Some things—most things, when it came to Arcas—did not need to be verbalized.
She stood before him, his chest rising and falling a little quicker than it had a moment ago, and slipped the top of her dress to her waist.
Her intentions were clear, and Arcas had never quite been able to deny her what she wanted any more than Mirquios had. She let her eyes linger on his for a moment longer, and then it was as if all the strings in the air between them snapped and collapsed in on one another.
Arcas crashed into her, his fingers hungry to wrap around her flesh once more—to pinch, pull, and feel the weight of her. She looped her arms around his neck, enjoying the intoxicating duality of his nature as it rained over her.
He tasted every bit as poisonous as he always had, but somehow that venom living in his blood was less bitter, nearly tolerable after this evening. After what he’d given up for her.
For them.
His hands greedily snatched up every bit of skin she offered, all too aware this may be the last time he’d ever touch her.
And then there was the king. Mirquios’s strong hands circled her hips, pushing away at what remained of her dress and tugging the closures of her corset violently, setting her skin on fire as he pressed into her backside, his desire for her—for all of her, no matter what that meant—impossible to deny. He placed searing kisses on her bare shoulders, nipping at her skin.
The sharp pain grounded her, made her intensely aware of her body, and kept her mind from floating into the ether as Arcas moaned into her mouth.
She reached a hand back, stroking Mirquios through his pants as her tongue tangled with Arcas.
She burned alive, heaven and hell, her angel and her devil, both willing to do anything to make her sing their praises. Tomorrow would be painful—even if it all went to plan. But tonight, tonight, Lunelle was a queen to her two most loyal subjects.
She released Mirquios, only to arch her spine and shove her ass into his hands, begging for more pressure, more friction, more anything from him. The prince leaned his hips forward, following hers, the pressure of his want just as mind-melting as the king’s.
Arcas dropped his lips to her peaked breasts, laying praise against her impossibly soft skin. She wove a hand through his hair—black as night—and pulled gently as he grazed her with his teeth.
“My gods,” Lunelle gasped as fingers wound their way down her back and between her legs—she wasn’t even sure who they belonged to.
She wasn’t sure who she belonged to.
Perhaps that was just it. She didn’t belong to either of them.
She belonged to herself.
And perhaps Pluto had a point—if she wanted it, who in the universe would blame her for taking it?
Mirquios kissed her thigh, nipping at her backside as he squeezed against her, rising from the floor and taking her hand. He led her to the sofa, sitting in the corner and pulling her into his lap, her back pressed to his strong chest as she settled between his legs.
Arcas followed, dropping to his knees before her, taking those long fingers of his and crawling them up her thighs. Lunelle pushed against his touch, her cries escalating as her king’s hands tickled her ribs and stroked the underside of her breasts, teasing her again.
“Is this where you want your prince?” Mirquios asked, whispering into her ear before biting at the lobe.
“It’s where she needs me,” Arcas whispered, tracing a blazing path from her knee to her hip, the cool air of the library sending goose flesh over her wet skin.
Lunelle reached up with one hand to caress Mirquios’s neck, tense beneath her touch as he worshipped her with his tongue. She twisted the other into Arcas’s midnight hair, slipping through her fingers like fine silk.
She pushed him into her as Mirquios pulled back on her thigh with a tight grip—opening her wider to Arcas’s torturously slow kiss. The room spun around her. She had to fight to keep her eyes open as the pleasure built between her legs—she did not want to forget a single second of what he looked like.
She pulled harder at his hair, earning a whimper from his throat, a sound that sent lightning through her spine as Mirquios pinched at her breasts. The sharp sensation combined with the prince’s mercilessly slow movements against her created such a delicious harmony in her stomach that she thought she might come undone right then and there.
Arcas clearly suspected the same, slowing his pace even more so he’d have an excuse to stay knelt before her, to earn whatever favor he could from such a divine woman.
“You’re holding back,” the king whispered to her. “Your silence is always a weapon, but its blade cuts deepest here. Let us hear you.”
The way his deep voice vibrated against her neck as he kneaded her body, sending wave after wave of pleasure, drew a high whine from her throat.
“Ah,” Mirquios said, a low chuckle thrumming against her. “The goddess speaks.”
Arcas increased his pace, adding a finger or two—she could hardly track the movements in and around her at this point—joining in his offering of praise. She unraveled quickly, swirling her hips against his mouth, drawing a low moan from her king as her hips created friction against his lap. She dug her hands deeper into Arcas’s scalp, whispering blessings over him as she tightened into a fraying knot, the threads of her shredding into glittering mist.
