Cool hands gripped my hips, sliding me onto a narrow lap that was all hard muscle. My eyes snapped open. When soft hair swept my cheek, and the scent of herbal green tea, like a wintry breeze across wild grasses, shivered through me, I knew that it was Willoughby’s lap.
I squirmed but even as I tried to pull away because my sexy wee self was sitting on an elf’s lap in front of everybody (at least there was no hard dick poking against me as there would’ve been, if I’d wiggled around like this on top of Sleipnir), I pressed more firmly against Willoughby and moaned. Could I help it if my cute body knew what it needed more than my brain, and if Willoughby found me pettable, even at my least pettable level for years?
Witness the mesmerizing power of an incubus’ arse.
Willoughby only tightened his arms in silence, calmly running his fingers up and down my arms, before turning my hands over and tracing patterns across my gloved palm. I ached to go skin to skin with him. His touch was nothing like the rough massage that I’d been dreading from the Princes. I arched, panting at the excruciating but perfect touch. I could’ve kissed him that he hadn’t made me ask for this. The Duchess had loved how I’d begged. How had Willoughby known that to speak would’ve been too much for me?
Willoughby’s lips brushed my ear, as if he’d sensed my darkening thoughts. Then he hummed like a tinkling waterfall…promising to show me Aladdin’s “A Whole New World.”
I had the sudden image of Lysander playing Disney songs to the regal elf, as they cuddled.
Away with you, it could happen.
I giggled, and Willoughby danced his fingers down my chest. Everywhere he touched hummed in joy along with him, rather than pain. When I caught Willoughby’s hand between mine, tracing his palm back in turn (because never let it be said that an incubus of the Night lineage was selfish with pleasure), he broke off his humming, smothering a groan.
I preened. This incubus still had it.
Serenity’s voice crooned, “That’s a fine sight. Massage his earlobes. It’s a pressure point. Science can’t be wrong, hmm? Perhaps, the witch can massage your earlobes next, godling…”
Sleipnir stopped playing with a twang of wrong notes. “No one’s getting near my ears. Just call me the God of Relaxation.” He sprawled on his side, pillowing his head on Magenta’s lap, as Fox carded his fingers through his hair. “See?”
In the silence, I was certain that Serenity was pouting.
Willoughby’s low chuckle tickled my ear, and his fingers massaged my earlobes. Wow, he’d discovered a secret line straight to my dick that tented my pants like an eager puppy.
Yep, that was the massaging goodness. Come to the stressed-out incubus…
“If you desire to keep massaging them…” I sighed.
Willoughby chuckled again.
Lysander slammed down the bowl, and the spoon clattered with a spray of chocolate dessert onto the floor. I frowned. Ma always taught me to lick every trace of pudding clean, which hadn’t appeared sinister at the time. Now I’d discovered more about my role as a bonded, licking didn’t feel so innocent.
“Are you satisfied, master?” Lysander arched his brow.
Midnight stretched out his wings with a smile. “You always satisfy me, my prince.” His voice had a soft Welsh lilt; it was gentle, teasing, and didn’t tremor with its usual fear.
I wished that us Immortals had been able to reward Midnight with more than one night of freedom.
Lysander blinked like he’d expected a slap, rather than the tender response. But then, Midnight’s gorgeous ass wasn’t the same as his bastard one. “Well, be that as it may, my noble personage most certainly am not.”
Lysander smoothed down the front of his apron to ensure his modesty. I smirked; I’d bet my slinky cuteness that he was hard under there. His pale thighs already peeked out of the silky fabric. It’d be a fine thing if the apron rode a wee bit higher… Objectification was allowed if it was of a fae prince who made his own whipping boy crawl around naked. That had to be in the rule book. Probably in small writing. Seriously, look it up.
Magenta studied Lysander. “If it’s any consolation, you make as fair a maid as a man.”
Lysander reddened, starting to rise, but Midnight laid his hand lightly on his knee.
“Don’t start and make trouble.” Wow, who’d known that Midnight could sound so commanding?
Willoughby paused in his massaging. I squirmed around to encourage him to start again, but he’d frozen, watching the role reversal between the whipping boy and prince.
Lysander stared at Midnight and then he swallowed. “One cares not about the insult. What shall not stand is that we drew in the Rebel Cup today, which means that only three days remains to settle who wins overall. We all know how high the stakes are.” His gaze flicked to Fox, whose hold had tightened around Magenta, before settling once more on Midnight. Then he stroked his fingers, just once, along Midnight’s wingtip. “I would’ve thought you more than most, master.”
“By my fangs, I never asked you to call me master,” Midnight murmured. Lysander flushed. “Look you, the Rebel Cup is rigged by the House of Crows. You can battle all you like, but one side has to lose.”
“I shan’t let it be us,” Lysander hissed.
“And I shan’t allow the Immortals to lose either.” Magenta clasped her arms around Fox; her eyes flashed.
“Then we’re at an impasse.” Lysander knelt straighter, as something malevolent glimmered in his eyes. “So, let’s act like the royalty and immortals that we are and take back the control. Every Friday, one Wing of the academy has to complete a mission. It’s why we train, after all. Why don’t we settle who that is between us now like gentlemen…and women, of course?”
Not another mission.
I growled, wrenching away from Willoughby and wrapping my arms around myself.
Missions: I hated them. Simply because each of our supernatural societies had decided to imprison us, we’d become expendable. Damelza sent either the Princes or the Immortals on missions that the patrons of the school paid for (and they weren’t to bring presents to kids in orphanages).
Last term, I’d refused to go on my first mission because I’d said that it was against my code to be an assassin. Damelza had hung Hector from Hecate’s statue, and threatened that if I didn’t fight in her army, then she’d kill him.
I’d chosen Hector over my code. But then, I’d already been a broken incubus. Did it matter if I broke myself?
“Of course,” Magenta replied, coolly. “What do you suggest?”
Lysander’s wings beat eagerly. “A game: the losing side goes on the mission.”
Sleipnir sat up. “How can we trust you to play it honestly?”
Lysander’s eyes narrowed. “How can I trust you?”
Fox untangled himself from Magenta, thrumming with sudden energy. “Just call me Grandmaster Wizard of Games. It’s my secret title, handed down for generations to those who have the magic touch at Pictionary, Cluedo, and Scrabble. Okay, which of you bitches wants to test a Grandmaster Wizard’s skills?”
Lysander pulled at a thread on the carpet, unraveling it. “One believes that strip poker would be more appropriate.”
Instantly, Midnight sat up, wrapping his wing around Lysander as if he was protecting his slave’s modesty. Interesting.