The Scent and The Siren

‎♡‧₊˚thirty-two ‎♡‧₊˚

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𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐀𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝

🍆💧🍑

"You're unwittingly giving off a romantic vibe for someone who's a professed non-believer, your highness," I flash him a cheesy grin as he carries me upstairs in his strong, muscular arms with effortless grace as if I weigh lighter than a feather.

 "Am I now?"

"Uh-huh. Very romantic. You're carrying me over the threshold."

"Again, this is one of the instances where you just shut up and look pretty, Rothschild," he scowls playfully.

My grin only deepens, and I pull myself closer to his face.

"Are you practicing carrying over the threshold for the imaginary wife you'll bareback?" My fingers play with his hair as I deliberately drop my voice in a purr.

"Not hung up on that, are you?" He nudges the door open with his elbow.

As I take in the interior I realize it's a different bedroom than the one I woke up in. It's a master suite. It's his. It's even bigger and even more breathtaking. 

He didn't put me to sleep here. Which is not-so-odd and makes sense considering he might need his private space because I am not a girlfriend but a woman who has agreed to be his slam piece for a week. 

How I wish we didn't have separate sleeping arrangements, though.

"Well, what do you expect?" I resist snapping, pissed at myself for having exaggerated expectations from him despite him having laid down all the conditions crystal clear and me having accepted them in complete sanity. "You're telling an incurable romantic woman you're fucking that you're saving a precious form of intimacy for the woman you'll marry."

"You're a breath of fresh air, mia preziosa," he barks a soft laugh, his laughter music to my ears, as he lowers me at the edge of the bed.

He called me my precious! This man is a walking contradiction. How am I supposed to keep up with the mixed signals? 

"Your lame words mean nothing, your highness. Where is your sense of empathy? I am still so sore about it."

Goodness, it never fails to surprise me how his body always towers over mine, no matter the position. We could be sitting or standing. Doesn't matter if I am wearing a pair of 5.5-inch heels. His frame always intimidates me. Silently commanding a natural subjugation from every bit of me.

A slow, wicked grin graces his sensual mouth as he tugs the sash of my robe and gathers me close in his arms.

"You're about to get sorer, baby," his tone is menacingly soft, and his devilishly gleaming gaze holds mine as his head dips.

My arms sling around his shoulder, my fingers in his silky hair as his mouth seals over mine, his demanding lips coaxing me to soften and part against his. He tastes incredible... of coffee... orange juice... and his own signature heady taste. With every bold stroke of his coaxing tongue against mine, I soak further in yearning. The wet juncture between my thighs pulsating so hard I can literally feel it beating just like the beat of my heart.

He splits open my robe, pushing it to slip and pool around my feet, without breaking the plundering kiss that rocks and rips thousands of thrilling sensations through me. His one hand crawls up in my hair, holding my head in place against his. His other slithers down my spine to come to rest on my hips. He flexes his fingers over there, his nails digging deeper into my skin, and he squeezes me roughly, rocking his rock-hard erection against my pelvis.