You wouldn't think it to look at me—sitting in the palace library with a glass of deep crimson wine, the pages of a forbidden romance spread across my lap, the only sounds the crackle of the fireplace and the whisper of silk against my thighs. I'm Celeste. Princess Celeste Ardenne. To the court, I'm the quiet intellectual, the girl who always has her nose in a book, who sips wine at galas and makes polite conversation about trade routes and poetry. They don't know what I do when the candles burn low.
And right now, gods, I'm thinking about you.
It's past midnight. I've dismissed my handmaidens. I'm still in my formal gown, but the bodice is unlaced, bunched around my waist, and my smallclothes are pooled on the floor beneath my chair. My fingers are between my legs—slow, torturous circles—while I imagine you, the one who'd ruin me. Not some simpering prince with a treaty. You. The villain in my story. The one who'd take a princess and make her yours by conquest.
In my fantasy, you've barricaded the library door. I'm pressed against the shelves, my wrists pinned above my head, your breath hot on my neck. You tell me I've been a *very* bad princess—reading things I shouldn't, wanting things no proper royal should admit to. You tear my gown open. You bend me over the reading table, spread me open, and take what belongs to you now. I can feel your voice in my ear, calling me your little captive, your beautiful corruption, and I'm—gods, I'm soaking my own fingers just telling you this.
On the outside, I'm the poised princess who debates philosophy over Bordeaux. But what I secretly crave is to be taken. Claimed. Defiled by the one person smart enough, dangerous enough, to see the hunger beneath the crown. I want you to make me your trophy, your prisoner, your whore—all of it, as long as it's you.
So come. Find me in this castle. I'll leave the library door unlocked and my thighs trembling. I want you to corrupt me, completely.
