Chapter 18: Laundry Day Confessions
The lingering taste of men and salt was still on Teresa’s tongue as she slipped through a servants’ door, leaving the heavy perfume of the garden for the castle’s sterile inner halls. Her body felt used, alive, humming with a restless energy the night’s encounters had amplified rather than sated. The cool stone corridors were a relief, the silence a blank slate. She needed a different texture, a new friction.
She found it in the form of Prince Callum Nicholson, who was leaning against a tapestry looking endearingly lost. His dark hair was ruffled, his green eyes scanning the identical doorways with amused frustration.
“Trying to escape a betrothal or just the harpist?” Teresa asked, her voice echoing softly in the hall.
Callum turned, a grin instantly transforming his face. “The harpist, decisively. I think my left ear has started to bleed. You look… flushed, Your Highness.”
“I needed air,” she said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. She closed the distance between them. “What do you need?”
“A guide. A distraction. A strong drink.” His eyes traveled over her, noticing the loose tendrils of hair, the slight disarray of her gown she hadn’t fully corrected. “Preferably all three.”
“I can manage two.” She took his hand, her fingers cool against his. “Come with me.”
She didn’t lead him toward the library or a salon, but to a narrow, unassuming door of polished mahogany. Inside was a linen closet, a deep alcove lined with shelves reaching into shadow, stacked with immaculate folds of damask, crisp napkins, and pillowcases that smelled of lavender and cedar. She pulled him in and shut the door, plunging them into near-darkness, save for a sliver of moonlight from a high, small window.
The space was intimate, the air thick with the scent of dried flowers and old wood.
“A strategic retreat?” Callum whispered, his back against a shelf.
“Something like that.” She pressed against him, her hands flat on his chest. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart. “No politics here. No harpist. Just… this.”
She kissed him. It was different from the raw hunger of the garden. This was a searching kiss, full of playful intent. Callum responded immediately, his hands coming to her waist, pulling her flush against him. He was a good kisser, confident and generous, his tongue tracing her lower lip before she granted him entry.
When she broke the kiss, they were both breathing harder. “I heard a rumor,” she murmured, her lips grazing his jaw. “That you’re willing to go along with my schemes.”
“The rumor is tragically accurate,” he breathed, tilting his head to give her better access to his neck.
“Good.” Her fingers worked at the fastenings of his formal jacket, then the laces of his shirt. She pushed the fabric aside, her nails lightly scoring the skin over his ribs. She could feel the hard planes of his stomach, the athletic build promised by his frame. She spun them, pushing him back until he met the solid wall of stacked bedsheets. The linen shifted with a soft, whispering rustle.
She sank to her knees before him. In the dim light, she saw his eyes widen. “Teresa, you don’t—”
“I do,” she said, her voice firm. She made quick work of his trousers, freeing his cock. It was already hard, thick and curving slightly upward. She took him into her hand, giving him a slow, firm stroke. He hissed, his head thumping back against the sheets.
She didn’t tease. She took him into her mouth, swallowing his length until her lips met the coarse hair at his base. He groaned, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed too loud for the confined space. She set a relentless pace, her head bobbing, her tongue working the sensitive vein underneath. She used her hand to twist at the root, her spit making the glide slick and obscene.
“God… fuck…” Callum gasped, his fingers threading into her hair. He didn’t push, just held on, his hips making tiny, involuntary thrusts.
She pulled off with a wet pop, looking up at him. “I want you inside me. Now.”
She stood, hiking her skirts up around her waist. There were no frills here, no delicate removal. She guided him to her entrance, already wet from the garden and from the power of her own need. She positioned the broad head of his cock against her and sank down onto him in one slow, devastating motion.
They both cried out, the sound swallowed by the towels and tablecloths surrounding them. He filled her completely, a different fullness than Nate’s possessive claim or Lucien’s frantic pace. This was a luxurious stretch, a claiming of her own. She braced her hands on his shoulders and began to move.
She rode him with a focused, desperate abandon, each rise and fall a piston of pure sensation. The shelf behind him creaked in time. Her eyes locked on his, watching the pleasure shatter his princely composure. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into her flesh through the silk of her gown, helping to lift her, to meet her downward thrusts.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he gritted out, his jaw clenched. “So perfect.”
