Page 142 of Heavy Is The Crown

The moment Kenyatta’s lips crashed against hers, the air inside the speakeasy grew into something suffocating. Heat coiled between them like a live wire, snapping and sparking with every move. Krys barely had a second to process before she felt herself being pulled in, both figuratively and literally.

He kissed her like he had something to prove. Like he’d been holding back for too long, and now that she’d finally given in, he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. His grip was firm, possessive, as he wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her clean off the bar, pressing her back against the exposed brick wall.

With some quick maneuvering and fidgeting; panties were slid aside just enough. And she felt him. Hard. Girthy. Prying to get in. Her wetness betraying, accepting all of him on the third thrust, an unforgiving invasion.

She gasped into his mouth, her body instinctively wrapping around him, her thighs locking at his hips as if she’d been waiting for this moment all her life. The hem of her dress rode high, baring more of her skin to his hands. And God, his hands…they were rough in a way that sent a thrill straight through her, trailing fire up her legs, gripping her ass like he was staking his claim.

Kenyatta pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his grip still firm as hell. “Have you let go yet?” he murmured, his voice dark, rough, damn near dangerous.

Krys tried to find words, tried to reclaim some piece of control, but he didn’t give her the chance. His mouth crashed back on hers, devouring, tasting, owning.

She melted.

She fought it at first, but only for a second, because the way he dug deeper into her, gripping her in a way that made her stomach drop, she was no more good. She had let go. Completely. She released cries and moans that hadn’t escaped her lips in some time.

Her nails dug into his shoulders as he rocked into her, the wall behind her cool against her heated skin. Every movement, every touch was deliberate. He wanted her to feel this, to feel him. To feel how easily he could take her apart and put her back together, to make her unravel in his hands.

The heavy silence of the speakeasy was broken only by their labored breathing, moans, groans, and the soft, low growl coming from across the room.

Musa.

Krys barely had the presence of mind to register the massive Cane Corso sitting at the bottom of the stairs, his dark, intelligent eyes locked on the scene unfolding before him. His cropped ears twitched slightly, his entire posture alert; not aggressive, but questioning.

He didn’t move. Didn’t bark. But the weight of his stare was unmistakable.

“Your dog watching us, ain’t he?” Kenyatta murmured against her lips, amused as hell but completely unbothered.

Krys let out a breathless, half-laugh, her head tilting back against the wall. “He’s making sure I’m okay.”

“You a’ight?” Kenyatta asked, his lips trailing down her jaw, then lower, teasing the sensitive skin of her throat.

Krys swallowed hard, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. She could barely think straight, let alone form a sentence. “Do I…look like I’m not a’ight?”

Kenyatta chuckled low against her skin, his teeth grazing just enough to make her shudder. “Nah, you look like you getting exactly what you need.”

Musa shifted slightly, still watching, but his stance relaxed. He was alert, but he didn’t sense distress, just something different, something new.

Kenyatta lifted his head slightly, flicking a glance toward the dog. “You gon’ let me have her for a minute, big man? Or you need a room too?”

Krys swatted his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

“Nah, I respect it,” Kenyatta whispered, pressing another deep, slow kiss to her lips. “Loyal as hell. Looking out for his mama.”

Krys’ head spun. Everything was heat, sensation, and the undeniable knowledge that Kenyatta was right. She was getting exactly what she needed. And for once, she wasn’t in control. She didn’t mind because it felt damn good.

Krys barely registered how they moved from the wall to the lounge sofa, her body guided by the firm grip of Kenyatta’s hands. The world blurred around her, reduced to nothing but heat, breath, and the weight of him pressing into her. The smooth leather of the couch was cool against her back, a stark contrast to the fire burning between them.

Kenyatta settled between her parted thighs, his lips dragging along her neck, down the dip of her collarbone, igniting a slow burn that spread like wildfire. His hands traced over the fabric of her dress, fingers pushing it higher, pulling her deeper into him. Krys exhaled shakily, her fingers sliding under his shirt, needing to feel his skin, his warmth, something real to ground her in this overwhelming moment.

“You still tryna hold on?” Kenyatta murmured against her skin, his voice thick, knowing.

Krys bit her lip, her breathing uneven. She was trying, God, she was trying to stay collected, to keep some semblance of control, but it was slipping through her fingers with every move he made.

“That’s what the fuck I thought,” he smirked, his fingers teasing at the hem of her dress before gripping her thigh, spreading her further beneath him. “Let me do this.”

She had no words; only the sharp inhale she took as he took his time exploring, savoring every reaction, every sound, every way she responded to him. He moved like he was reading her, like he already knew what she needed before she could even ask. And Krys, for all her power, for all her control, she let him. She relented.

The soft leather creaked under them, their bodies tangled, lost in each other. The tension that had simmered between them for so long finally reached its peak, boiling over into something raw, undeniable. Their mouths clashed, movements fevered, hands desperate to memorize every inch.

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