A Kiss of Deception (Worlds of Protheka)

11. Milkor

11

MILKOR

K ill her father. Get the ring. It's a deal.

I chuckle at her fiery spirit. My eyes roam her curves, barely concealed by her thin dress. She approaches, her scent alluring. Suddenly, her eyes widen. I follow her gaze, noticing the sheet's slipped low on my hips.

"Oh," she breathes.

The air thickens with tension. I can hear her heart racing, see the flush creeping up her neck. It would be so easy to reach out, pull her onto the bed…

But no. Business first.

"See something you like?" I tease, unable to resist.

Meetha swallows hard. "I... um..."

"Cat got your tongue?" I smirk, enjoying her flustered state.

She shakes her head, visibly trying to regain her composure. "We should... discuss the plan."

"Of course." I pat the bed beside me. "Have a seat. We've got a murder to plot."

Meetha hesitates, her eyes darting between my face and the empty space next to me. The conflict is written all over her face – desire warring with caution.

"I can't," she begins.

"Can't what?" I ask.

"Focus." She touches the thin sheet on the bed. Until that moment, I hadn't realized I'd been utilizing it as a shield.

"Well," I begin. "Let's eliminate the distractions so we can focus on the plan."

I toss the sheet aside, baring myself completely. Meetha's eyes widen, her breath catching. The scent of her arousal hits me like a tidal wave.

"Come here," I growl, my eyes never leaving hers.

Meetha hesitates, her gaze flickering between my face and my exposed body. I can see the conflict in her eyes, desire warring with caution.

"I..." she starts, her voice barely above a whisper. "We should be focusing on the plan."

I lean forward slightly, my voice low and enticing. "And we will. But tell me, Meetha, have you ever allowed yourself to truly feel? To give in to what you want?"

She swallows hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "What I want doesn't matter. It never has."

"It matters to me," I say, my words heavy with promise. "What do you want, Meetha?"

Her eyes meet mine, a spark of defiance igniting in their depths. "I want... I want to feel powerful. To take what I desire without fear or shame."

A slow, predatory smile spreads across my face. "Then take it. Show me the fire I know burns within you."

Meetha takes a step forward, then another, her movements hesitant but determined. "And what about you, Milkor? What do you want?"

I reach out, my fingers brushing against her arm, feeling her shiver at my touch. "I want to unlock every secret you've kept hidden. To watch you come undone and put you back together again."

Her breath catches, her pupils dilating with arousal. "And the consequences? What if this changes everything?"

"Maybe it should," I murmur, drawing her closer. "Are you afraid of change, my fiery one?"

Meetha's lips part, her voice husky with need. "No. I'm afraid of wanting something so much it consumes me."

I trail my fingers up her arm, along her collarbone, feeling her pulse race beneath my touch. "Then let it consume you. Let me consume you."

For a heartbeat, she stands on the precipice, teetering between restraint and abandon. Then, with a soft gasp that sounds like surrender, she surges forward.

Our lips crash together, hungry and desperate. I pull her onto the bed, relishing the feel of her soft curves against my body.

Her dress is an irritating barrier. I tear it away, revealing smooth, sun-kissed skin. My hands roam, exploring every inch of her. She moans into my mouth, arching against me.

"Milkor," she gasps. "Please..."

I can sense the desperation in her voice, the unspoken plea that matches the ache in my own body. Her hands claw at my shoulders, her need a living force between us. I trail kisses down the column of her throat, savoring the salt of her skin, the way her pulse flutters beneath my lips like a trapped butterfly.

"Patience, my fiery Meetha," I murmur against her flesh, my voice a low rumble that vibrates through her.

She whimpers as I continue my slow descent, my tongue tracing the valley between her breasts. Her nipples are hard peaks, begging for attention, and I oblige, circling one with my tongue before drawing it into my mouth. Her back arches off the bed, a silent plea for more.

I indulge myself, lavishing each breast with equal attention, until she's writhing beneath me, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. But I'm not done with her yet. There are still so many places on her body that I want to taste, to claim as my own.

"Ride me," I command, my voice husky with need.

