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Harlot? What is going on with their vocabulary?
The smell of roasted flesh lingers in the air, rousing my hunger in the worst possible way.
“Someone married you?” I sneer. “I have four children, Your Highness!” he says, somehow making my title sound like a slur. “Poor her. Poor them.”
Hissing, I raise a hand to block him from the waist down. “Will you put some trousers on? I can almost see your junk!” He looks around his desk with a frown. “I keep my rubbish in the back rooms.”
“I will if Your Majesty would stop being such a massive dick!” There’s a beat before he says, “Well, I’m flattered by that assessment, but what does the size of my manhood have to do with any of this?” My brain sputters trying to process his words. After a longer silence, he says, much more quietly, “Colloquialism?” “Yes,” I say. Unbelievable.
I scribble my name as messily as I can, because I think that’s what you’re supposed to do when signing something.
He pulls me in by the nape of my neck and captures my lips with his own. Ah, fuck.
I should not have licked so many things in front of him.
“ ‘Private property’?” I splutter.
I slam the mirror down, yet, at the same time, an absurd craving pulls at the pit of my stomach, followed by the urge to throw myself off a building.
Once we climb into the cockpit, I split my armor at the front, pull out my eight-month pregnancy padding, and abort it behind me. “Oh, no, not our son,” Qin Zheng says, his tone utterly flat. “No, that’s yours and Yizhi’s baby.”
