Beneath the Faerie Moon

Chapter 5: Breaking The Rule

But before his fingers could graze her, everything stopped.

The dome of moonlight shattered. The unicorn reared and disappeared into mist. And the Winter Prince was there. Standing right beside her. She could not even feel him moving.

No one saw him move. He simply was, hand wrapped around the other fae’s wrist, ice crackling up his arm.

“This one,” he said coldly, “is not for your hands.”

“Of course not, your Grace. She’s far too fragile for me.” The fae lord bowed. The court went deathly still.

Maris trembled on the ground, stunned, dripping, body still screaming for release. The Prince turned to her. His eyes burned.

“Mine,” he said, It was not meant for her, but he said it to the court. It was a declaration, final.

And then he was upon her. He lifted her effortlessly and carried her through the arch, into a chamber of frost and dark glass. The walls shimmered with shifting reflections of her face, her body, her desire.

The Prince said nothing as he carried her from the hall. His arms were stone and silence. His breath never wavered. But the air around him cracked with restrained magic, cold threads of it tugging at the edges of the veil that held his stillness together. His power wasn't calm. It was a storm beneath the ice.

Maris, half-naked and still trembling from the Unwrapping, felt the pressure of it seeping into her skin. Her thighs were slick, her n*****s so tight they throbbed with every heartbeat. She was wrecked. Aroused. Overwhelmed. And she should have been afraid.

And as her head fell against his chest, breathless and dazed, she realized something terrifying. She wanted more.

He carried her into a chamber unlike any she’d ever seen.

It was vast, domed in crystal, the ceiling open to a night sky spinning with stars that pulsed in colors she'd never seen. The floor was warm beneath his feet, veined with glowing frost. The bed, if it could be called that, was an enormous, circular altar of snow-petaled silk and slow-breathing furs, draped in floating veils that moved even without wind.

He placed her at the center of it, and only then did he speak.

“You should not be here.” His voice was low. Dark velvet. A breath dragged over snow.

“No one is allowed to touch you,” he said, stepping back, hands clenching. “Not until the Binding Night.”

Maris sat up slowly, her chest bare, her skin flushed with magical aftershocks. “Then why bring me here?”

His eyes flickered. “Because I am not a holy creature.”

He moved then, fast, soundless, and was suddenly kneeling at the foot of the bed, dragging her gently toward him by her hips.

“But I can be yours,” he said. And lowered his mouth between her thighs.

She gasped, sharp, involuntary, as his tongue made contact. It was not rushed, not desperate.

But devotional.

The first pass was slow, curling upward from the base of her slit to the tip of her c**t with precision so deliberate it made her cry out. The cool edge of his breath against her heat sent a shock through her body. His hands wrapped firmly around her thighs, thumbs parting her pink, now wet, lips, holding her open as if she were a sacred fruit he was preparing to taste.

“Say nothing,” he murmured against her. “Just feel.”

She tried, gods, she tried, but the tension had been building too long. Her thighs shook with it. Her breath came in shallow pants. He licked again, slower this time, pressing the flat of his tongue hard against her entrance before sliding back up. His nose grazed her, his mouth teasing her c**t in agonizing circles.

And when she bucked her hips, chasing more, he stopped.

“Not yet.” His words hit.

She whimpered.

His tongue flicked again, once, twice, then paused. Each time she tensed, he rewarded her. Each time she reached for climax too quickly, he pulled back. Her body, already raw from the spell-threads in the hall, was nothing but want. It was sklick and desparate.

He sucked her c**t softly, just once, and she nearly screamed. Her hands clawed the furs. Her back arched.

“You will not come,” he said, his voice now edged with power. “Not until I say so.”

She cried out in frustration, she wanted to deny, but she also wanted so badly to obey.

“Please...”

His fingers joined his tongue, slipping inside her. Two at once, angled perfectly, slow but deep.

“Shhh.”

He began to stroke her from inside, curling his fingers just right, while his tongue circled her c**t in slow, tight spirals.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispered. “Let me unravel you.”

She was already undone. Her moans grew wild, her legs trembling as he worked her higher, tighter, closer to that edge...

“Come for me,” he ordered.

And she shattered. It was not a climax. It was a storm, that had build up for hours.

A deep, electric collapse that ripped through her with a scream. Her body bucked against his face, riding the wave of it as he kept licking, kept pushing her through wave after wave until her muscles locked and her mind fell silent.

He did not stop until her legs collapsed wide and useless. Only then did he rise. He said nothing as he kissed her inner thigh.

Nothing as he gathered her into his arms and laid her on her side. But as she drifted into a dazed, sensual sleep, she heard him whisper against her temple:

“Forgive me. I could not wait.”

-----

Soft giggles stirred her awake. At first she thought she was dreaming. Then came a hand on her bare calf. Another brushing through her hair.

She opened her eyes slowly, still soaked with her pleasure from the night before.

Two figures knelt beside the bed, one at her feet, the other curled next to her head like a curious cat. They were not like the other fae she’d seen.

Their skin was dappled like water over stone, limbs long and liquid, hair coiled with leaves and glistening vines. Their movements were too fluid, sensual in a way that made Maris’s skin tingle where their fingers touched.

They were nymphs. They had a distinct scent: wet moss, nectar, the electric tang of morning dew.

One was masculine, eyes dark like wet soil and hair braided down his back. His smile was crooked and mischievous.

The other was feminine, with luminous skin, eyes the color of green quartz, and soft, curious fingers.

The masculine one bowed, though somehow he made it look flirtatious.

“I’m Velin,” he purred. “And this glowing one is Caerys. We’re yours.”

Maris blinked. “Mine?”

Caerys giggled. “Your attendants. Companions. Body warmers. Whichever you prefer.”

Velin smirked. “The Prince sent us. He thought you might want company… and perhaps a bath.”

He leaned in, brushing her hair back from her face.

“You smell like s*x and starlight. It’s divine.” Caerys slid a hand along Maris’s hip under the covers.

“But we’ll wash you anyway,” she said. “And if you ask nicely, we’ll make you moan again before breakfast.”

Maris opened her mouth to protest, but she was smiling.

Maris was still bare beneath the silk sheets when Caerys pulled the covers back.

Her fingers were cool and gentle, the touch more affectionate than invasive, but it still made Maris’s breath catch. Her skin was already flushed from sleep, and from the memory of the night before, of him on his knees between her thighs, of his voice commanding her to come, and her body obeying.

The breaking of a law.

The start of something she didn't yet understand.