?”
He felt the sharp little pricks of her nails on his scalp a second before she was pulling him towards her, canting her hips up towards his mouth.
“No. There .”
“As my Lady demands,” he purred, pulling the thin panel of her dress to the side, silently thanking the gods for this damned court’s fashion sense, and pressed a kiss to her swollen, needy clit.
Her cry was the sweetest music to his ears as he let his tongue dart out to curl around the pearl, laving it with the flat of his tongue. He hummed in pleasure against her skin at the taste of her lust, deciding that this was his new favourite place to be. He could stay here for hours, bringing her to pleasure over and over again, drowning in the taste of her.
He pulled back, pressing a nipping kiss to her inner thigh that made her jump and whimper. “You taste so fucking good. Want to eat your pussy every day, Feyre.”
A keening whimper left her throat at his words, her delicate nails pricking at his scalp as she canted her hips up in supplication. He could only oblige, redoubling his efforts on her clit, her soaking core, groaning as he lapped up every drop of wetness that dripped from her.
Her thighs trembled beneath his hands as he held them spread open, pinning her hips against the wall as she began to falter under the pleasure, back arching off the wall. Her cries grew louder and more breathless as he licked, sucked, teased, and ate her with decadence bordering on desperation. He knew he could drown in her forever, happily abide in her thrall and still not get enough.
“Rhys! Rhys… oh gods, yes… so good…” she cried out, her knees buckling as he drew her clit into his mouth, flickering his tongue rapidly over it as he felt her begin to shudder. His cock ached with the need to bury himself deep inside her, but he wanted her mindless and wanting first, helpless under the pleasure he could bring her because when he got inside of her, he knew his control would be a distant thing of the past.
He moved his hand, sliding a gentle finger through her wetness, teasing her entrance before sliding into her, groaning at the hot grip of her muscles. Her wanton cries grew ragged as he added another, plunging them hard and deep inside of her. She was close, he could feel it as she clenched on his fingers over and over as he drove her pleasure higher.
He reached out to her mind, scraping sensuously over her mental shields, and she let him in after a moment with some effort.
Rhys?
Come for me, Feyre. I want you to come all over my tongue .
He held her up as she shattered at his words, his name spilling from her lips in a litany of prayers. He didn’t let up on the pressure of his fingers inside of her or his tongue licking and rubbing her clit, drawing it out until she was pushing at his shoulders, hoarsely begging for reprieve. He gave a low chuckle, finally easing her down from her high.
“Such a good girl, coming for me like that,” he said as he lifted her up, carrying her effortlessly to the bed and depositing her on the covers. She whimpered, pulling at the edge of his tunic, and he let her strip it from him, taking a moment to stare down at this female sprawled across his bed like his own personal feast.
Gods, she was beautiful. Every fucking part of her was beautiful.
He finished divesting himself of clothing before slowly peeling the dress off of her, resisting the urge to tear it off and opting instead to unwrap her. To slowly uncover more and more of her soft skin that he peppered with kisses and nipping bites, enjoying how she arched into his touch, cried out for him. She was completely bare of any bargain tattoos, her body supple and lithe at every angle, every curve. He wanted to taste every inch of her, worship her. He wanted to think of something, anything to bargain with her for, to mark her as his. The intensity of the desire shocked a distant part of him, but he was too far gone to wonder about it for long.
He longed for nothing but her touch, it was all he could think about. He’d never felt that need before bursting into riotous bloom in his chest, the sharp, all-consuming desire to have, to take. He’d had females before but never had he been so ravenous, so hell-bent on claiming anyone for his own. He could barely think past the driving thought playing on an endless loop: mine, mine, mine .
Feyre was clearly done with the teasing as she hitched her legs around his hips, and tugged him closer.
Rhys’ heart nearly stopped as his cock glanced against the searing wet heat of her, and he met her drowsy, lustful gaze, the blue-grey storm of her eyes drowning him. He never wanted to leave.
“What is it that you want, Feyre darling?” he asked, letting a sly grin pull at his lips. One last shot at restraint.
It didn’t last long as she leaned up and captured his lower lip between his teeth, tugging on it playfully before saying: “I want you to fuck me, my Lord .” Heat flushed down his spine.
“As you wish,” he purred, and pressed her knees further apart.
He fisted his cock, nudging at her entrance, and slowly pressing inside her tight sheath, biting back a moan at the sensation. Feyre’s harsh cry pierced the air around them, her body tightening as she struggled to adjust.
“ Fuck , Feyre. So hot and wet for me… shit,” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he fought with everything inside of him to move slowly, to not take her like a lust-crazed beast, but he was nearly out of his mind with pleasure.
“More, Rhys,” she gasped, her delicate nails clawing at his shoulders now, making his cock throb at the sensation as it blended and melded with the pleasure, heightening it. Gods, she was going to be the death of him. “Please.” He slid almost all the way out, then excruciatingly slowly, slid all the way back in. The world flickered around him.
“So fucking tight,” he hissed, pushing in an inch further. He was dying, flying in her arms as pleasure so exquisite it was almost pain thundered through him with every stroke.
“Please," she gasped again, desperately this time, and the sound of her begging him with his cock buried inside her had his hips snapping forward involuntarily, harder than he had intended. And there it was again, that driving, demanding chant of mine, mine, mine that had him speeding up his thrusts despite himself. He fought for control, sinking his teeth into Feyre’s skin as if that could tether him. But then she dug her nails into his ass, pulling him further towards her with her knees as well as her hands as she breathed, “ More .”
