Prince Kutberth Alexandrio Lothair was absolutely fascinated by the painting Kosette presented to him on the morning following the latest meeting Rosanda had with the king.
He was given the painting in a small drawing room, and there weren't any servants about. Rosanda peered at the scene from behind an open doorway. She could have gone into the room. There wouldn't have been anything wrong with that. Still, she was feeling a wee bit nervous, and she wanted to observe the prince's reaction to her painting from a distance, without him noticing her presence.
Her breath was practically scraping against her windpipe. Her gloved fingers were tightening on the elaborately carved door frame. Behind her glasses, her pale blue eyes were shining with a mixture of pride and disquiet.
The prince was giving all sorts of compliments, including, beautiful, magnificent, perfectly detailed, and even ingenious.
Ingenious, huh?
Rosanda pressed a hand to her hidden lips, trying not so smile, even though her face was veiled. The prince bent over the painting. She loved the sight of his breeches stretching against his backside. She shivered as the prince's fingers, so dark when compared to the woman in the painting, traced over the canvas, as if he wanted to touch Rosanda's flesh.
"Your Highness," Kosette said, "please don't touch the painting with your bare hands. You could damage it."
"Ah!" His hand sprung back as if in pain. He straightened up and brought his feet together. His clean, but slightly crooked teeth were very charming as he smiled. His lips were fairly plump, not too plump, though. They were the right size for his seemingly well carved face. "I'm so, terribly sorry, Mrs. Lunai." He nodded to her. "You have a very satisfied customer. I look forward to the next painting."
After Kosette thanked the prince, she left. She gave Rosanda a curious look, but she didn't say anything as she walked on. Rosanda watched her turn a corner and disappear into the luxurious labyrinth that was the palace's floor plan. Then she sighed as she made a decision.
She was going to approach the prince.
Timidly, her hands wrenching into themselves, Rosanda stepped into the drawing room, closed the door, and she said with a small voice, "Your Highness?"
The man turned around and faced her with open arms, as if he was expecting an embrace. "Miss Lunai?"
She curtsied. "Good afternoon, Sir. I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Of course you're not. Rise, Miss Lunai." His arms relaxed, hands brushing against his thighs. His high cheekbones looked so impressive to her. Rosanda wanted to make a portrait of him. She knew she couldn't, but she chewed on the thought, imagining the process.
"I was curious about your opinion of the painting."
"It's perfect." Rosanda made a soft little gasp at the hunger in his voice. "Please," he said, "please don't think ill of me. If this painting accurately portrays you, then you are ethereally beautiful."
She wanted to show him just how beautiful she really was.
Rosanda took a deep breath, and then she held out her right wrist. Her left index and thumb went to the glove there, and she pulled the glove away, revealing her nearly colorless hand. Her fingernails were short, but she always cleaned them after a session of work. Her right hand was slightly rougher than her left, since that was the hand that held her brushes and pencils, but she had always tried to scrap away the calluses and massage away the bruises.
If the prince thought her hand was ugly, then he must have been an expert actor. He snatched her hand up as if it were a coveted treasure, and he put the back of her hand to his lips.
Rosanda's body became a quietly quivering thing. The powerful, yet tender sensation that came from his mouth's touch sent loving little signals up her arm, her throat, and then to her brain. Her nipples were begging to be released from the prudent prison that was her clothing, puckering and throbbing in the hopes of experiencing what her hand was feeling.
She wanted to say something, anything, but all that came out of her mouth was, "Oh."
He released her hand.
Then she was being held.
A prince was hugging her.
Rosanda's glove slipped from her fingers and silently landed on the floor.
He smelled of flowers and forests, sweetness and invigoration. One of his palms pressed its heat against the back of her head, over her veil. His lips kissed her forehead; he didn't seem to care that he was kissing her veil too.
Then he murmured against her brow, "If you consent, then I will hurry you away to a private place, and I'll give you all of my attention."
A great, trembling rush came over Rosanda, as if cool water glided down her naked body. She wanted to go wherever he wanted. According to what she had heard, the prince was a widower. He was once married to a foreign princess, who sadly died of an incurable illness. He was single and in play; he was also physically attractive and respectful.
But ... guilt put a sour flavor on her tongue and deep in her throat.
She sniffed and said, "Your Highness, I have a confession."
"Whatever it is, I don't care! Please come with me!" His hands were pressing up and down her back, putting delicious warmth in her pussy.
"Sir, His Majesty has been making demands of me."
The prince's body stiffened. His fingers were like claws against her body, their tips sinking in. His voice was almost smoky. "What? What demands?"
"I'd assume you already know, Your Highness. He's summoned me to his bedchamber twice."
He gripped her shoulders, and he started down at her with something that wasn't quite cruelty, but it wasn't affectionate either. His jaw and cheek muscles moved as if he was grinding his teeth together. Was he angry at her? She wasn't in a relationship with him. She wasn't being disloyal.
