Page 118 of Emylia

This was madness. Holy, burning madness. But his kiss dragged me under, his tongue tangled with mine, and suddenly there was nothing but heat—between us, within me.

When he pulled away, his mouth was red, swollen, as if I’d marked him with my kisses as much as he’d branded me.

He kissed me again—softer this time. More deliberate. Like memorizing me.

And I let him.

His hands moved lower, finding skin. Exploring. Worshipping. Then, without warning, he effortlessly repositioned himself, his chest brushing against my back like a promise unspoken. He dragged me flush against him, his hand sliding over my thigh, my hip—then higher. My nightshirt caught and rose, inch by inch.

I moaned, arching into him.

His growl vibrated through my spine, a sound primal and low. His hand gripped my hip, sweeping over skin that trembled beneath his touch. My thighs clenched, aching.

I pushed back into him, needing more, craving the contact. And when I guided his hand down, he let me—but stopped just shy of where I needed him most.

He was teasing me. Torturing me.

He circled my lower belly again and again, fingers maddeningly slow. I arched, desperate, my body unharnessed power, needing something I didn’t have the words for.

“Emylia?” His voice. Gods, his voice. The way he said my name—like a vow, like a question, like he’d fall apart if I didn’t answer. “Princess?”

“Maalikai… please.” His name spilled out of me, wrecked and ruined.

“Please what?” he asked against my shoulder, his lips pressing into skin exposed by my slipping shirt.

Another spiral of his finger, maddeningly slow, dropping only a fraction.

I rocked back against him. Again. Desperate. His fingers still hovering just above where I needed him.

“Tell me what you want from me,” he rasped.

I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.

If I asked him. Begged him—it would give him the last vulnerable part of me, and if I gave him that much of me—there’d be no going back. I wasn’t ready to be that exposed. I needed to hold onto at least a flicker of power.

Instead, I rubbed against his warmth, my body shadowing him gloriously. A low, feral growl exploded from him as he flipped me onto my back, pinning my wrists.

His eyes were wild. Blazing. “Princess.” A feral growl. Claiming. Worshipping.

“What?” I breathed, feigning innocence. Barely holding it together.

“You can’t keep doing that unless you tell me exactly what you want.”

“What if I don’t know?” I whispered, voice trembling with truth. “What if I’ve never…”

Understanding flashed across his face. But behind it—uncertainty.

Hesitation.

Uncertainty.

“Do you want this to be with me?” His voice cracked, thunder barely held back.

He wasn’t asking about sex.

He was asking about Sebastian.

About the boy who had cradled my grief. Who had known every scar. Who had seen the worst of me—and stayed.

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