Meetha doesn't hesitate. She positions herself above me, her hand guiding me to her entrance. She's slick with desire, her body ready for me. With a slow, deliberate movement, she sinks down onto my cock, her walls stretching to accommodate my girth.

A moan escapes her lips, the sound music to my ears. She begins to move, her hips rocking back and forth, each motion driving me deeper inside her. I grip her hips, helping her set a rhythm, our bodies moving in perfect harmony.

The world around us fades away, leaving only the two of us, lost in the throes of passion. Our breathing syncs, our hearts pounding in unison. I can feel the tension building within her, her muscles tightening around me.

"Milkor," she gasps, her voice trembling with need.

I sit up, wrapping my arms around her, our bodies pressed flush against each other. I capture her cries with my mouth, swallowing her moans as she shatters around me, her orgasm triggering my own.

As we lay tangled in the sheets, our bodies still humming from our shared pleasure, the weight of our impending task settled over us. Meetha props herself up on one elbow, her dark eyes gleaming with determination.

"Milkor," she begins, her voice firm, "we need to talk about how we're going to kill that bastard."

I can't help but smirk at her fire. "Eager for patricide, are we?"

"After what he did?" Meetha's hand unconsciously touches her cheek where Jarvil had slapped her. "I'd kill him with my bare hands if I could."

I run a hand through her silky hair, considering our options. "Tell me about your father's habits. When is he most vulnerable?"

Meetha snorts, contempt clear in her voice. "Jarvil? Vulnerable all the damn time. He's a fool who thinks he's clever. Spends most of his time drinking away his stolen coin or bragging about his latest 'score' to anyone who'll listen."

"And the ring?" I press. "Where does he keep it?"

She bit her lip, brow furrowing in concentration. "In a locked chest in his room. He thinks it's some fancy trinket he can sell for a good price. Idiot has no idea what he's got."

I sit up, pulling her with me. "Does he have any sort of protection on the chest? Wards, traps?"

Meetha laughs, the sound bitter and mocking. "Jarvil? Use magic? He can barely tie his own boots. No, he just uses a big, clunky lock. Thinks that's enough to keep his 'treasures' safe."

"Well, that certainly simplifies things," I muse, a grin spreading across my face. "Any guards we need to worry about?"

"Just a couple of drunken fools he calls friends," Meetha scoffs. "They're more likely to pass out than put up a fight."

I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs stroking her cheeks. "You're sure about this, Meetha? Once we start, there's no turning back."

Her eyes harden, resolve etched in every line of her face. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. That man doesn't deserve to breathe another day."

"Good," I purr, pulling her close. "Because I have plans for us, my fiery one. Plans that require that ring."

Curiosity flickers in her eyes. "What kind of plans? What can this ring do?"

I pause, weighing how much to reveal. "The Ring of the Deceiver is no ordinary trinket. It has the power to bend minds, to shape reality itself. With it, we could rule Protheka."

"Rule?" Meetha gasps, her eyes widening. "I... I never thought..."

"Think about it," I urge, my voice low and persuasive. "No more cowering in fear of men like your father. You could be a queen, Meetha. We could reshape this world as we see fit."

I can see the idea taking root in her mind, the possibilities unfurling before her. A slow, wicked smile spreads across her face.

"A queen," she repeats, tasting the word. "I like the sound of that."

"Then let's make it happen," I say, matching her grin. "When do we strike?"

Meetha's eyes glint with malicious glee. "Tomorrow night. Jarvil always drinks himself into a stupor on Thirdsday. It'll be almost too easy."

"Perfect," I growl, already anticipating our victory. "We'll need to gather a few supplies. Anything that might be useful in subduing those guards of his, just in case."

She nods, her mind clearly already racing with plans. "I know just the thing. There's a potent sleeping draught I can get my hands on. They'll be out cold before they know what hit them."

"Clever girl," I praise, watching her preen under my approval. "And after? What becomes of us?"

Meetha's gaze meets mine, fierce and unyielding. "We take what's ours. Starting with that ring, and ending with all of Protheka at our feet."

I pull her in for a searing kiss, reveling in her passion, her darkness. "I knew there was a reason I chose you, my queen."