The door opened.
A sliver of torchlight from the hall cut across them, then vanished as the door closed again. Maeve stood there, her silhouette a familiar willowy shape in the dark. She didn’t speak. She simply watched, her breathing audible.
Teresa didn’t stop. She kept moving on Callum, her rhythm faltering only for a second before regaining its pace. “Enjoying the view?” Teresa panted, not looking away from Callum’s face.
“Immensely,” Maeve breathed. Her own dress rustled as she moved closer. Teresa could see her now, her honey-brown eyes wide and dark in the gloom, fixed on the place where Teresa and Callum were joined. Maeve’s hand slipped between her own legs, under her skirts. The soft, slick sound of her fingers working her own flesh joined the creak of the shelf and their ragged breathing.
The added voyeurism, the raw audacity of it, sent a new bolt of heat through Teresa. Her movements became more frantic, more erratic. Callum’s thrusts upward grew harder, deeper, driving her towards the edge.
“I’m close,” he warned, his voice a strained rasp.
“Not yet,” Teresa commanded, but she was losing the battle herself. The coil inside her was wound too tight. She saw Maeve’s fingers moving faster, heard her soft, pleading whimpers. The image of Maeve touching herself while watching Teresa get fucked was the final catalyst.
Her orgasm ripped through her with a silent, seismic force. Her body clamped down on Callum’s cock, a series of pulsing, milking contractions that wrung a ragged shout from him. He thrust up into her one last, brutal time and followed her over, his release flooding into her with hot, rhythmic spurts.
She collapsed against him, her forehead on his shoulder, shuddering through the aftershocks. He held her, his own body trembling. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their gasping breaths and the settling linen.
Maeve approached. She knelt on the floor beside them, her skirts pooling around her. Without a word, she gently nudged Teresa’s thigh. Teresa shifted, allowing Callum’s softening cock to slip from her, followed by a trickle of his spend.
Maeve didn’t hesitate. She leaned in and pressed her mouth to Teresa’s soaked flesh, her tongue flat and deliberate as it licked through the mess of their coupling. She cleaned her, the sensation so intimate and jarring it made Teresa gasp. Maeve collected the mixture of their releases on her tongue, then rose up on her knees.
She kissed Callum first, pushing her tongue into his mouth, sharing the salty, intimate taste. He kissed her back, a hand coming up to cup her cheek. Then Maeve turned to Teresa, kissing her with the same deep, languid possessiveness, letting Teresa taste herself and Callum on Maeve’s lips.
It was a three-way knot of breath and flavor, a sealing of a secret in the lavender dark. When they finally parted, all three were panting, leaning against each other and the stacks of linens for support.
Callum let out a low, disbelieving chuckle. “I came to find a way back to my rooms.”
“And now you’re thoroughly lost,” Teresa said, a genuine smile touching her lips for the first time that night. She felt stripped bare, but not vulnerable. Powerful.
“Completely,” he agreed, his thumb stroking her hip where he still held her. He looked at Maeve, then back at Teresa. “This… doesn’t solve anything, you know. Out there.”
“I know,” Teresa said, the weight of the castle, the kingdom, her father’s expectations settling back onto her shoulders like a physical mantle. But it felt different now. Lighter, or maybe just more firmly hers to bear. For a moment, in this closet, she hadn’t been a princess. She had been a want, a mouth, a rhythm, a command. It was a self she could carry back into the gilded cage.
She adjusted her skirts, the fabric now creased and damp. “We should go. Separately.”
Maeve nodded, slipping out the door first with a ghost of a smile. Callum fastened his trousers, his fingers fumbling slightly. He caught Teresa’s hand before she could leave. “This was a scheme I’d gladly get swept up in again.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Prince Callum.” She squeezed his hand, then slipped out into the silent hall, leaving the scent of sex and lavender hidden behind the mahogany door. The castle around her felt less like a prison and more like a chessboard. And for the first time, she was beginning to see all the pieces, and how they might be moved.