Page 9 of The Never Queen

He holds out his hand for me, and I take it, letting him lift me to my feet.

Peter Pan is there beside us in a flash of light. The air smells of the night and of burning star dust.

Pan wraps his arm around my waist, spins me and walks me back until I bump into the end of his bed. I make a surprised yelp, stumbling back onto the mattress. Pan is on top of me, covering my body with his long, lanky one. I can feel his hardness pressing against my core.

I wiggle beneath him. He hisses through his teeth.

“I barely slept today,” he says, his fingers sliding up my thigh, pulling back the hem of my dress. “I kept waking up, so fucking hard it hurt, thinking about you and how badly I wanted to be inside of you.”

“Oh yeah?” I say up to him, wanting him to go on, wanting him to confess how needy he is for me.

Both Pan and Vane are far more restrained than the twins. Their confessions are fewer, their admissions of vulnerability almost nonexistent. So when I get one, I feel like I’ve uncovered a treasure previously thought of as a myth.

I slip my hand between us and grip him through his loose pants. He’s bare beneath them so I can feel every ridge of him, the impossibly hard length.

“Fuck, Darling,” he says on a breath, his eyes slipping closed.

I stroke him from base to tip, and he bows his head, his breath huffing out against the curve of my neck.

And because I’ve learned from the best of them, I withdraw my hand immediately. Pan growls, his hips pushing forward, looking for more of my attention.

But I won’t give in. Not until he’s shownmeattention.

“Naughty Darling whore,” he says, lifting himself up so he can look down on me. “Playing games, are we?”

His hand slips in beneath my dress, his fingers playing over my wet center.

I arch my back and Pan bites at my nipple through the soft material of my dress.

He runs his fingers down, down, then slips in around my panties.

Skin on skin, I am immediately ignited. If I was playing games before, all of my moves have evaporated. I just want him to touch me more.

“Pan,” I say and he swallows my pleas with a deep kiss, his tongue finding mine.

An illicit thrill runs through me.

I arch my back more, calling for his devotion.

He bends and captures my nipple between his teeth. I moan out in pain, writhing beneath him.

Within seconds, he’s grabbed the hem of my dress and yanked it up, baring me. I’m not wearing a bra, so his tongue finds me pebbled and waiting. He flicks against my nipple, sending a shock of pleasure through my breast, down my belly.

“Touch me more,” I moan.

His hand grazes my center, then disappears.

“Pan.” I am a bundle of nerves, ready to burn. “Please.”

He finds my clit, swollen and sensitive.

I gasp out at the ceiling.

He circles me again, coaxing the pleasure to the surface.

I close my eyes and sink into the feel of him. The myth, the star god, Peter Pan, all of him mine.

Pan lines up his hips and his cock slides up my slit, throbbing against my clit.