Claimed by Prince Daddy

18

Ember’s chest heaved with labored breaths, her own desire wafting into the air and mingling with mine. I could scent the wet heat of her—her s*x dampening, priming for my entrance. She squirmed, her thighs rubbing together. That one movement hurtled me to the edge, and I held on with just a finger over the precipice.

Back up…back the hell away from her…I growled inwardly to myself.

I was five seconds away from taking her right there in the garden, laying her down gently on the soft bed of grass—ripping at her dress’ bodice, and taking my time with her, starting with those lush breasts that called to me like a siren’s song.

Ember must have sensed how close I was to losing my s**t, for she backed up and averted her gaze. “Um…,” she said, her voice breathless with want. She cleared her throat and tried again, this time her voice stronger. “I guess we’ll have to do the stuffy waltz again, too.”

I blinked forcefully, attempting to clear the lust that hazed my mind. “What?” I asked, my voice gravelly.

She shrugged a shoulder. “You know, the dance that the couples of the hour partake in at balls. Old boring ones moves with deep traditions and stemmed in history.”

I blinked again. Dread coiling inside my gut.

“What?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.

I slapped a palm to my brow, running my hand down my face. “Stars damn,” I growled.

If I was this inflamed by merely looking at her full lips, how the hell would I keep from combusting dancing the Shahar with her?

“Drake?”

“It’s not a waltz,” I said slowly.

She raised a brow. I twisted my jaw. “Then what the hell is it?” She asked, folding her arms across her chest and plumping her breasts even further. I dragged my gaze to her face. It took every ounce of willpower to keep them fastened on her eyes and not her bosom peeking out at me.

I found myself squirming at the thought of explaining our dances to her. I rubbed at the nape of my neck, looking her in the eye. “It’s…,” I swallowed thickly. “It’s a more intimate dance than the waltz. We call it Shahar. Which means ‘Flow of Lovers.’”

Ember’s eyes popped wide open. “Flow of Lovers…,” she parroted, her voice dropping to a throaty whisper. The clenching of my gut twisted violently. Her skin nearly matched the brilliant shade of her hair. She rubbed at her temple and let out a low moan.

“All right now,” said Ayauna, her voice echoing throughout the high ceiling. The professional dancer stood in the center of the ballroom, her glittering brown gaze assessing both Ember and myself. “We are wearing the customary attire for the Shahar…now we simply must master it.”

She stepped forward, her long, lean legs gliding effortlessly across the polished marble. She reached out and rested her hands on Ember’s waist, turning her to face me. “Assume the positions,” she instructed.

Ember faced me, yet her gaze rested on the floor. The tips of her ears burned, and she fidgeted in place. Her fingers gripped the edge of her corset, attempting to tug it down over her exposed abdomen, but it was to no avail.

Hell, I wanted to tug the damn thing down over her skin myself—anything to stop her creamy skin from peeking out at me, teasing me to lap at it with the flat of my tongue. She wore one of the most revealing outfits I had ever seen. And that was saying something because, having grown up attending royal parties, I had seen my fair share of skin. A fitted black leather corset hugged her upper body like a second skin, the low hemline revealing her ample cleavage and the mounds of her breast. Only the aureolas were hidden from sight. The corset fell to just barely kiss the flare of her hips, leaving the smooth skin of her abdomen bared for the world. The small slit of her belly button winked at me.

My gaze dipped lower, arousal burning low in my gut. The accompanying leather mini-skirt hardly left anything to the imagination. The fringe cut just below the curvature of her ass, revealing her shapely thighs and cute little dimples along her knees. A set of strappy heels completed the wicked ensemble.

Ember peeked at me from beneath pouty lashes. She caught me undressing her with my eyes, and her cheeks flushed a pretty pink.

“Um,” Ember said, licking her lips as she looked at Ayauna. “Must I wear this attire at the ball?” Again she tugged at her skirt in a useless attempt to lengthen the skirt.

Ayauna quirked a severe brow. “As I said, Your Highness, this is the customary attire when one dances the Shahar.”

“And who authorized the Shahar?” Ember asked.

The dance instructor’s nostrils flared, her eyes flashing—as if she grew offended that Ember would even question such a thing.

“My father,” I growled, my hands fisting at my sides. I wanted to s***h something, my talons itching to slice out. Did my father want every male’s eye in the room to snag on Ember, to devour her body?

No! She is mine and mine alone.

Ayauna’s gaze swung to me, pinioning me with severe disapproval at my tone of voice.

“Oh,” Ember said weakly. Her lips thinned, and she shifted again. This time I caught the flash of one round butt cheek.

Stars help me…

“We are wasting time,” Ayauna announced. With a huff, she smoothed out her own skirt, which was short though not nearly as scrappy as the one Ember wore. “Now, Ember, I want you to follow my steps and watch me carefully. I’ll demonstrate, and then you will copy. Understood?”

Ember nodded.