Masked Prince - Nikolai Andrew Page 0,7

her and I was glad. I fucking meant what I said, always. But there was something else as well. A willingness to obey that set my desire crackling.

Something changed in me around her. I nearly forgot about the monstrous appearance of my face. Her eyes showed me none of the disgust or recoil I usually encountered from delicate folk. She was someone that seemed to see me, not just my scars.

“I’m going to help you. Period. So stop with the bullshit. We clear?”

“Okay,” she said, looking slightly flustered. “There’s a basket of linen bandages inside. On the shelf beside the milk pails.”

Shit, yes. The way she looked at me when she was a little scared of what I might do? So fucking hot. “I’ll be right back.”

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the milking shed, but once they did, I had confirmation of what I had long suspected from watching her from afar: her father was a useless piece of shit. She ran this place, not her father. It all came down to her.

One side of the shed, where I found the strips of linen, was organized and clean; not a cobweb or a speck of dust anywhere. But the other side of the shed held a disused workbench, with tools encrusted in bedding dust and spiders’ webs.

The floor of the shed was immaculately clean, right up to the edges of the old bench, as if her father had warned her not to touch his tools, or else. It pissed me off, but I shoved down my anger for the time being. I finally had her alone; for now, all the rest of it could fucking wait. I carried the basket of bandages out to her and knelt before her once again.

As gently as I could, making sure not to touch any of the bruised areas, I placed her heel on my knee. I could tell she was in pain, but she was tough and strong. She leaned forward, making her breasts compress against her thigh in a tantalizing line. I pulled my gaze away from her cleavage and watched her lightly run her fingers over the bone of her lower calf, wincing every so often.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” I said, watching her every move.

“I’m feeling….” She gulped down a wave of pain. “…Feeling for anything broken or out of place.” Using her fingertips she moved up and down the bruised area.

“And is it?”

She gritted her teeth and shook her head at the same time.

“I don’t think so.” She leaned back and took a deep, steadying breath, wiggling her toes while rolling her ankle in a circle. “Just sprained, I think.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Yes, it’s good. But it’ll still take time to heal.” She handed me a few of the bandages and told me exactly how to wrap her leg. I went slowly, careful to keep some tension on the linen strips, but not too much. Once I had her leg carefully wrapped and the linen tied in a bow to keep it secure, she once again gave me that look of embarrassment.

“You have work to do. Please don’t let me keep you.”

Damn straight I had work to do.

“That’s right. These cows won’t milk themselves, will they?”

Milking cows was a fuckload harder than I’d imagined it would be. It took me a while to get the hang of it, and she almost died with laughter when I squirted myself in the face with one of the teats, but slowly I found my rhythm.

I listened to her directions, following everything to the letter. Whether she realized it or not, we were already locked in a dance that I wanted to take with her again and again. It was the dance of respect and obedience, of listening, learning, and obeying. Though it wasn’t my nature to be the one following direction, it was my job to show her how it was done… so that she could do it for me in return. On her back, in my bed, with my dick deep inside her.

And more.

Iris didn’t know it. Nobody knew it. But there was a side to me that would be ours alone, if I could ever let her into that secret.

When the milking was done, she reluctantly admitted that the stalls needed to be mucked out, so I scooped her up in my arms and off we went to the stables. She wasn’t one of those wilting, skinny women that I saw so often