Linda Skye – Unveiled for the Persian King (страница 3)

“I am a tribute,” she finally said softly. “Given to be used for your pleasure.”

“Indeed.” Darius paused, leaning back. “And does your new position please you, princess of Scythia?”

She arched a delicate brow, cocking her head to one side.

“I am no longer a princess, as you have said,” she replied calmly, “And I am not here for my own pleasure but for yours...my king.”

“So,” Darius said, his tone deceptively light, “do you know why I have had the curtains drawn?”

Myrine struggled to quell the tremble in her thighs, keenly aware of his heavy stare. Out of habit, she dropped her eyes.

“I would not presume to know the mind of a king,” she answered quietly.

“Oh come now,” Darius chided playfully, “this pretence does not suit you.” His tone darkened. “And I am not one for games.”

Myrine heard the warning in his voice and raised her eyes to his.

“Apologies, my king,” she said loftily. “I am not accustomed to men who care to hear the thoughts of their women.”

“There are many things you will not be accustomed to in my kingdom,” Darius said pointedly. “But you have not yet answered my question.”

“You plan to examine my flesh to prove my worth as your bed slave,” Myrine said, her voice deliberately flippant.

Darius tutted and shook his head.

“Why so callous, my darling?” He said with a light frown, “You have misunderstood my purpose. The curtains were drawn to protect your modesty as my property. But yes, I would see what my battles have purchased.” He lifted a hand and beckoned her closer. “So by all means, please show me what you have to offer.”

Myrine considered this king. He was cunning—of that she was certain. And though she had heard of his ruthless savagery in battle and of his iron fist in dealing with his enemies, he did not seem to rule his people or his conquered vassals with a heavy hand. He had dealt fairly and calmly with both her king and his vizier—demonstrating a level head and exceptional self-control. She had not even expected him to speak with her before indulging in her flesh, much less engage her in a bout of verbal sparring. His courteous manner left her confused, forcing her to change her strategy in approaching him. He seemed driven by his kingdom, rather than drunk on power.

Darius the Great, indeed.

Myrine inhaled, her mind racing to formulate a plan. After all, she too had a duty to complete—and all her training had prepared her for this moment. Rolling her head back to stretch out her neck, she began. She daringly stepped forward until her legs were almost between his knees. Then, as she raised her arms, she twisted her hands in intricate patterns and bent forward and back, shaking her shoulders so that her breasts shook alluringly. With her arms still upraised, she held her upper body stiff and began to move her hips in sensual circles—at first slowly and then in tight, quick motions. Turning, she presented him with a view of her elegant spine.

Despite his impeccable self-control, Darius felt himself harden almost immediately at the sight. This dance was completely different from the last. While the latter had been slowly seductive, this was plainly provocative. She began to twist in place, lowering her gyrating hips until she barely touched his clenching thighs—only to rise again in an enthralling parody of lovemaking. She was so close that he could smell her sweet scent and feel her silky tresses brush against his bare chest. The proximity was both enticing and infuriating.

Of their own volition, his fingertips came to rest on her hips, and he trailed his blunt nails down her legs. She spun around and took his hands in hers, pressing his open palms on the backs of her thighs. She guided his hands up her body, moulding them to her curves as she continued to dance before him. With a grunt, he pulled her down so that she straddled his hips. Without missing a beat, Myrine began to roll her torso against his while rocking her warmth against his stiffened member.

“You seem far too experienced in this,” Darius commented gruffly, tangling his fingers in her long hair.

“Scythian women are not like Persian women,” she whispered, catching the ridge of his ear in her teeth.

Her hands left his so that she could lean backward, bracing her hands on his knees. He cupped her bottom to draw her even closer, and she arched back and presented him with a splendid view of her full chest. His lips dropped to the edge of her bustier, and he began to plant hot, openmouthed kisses on the mounds of her breasts. Myrine sank the fingers of one hand into his thick, dark hair and drew him in, encouraging his caresses with every undulation and stoking his passion with soft, mewling cries.

Darius felt the fire in his groin spread through every vein in every limb. He itched to tear away what remained of her gossamer clothing, to press her into the cold marble of his throne, to wrap her strange golden hair around his fingers and ravish her until they were both spent and sated. Intoxicated by her exotic allure—the smooth pallor of her limbs, the light blue in her eyes, the silken gold of her hair—and by her wanton expressions of desire, Darius revelled in the taste and touch of her skin. It was so hot, and there was only one solution.

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