He was lost.
“Feyre,” he groaned. Have mercy, he almost pleaded. He rocked into her, matching the pace of her heartbeat that seemed to roar in his ears and sing to his blood.
“Everything, give me everything,” she begged, and that was it. Her words broke him altogether.
Rhys pounded into her like it was his last night on earth, white hot knives of pleasure raking down his spine with every thrust. He saw nothing but the ocean of her eyes and the beautiful stain of her lips, the pretty flush reaching down to her breasts. His vision went black at the edges, as the pleasure became a living thing, a shining golden thread stretched taut between them.
“Is this what you want, Feyre?” he panted, dipping down to lick and tug her nipple between his teeth, earning a broken cry from her. He soothed the small hurt with his tongue, glancing back up at her. “Is this what you needed?”
“Yes,” Feyre moaned.
“You need it hard like this?”
“Gods yes, yes…”
“You’re mine , Feyre. All mine. All…” Rhys’ breathing grew ragged now, hips snapping into hers, and Feyre’s eyes rolled back in her head, her lovely mouth parting in a delicate O as she gave herself over to the pleasure. He groaned, knowing the sight her unraveling beneath him would haunt him for weeks.
“Could fuck you for days, Feyre. Bury myself so hard and deep in this pussy you’ll never know anyone’s touch but mine,” he growled, hitching her leg up higher so he could go deeper. Harder. Her moans grew in pitch as she clawed at his shoulders, hips canting wildly into the new angle. “You gonna come again, darling?” he said to her, desperate to feel it. He needed it more than his next breath. Her mouth moved, but no words came. “Come for me,” he told her. “Come with my name in your mouth.” He changed the angle of his thrusts so he rubbed against her clit as he fucked her, watching her trying and struggling to speak.
“Rhys ,” she breathed. “Rhys, fuck, fuck— Rhys… ”
“That’s it,” he crooned, picking up his pace. “Just like that, Feyre. Let go."
“Rhy—” her voice choked off abruptly, and then she was shattering, clenching around his cock so tightly and perfectly that he only just managed to keep fucking her through her climax and then fell sharply over the edge just as she was coming down.
Rhys shuddered into her, a deep groan tearing from his throat that reverberated through the iron bed frame. His release tore through his soul, remaking him anew with fiery, blistering heat. He swore as his body shook violently a second time, teeth clicking together and hips jerking against Feyre’s as he spent himself deep inside of her. Finally he collapsed against her, face buried in her chest as he breathed deeply, glorying in the smell of his lust laid over her velvet skin.
Hours or moments later, Feyre let out a breathless giggle underneath him. Rhys glanced up, catching her eye, and then she burst into laughter so lovely it took Rhys’ breath away. This was the woman he had glimpsed beneath the mask. This was what he was searching for. He wanted so much to keep her just this way that before he knew it he was hard again inside her, making her gasp.
He raised a brow, and thrusted lazily into her, wanting to revel in the feel of her, stay deep inside of her for days and days and never come up for air. Feyre’s eyes grew bright and her breath caught at his movements. She slid her hands up over his chest as she undulated against him, grinding her hips into his.
“Not sated, my Lord?” she asked breathlessly.
“Of you, my Lady? Never.” A wicked gleam stole into her eyes.
“Does that mean I win the game?” she asked coyly. Rhys stopped moving. Feyre frowned. Wriggled her hips, but Rhys just stared down at her impassively. She mewled in protest, eyes sparking with lust and ire.
“Well let’s see,” Rhys drawled, and suddenly withdrew and thrust into her hard. Just once. Feyre gasped, back arching off the bed. “I’ve made you come twice so far,” he pointed out, and then slammed into her again. Stopped still. Feyre moaned, breathing hard as she clenched around him, growing wetter once more at the intrusion. “And yet you’re still just as desperate for me.” He thrust into her again, and this time when he stopped moving Feyre clawed at his chest, her delicate nails deliciously sharp against his skin. Rhys grinned lazily. “Do you want more, Feyre darling?” he asked, leaning down to trail his lips over one peaked breast, tugging the straining tip with his teeth briefly making her gasp. He pulled back, and raised a brow expectantly. “Beg me.”
“Please,” Feyre whispered, smile long gone now as she flushed to the roots of her hair, legs trembling around him.
“What was that?” he murmured, pulling back so just the tip of his cock remained at her entrance.
“Please Rhys,” Feyre pleaded, trying to arch closer, but Rhys was immovable.
“Please, what?” he asked, tilting his head to the side, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips.
“Please High Lord, ” Feyre finally whimpered. Rhys snarled, flipping her over and fucking her until she was shaking and screaming and coming with tears running down her face, his name a spilled prayer from her lips.
Afterward, when they were sprawled on the bed, utterly spent, Rhys turned his head to Feyre with a feline smirk and said, “And that’s how you win the game, Feyre dear.”
Feyre just shuffled to get her arm behind her head and said nonchalantly to the ceiling, “Oh, I don’t know. I’m fairly certain our orgasms stand three to two at the moment, and that’s not what’d I’d call losing.” She turned and flashed a wicked grin, and Rhys was pretty sure in that moment he’d just have to keep her here forever.