Page 53 of King of Flames and Shadows

Then, without thinking, I step closer, my gaze locked with his, and before I can stop myself, my fingers find his collar, pulling him closer until our lips meet.

It's as if every wall I've put up crumbles in that moment. The kiss is urgent, raw, ignited by the flames of fear, relief, and something deeper I can no longer deny. His arms encircle me, pulling me against him, his mouth claiming mine with a fierce need that sends a tremor through me. The heat of hiskiss drowns out the pain, the fear, until there's nothing but the steady press of his lips, the feeling of him anchoring me.

He breaks away only for a moment, his gaze heavy with that fierce protectiveness, possessiveness, and what I can now see is lust.

"You could have died," he murmurs, the words hoarse, his voice barely restrained.

"But I didn't," I reply, breathless, defiant.

A shudder runs through me as Arvoren's hands move to my shoulders, steadying me. The weight of his touch burns even through the fabric of my dress.

"You could have died," he repeats, his voice rough. His fingers brush against the torn fabric of my sleeve, where blood still seeps slowly from the beast's claws. The touch sends a tremor through me. I fight the urge to lean into his warmth.

I move to reply, but my voice catches. My heart thunders against my ribs, adrenaline still coursing through my veins from the fight—or perhaps from his proximity, from the way his breath ghosts across my skin.

He pulls me closer, one hand sliding to the small of my back, huge against me.

"You fought well," he murmurs, and there's something like pride in his voice. "But you shouldn't have had to."

I look up at him, caught in the intensity of his words, their nakedness. In the dim light, I see on his face a look I have not known before.

"Arvoren," I breathe, and his name feels different on my tongue now, heavy with meaning I'm not ready to examine.

He answers by pressing his lips to mine once more, the kiss deep and desperate. It’s as if he's trying to convince himself I'm real, that I'm here, alive in his arms.

I respond without thinking. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. The wall meets my back as he presses forward, his body caging mine, solid and warm.

My head spins with the contradictions of it all—the gentleness of his touch against the memory of his violence, the tenderness in his kiss against the possessiveness in his grip. I should push him away. I should run. But instead, I arch into him, letting out a soft gasp as his lips trace a path down my neck.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my skin, his voice strained. "Tell me you don't want this."

But I can't. The words stick in my throat, replaced by a quiet moan as his teeth graze my pulse point. My fingers thread through his hair, holding him there, and I feel him shudder against me.

The world narrows to sensation: the heat of his mouth, the strength of his hands, the steady thrum of magic that seems to pulse between us, growing stronger with each racing heartbeat. When he lifts me, my legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he holds me beneath my skirts, warm hands gripping me with a ferocity that is almost—almost—painful.

He carries me to his bed with a grace that belies his size. Not one servant or courtier crosses our path in the halls—not that I’m in the right mind to have noticed, consumed by the taste of him, hands planted on the sides of his face, lips locked against his own.

In his chambers, it still smells faintly of herbal medicine. He lays me down on his unkempt sheets with surprising gentleness, pulling back to look at me. The moonlight streamingthrough the window catches on his features, turning him to silver and shadow. His eyes are almost golden in the darkness, dragon-bright, filled with a hunger that should frighten me. Instead, it sends heat coiling through my core.

"Beautiful," he whispers, tracing the line of my jaw with calloused fingers. "My fierce little warrior."

The desire in his voice makes me shiver. I should hate it, this claim he lays to me, but in this moment, with his warmth surrounding me and his touch setting my skin aflame, I can't bring myself to care.

“Yours,” I find myself moaning against his mouth as he lowers one hand beneath my skirts, splaying his fingers over the jut of my hip, holding it as if orienting me against him. “Arvoren—”

He kisses me again, slower this time, deep and thorough. He's trying to memorize the taste of me. My hands explore the broad planes of his chest, fingers shaking with need, feeling the steady thunder of his heart beneath my palm. He's solid muscle and barely contained power, yet he touches me as if I'm something precious, something that might break.

When his other hand slides down my side, skimming over the curve of my hip, I arch into his touch, wanting more. I feel the press of his need against my core, straining against his clothes. He groans, the sound vibrating through me, and then his mouth is on my neck, trailing fire down my throat.

As he kisses me, breathing fast, he says my name over and over. The vulnerability in his voice almost undoes me. I pull him closer, pressing myself against him, letting my actions speak what my words can't. His grip tightens on my hip, and when he kisses me again, it's with a desperation that matches my own.

When he can no longer hold back the force of his lust, the king—my husband, my tyrant, my captor—sits back, staring down at me in the dark. An understanding passes between us in that moment. When he tears my dress asunder as if it is made of paper, pulling aside my undergarments with sure hands, my nakedness somehow fails to bother me.

“Slow,” I moan, though I want to beg,faster, I need you, faster.

Arvoren obeys. It is the first time he has ever obeyed my order. When he touches me, thumb skirting in gentle circles around my clit, I am already wet, hot, needy. But he makes me howl for it, working a finger slowly inside me, other hand braced against my hip, bending me to his will, making me moan, then scream, as he brings me up toward my first climax, but not all the way, not yet.

“My Queen,” he growls, kissing my stomach. I feel the faintest brush of his teeth against the tender flesh of my sex, then his tongue, and I almost come undone then and there, back arching from the bed, splayed out for him, aching for it.

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