IX - He made his bed...

The door clicked shut behind them.

Before Jonathan could even fully turn from the door, Asante was there. She moved with the predatory grace of a cat, closing the small distance between them in a single, fluid motion. 

Her hands were on his chest, surprisingly strong, pushing him gently back against the wall.

“Hey, slow down,” Jonathan said. 

Her eyes locked onto his. He saw the challenge, the raw hunger, the sheer audacity in their depths. There was no preamble, no whispered words. Her lips crashed against his, hard and demanding.

“I want to slow down, but I can't Jonathan,” she said in a giggle. 

“You're crazy,” he whispered. 

Jonathan was stilled, caught off guard by the sudden ferocity. For a split second, the thought of Elara, of the quiet dignity he sought with her, flickered in his mind like a dying ember. 

But then, the heat ignited. It was a wildfire, spreading through his veins, consuming every rational thought. 

It was primal, undeniable. His hands, almost instinctively, found her waist and pulled her flush against him. Her body was soft yet firm against his, a perfect fit. 

The kiss deepened, tongues tangled. His mind which was once a battleground of duty and desire surrendered entirely to the present. Elara faded into nothingness. He couldn't help it. 

Her fingers were already at the buttons of his shirt, tearing at them in a frenzy. In return, he fumbled with the zipper of her short gown, his breath ragged. 

There was a desperate urgency to their movements, a need to shed the layers that separated them. 

The silk of her dress whispered as it slid down her body, pooling at her feet. He kicked off his shoes, his shirt ripped open, buttons scattering across the floor. He heard a soft grunt of effort from her as she struggled with his belt buckle, and then a triumphant gasp as it gave way.

His hands were everywhere, tracing the curves of her hips, the small of her back, pulling her closer, closer. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin. 

Her own hands were equally demanding, tangling in his hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat, her nails scratching lightly against his skin, sending shivers down his spine. 

They stumbled towards the king-sized bed in a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. He pushed her back onto the soft mattress, following her down. She was sprawled beneath him. Her eyes, half-lidded, gleamed with an almost feral intensity.

"I've heard about your exploits with women, Jonathan," she whispered as her fingers traced the line of his jaw. "Show me."

He didn't need to be told twice. This was a challenge, a dare he was more than willing to accept. He leaned down, claiming her lips again, his body already humming with a desperate urgency.

Asante shifted, her legs parted, inviting. With a fierce groan, he pressed into her. A soft gasp escaped her lips. 

The fit was immediate, exquisite. 

He felt her arch beneath him, meeting his thrusts with an eagerness that mirrored his own. Her hands were on his hips, guiding him, pulling him deeper.

"You right?" she breathed against his ear, her voice strained, deliciously urgent.

"Yes, baby," he growled back.

“Don't hold back, Jo, I want it all. They whole nine yards,” she said into his ears.

“Then come up,” he said and turned her over. 

She took control atop him. Her hips rising and falling, a rhythm that was both ancient and utterly carnal. 

She rode him with a wild abandon, her body sleek and powerful beneath his hands. Her head was thrown back, her throat arched, a soft moan escaping her lips with each thrust. 

He watched her, captivated by the raw beauty of her pleasure, the uninhibited way she moved. Her dark hair fanned out around her, her skin flushed, her breasts rising and falling with each rapid breath.

He reached down and his hands found her hips, gripping them, pulling her closer, deeper. He wanted more, needed more. With a sudden surge of primal instinct, he flipped their positions, rolling her onto her back again. 

He wanted to see her, to watch her face as he drove into her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in. He moved inside her, faster, harder, the friction building to an unbearable intensity. Her nails dug into his back, leaving fiery trails on his skin.

Her moans became louder, more insistent, mingling with his ragged breaths. The pleasure was a tidal wave, crashing over him, drowning out everything but the immediate sensation. 

He felt her tense beneath him, a series of exquisite contractions squeezing him, and then, with a guttural cry, he surrendered to the blinding release. She cried out too, a soft, breathless gasp, her body trembling beneath his.

***

They lay there, side by side in the rumpled mess of the sheet, their bodies slick with sweat. The frantic rhythm of their breathing slowly began to calm, replaced by the steady thrum of their heartbeats. 

Jonathan turned his head, looking at Asante. Her eyes were closed, her face flushed, a faint smile playing on her lips. She looked utterly sated, beautiful in her exhaustion.

Jonathan’s mind, now slowly returning to him, began to process the whirlwind of the last hour.

He felt a pang of guilt, a sharp stab that reminded him of Elara. He'd promised himself, promised her, he wouldn't stray, wouldn't hurt her. And yet, there he was. 

The irony was almost comical, if it weren’t so damning. Duty, he thought. The ultimate escape clause. But it felt hollow now, cheap.

He wondered what Asante was thinking. She was no fragile flower, that much was clear. She met passion with passion, challenge with equal measure. 

He admired that. 

He usually enjoyed the chase, the slow seduction, the delicate dance. But that… had been raw, immediate, and undeniably exhilarating. He could still feel the phantom touch of her nails on his back, the desperate strength of her legs around him.

Suddenly, Asante stirred. She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand, her dark eyes now wide open, fixed on him.

"So," she said, her voice soft, almost conversational, yet with an edge that cut through the lingering haze of pleasure. "What is your response about the marriage pact?"

Jonathan felt a jolt. From the sublime to the utterly pragmatic in seconds. He sighed, the warmth of the recent encounter warring with the cold reality of his situation.

"I don't have a choice," he replied. He watched her face, searching for a reaction, but her expression remained unreadable.

He knew she was sharp, she understood the politics. She probably knew his father's intentions before he did. But still, the bluntness of his answer hung in the air. A pawn. That’s what he was. A piece in a larger game, to be moved and mated as his father saw fit. The bitter taste of it coated his tongue.

Asante's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "No," she agreed. "I suppose not." She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, then moved to his chest, light and teasing. "But a choice of… other things, perhaps?" Her eyes twinkled. "I mean, for someone with such a reputation, you seemed… quite eager to be shown."

Jonathan let out a short bark of laughter, a genuine sound despite the underlying tension. "And you, Alpha Princess, seemed rather eager to show."

She chuckled. "Well, I believe in providing excellent service. One aims to please, especially when the stakes are so high." Her fingers lingered on his skin. "Though I must admit, for someone who claims to be so stressed by his duties, you seemed to handle the… performance aspect quite well. Perhaps a new career path, Wolf Prince? Adult entertainer?"

He grinned, a genuine, unburdened smile that felt rare. "Only if you're my co-star, Alpha Princess. You've certainly got the moves to make it a blockbuster."

She laughed again. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Jonathan. Or at least, back into this bed." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Though, I suppose, given the circumstances, getting out of it might be the more challenging feat."

He shook his head. He reckoned. She was dangerous, intoxicating, and utterly disarming. He had walked into a trap, willingly, and part of him regretted nothing, even as the cold hand of duty began to tighten its grip once more. 

He closed his eyes, the scent of her, the feel of her beside him, a potent distraction from the inevitable. 

He had made his bed, and now, apparently, he had to lie in it. With two women, one standing the risk of being with his father.

The thought was both absurd and terrifying.