Had it truly been because of me...because we were together…or because of our love?
Lysander had become very still. He scrutinized Willoughby for a moment.
Then he coughed, dragging the covers over Willoughby. "Sleep, stupid elf."
Yet, there was a fondness to it, just like the way that Lysander sauntered past Midnight, ruffling his hair on his way to his own obsidian bed.
It was certainly a shock that the Princes tucked each other in. Of course, so did the Immortals, but Bask was far more creative, using his teeth, tongue, and fingers in ways that I'd never imagined even with my familiars’ descriptions of the Rebels' wanking.
You could only do so much by yourself, it would appear.
Sleipnir would never allow Lysander to live it down.
My brow furrowed. Only, I knew that I wouldn't tell my delicious Immortals. The Princes believed themselves alone and free to be themselves.
This was even more private than a memory.
I’d never sneak a look into their private world, if it wasn't to save Willoughby. I'd hated the stricken look on Bask's face, after the Stop Game had blown up in our faces in such a spectacular fashion. I should've been able to read Willoughby well enough to never hurt him like that. But instead, I'd made him believe that I was playing with his feelings to publicly humiliate him, just as Lysander had warned.
All of us had come to care for Willoughby, and Echo would weep (or peck my tits because he could be volatile when it came to love), if I left him believing that we didn't.
His magic was powerful, and my magic wanted it.
I wanted him.
Black cats, I hadn't truly understood it until that moment.
The lights dimmed, as Lysander slipped under his own covers.
There was an exhilaration that I didn't understand, as I settled to face Willoughby on the bed, who’d turned to the side. His breath was soft and even. I longed to reach out my arms and clasp them around him, resting my head on his chest.
Ah, so this was obsessive romance then.
I adored watching how the lines smoothed from his face, as his breath evened out to sleep. I realized then that he must be in pain when he was awake.
He was so beautiful.
I stroked a strand of hair out of his face, and he didn't stir.
When I looked up, I caught Midnight's gaze, which was leonine in the dark, from his basket underneath the counter. My breath stuttered. Could he see me? Or did he always stay awake, watching over the Princes, until they were deeply asleep?
I took a solid form (without making myself visible), and leaned closer to Willoughby. I blew against his lips. His face creased in a frown.
Then his eyes fluttered open.
They were so blue like the frozen rivers that he could hear only because of my magic. I gasped, and his eyes widened at the sound. But he didn't move, cry out, or attack me with his ice.
Instead, he shivered like he was holding himself together from breaking, as he murmured, "Magenta...?"
My name rolled from his lips, slow and sensual, like both a prayer and a seduction. Yet there was nothing to seduce because I was already his.
I moved my lips close enough to his, so that he'd feel their touch on each word. "It doesn’t matter where you sleep, Prince, you're still one of my Immortals."
"Am I dreaming?" Willoughby's arms banded around me like steel, stroking the hollow of my ghostly back.
I wasn't even visible, yet he was the one who was making me feel. The bed was cold, but warmth coiled through me.
"You're awake." I shivered at the way that his breath was cool against my lips, just as his fingers heated my back in sweeping circles.
He flinched, and his wide eyes were devastatingly hurt. For the first time, I realized the power that I held over him.
I could truly break him.
Willoughby's fingers clawed into my dress. "This is more teasing like in the Stop Game." When he turned away his head, pain lanced through me. "Will you take tales of the stupid elf back to your beloved Immortals? Do I need to say stop again?"
"Do you want to?" I slipped mists around Willoughby, twisting his chin, until he faced me again. Reluctantly, he met my gaze. "Sweet Hecate, this is no game or dream. If you love and want me, then I'm yours. Just let us have tonight."
Willoughby's gaze softened. Then his eyes darkened. "Tonight, you're mine alone..."
He caught my lips in a possessive kiss. His frozen magic slipped over mine, until I shivered. I sank beneath his icy depths. I wrapped my hand in his hair, pulling him even more deeply into the kiss. He was delicious. I could lie like this in his arms all night.
There was a world of need and desire in every kiss that he feathered along my jawline and then my neck. I bit my lip not to laugh as he missed, tonguing only air. I directing him by the hair, and his dancing gaze met mine.
Making out with the invisible girl was a challenge.
I was certain that an elf prince was up to it. His prick was decidedly on board; it pressed against my hip. Yet Willoughby appeared not to notice his own excitement, rather he concentrated on my pleasure alone. I yanked his hair lightly, when his kisses became too passionate.
Willoughby and I were turned away from Midnight, but Midnight might've become suspicious of kissy sounds during a wanking session. At least, I hoped that Willoughby didn't normally lie in bed conducting make out sessions with the pillow as my substitute.
Perhaps, he did.
I peered over Willoughby's shoulder. Midnight's glowing eyes still watched Willoughby with an edge of both suspicion and hungry excitement.
I swallowed, and the coiling warmth within me flared even higher. There was something alluringly naughty about pulling this off in the Princes' bedroom at night, while Juni believed her charges to be locked up and chaste. Even more so, with Lysander lying in the opposite bed, quietly snoring.
After all, I was a wicked witch, even if it felt more blessed than wicked, the way that Willoughby hooked his leg over mine, pulling me even closer, until his hard body pressed against mine. His suit was so tight that I could feel every muscle, as his chest rose and fell.
I yearned to unwind that silk and free him. I was desperate to kiss over every inch of revealed skin, licking over his nipples and making him feel...
But if he wouldn't remove his clothes, then I'd join him beneath them.
I smiled against his lips, as I slipped my mists inch by inch down his trousers. Then I wrapped them around his hard prick.
Ah, so the stories about elves were true: They were as beautifully formed in their manly parts as everywhere else.
Did that mean fae also had as large pricks as they always boasted? After all, they were pricks...
When my mists encircled Willoughby's balls, gently playing with them and the soft skin behind, before stroking up and down his prick in love and worship, Willoughby hissed sharply through his teeth.
Lysander turned over in bed, half waking. "What's wrong?" He called, sleepily. "A nightmare again? Do you need me to come sleep with you, Will?"
I froze with my mists still down Willoughby's pants.
Witch's tit, I didn't fancy attempting to stay silent, stuck between the two Princes. My nose scrunched up. Did that also mean that Lysander comforted Willoughby when he had nightmares?
Was Lysander attempting to destroy all my fae prejudice in one night? Also, why couldn't I stop imagining how close my own lips had been to Lysander's in Bacchus' class?
Willoughby's brow furrowed. "No need to concern yourself. It's only..."
"Oh, I understand," Lysander grumbled, plumping his pile of fluffy pillows and settling back down in a disgruntled pile of fae. He folded his golden wings over his ears, as if to block out any more noise. "It was less a nightmare and more a wet dream about your witch...again."