Page 56 of King Among the Dead

Rose felt drunk. Hazy with pleasure already, though tension wound tighter and tighter in her belly like a spring, each pass of his lips and fingertips shooting sparks along all her nerve endings, lighting her up until she thought she must be glowing.

Slowly, she became aware of an insistent pressure against her backside. She was straddling him, and he was hard. He shifted a little, a cute squirm like he was pressing back into the chair, and oh, no, that wouldn’t do: he was trying to spare her, trying not to push her too fast.

She slid her hand down his chest, over his belly – the muscles clenching and leaping under that light touch – until she found the smooth leather of his belt, and went lower.

His jeans were tight, and his cock strained at the fly, a prominent bulge that had to be painful. She pressed her hand flat over it, and Beck broke away from her neck with a hiss and a curse. He went still, drawn taut beneath her, and his hands gripped her waisttight.

She didn’t move her hand. Kept it there, still, flat, and after a moment he took a ragged breath and lifted his face. His eyes were all pupil, glassy, drugged-looking – but intense, somehow. She could see his want; could feel it beneath her hand.

“Christ.” He pressed his face into her throat, panting humid breaths into the hollow of it. “Oh, Rosie. I don’t want to hurt you.”

With her other hand, she petted his hair, scratched at his scalp, holding him to her, feeling likeshewas the one to shelterhim. “You’ll only hurt me if you stop.”

He groaned, the sound vibrating against her skin. And then his hands slid down to cup her bottom, and he stood, lifting her up without effort, just as he had back in the alley tonight, when he boosted her over the fence.

The sudden movement left the room spinning, and her stomach dropping – pleasantly. She’d been so afraid so many times in her life, real, acidic fear; but this was a safe kind of fear. A little thrill, and she relished in it, grabbing onto his shoulders, legs going around his waist, holding on not for dear life, but because she never wanted to let him go.

He got down on his knees on the floor, and laid her out across the rug in front of the fire, hand cupped behind her head, cushioning her as she settled.

Her legs were still around his waist, bracketing his slender hips, and he was poised above her, one hand beneath her head, the other on the rug beside it. His hair fell around his face, framing it, and the firelight bathed his skin in leaping golds and reds, shining in his eyes.

Rose felt molten inside with wanting; stomach clenching, pulse settled between her thighs, where she was already swollen and damp for him. Her chest felt full to bursting – with love. She loved him. He’d saved her, and shown her so much; had trusted her, confided in her, and revealed his darkest parts to her. Let her see the beast that lived beneath the sleek veneer of civility.

He was a killer, and so was she, and shelovedhim.

“You’re so beautiful,” she said, reaching for him, unable to resist a romance novel moment.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he said with complete sincerity. Then he sat back on his heels, peeled his turtleneck off and chucked it over his shoulder. Laced his fingers with hers, and settled over her, finding her mouth again. A hot, wet kiss, tongue plunging deep, over and over, a primal rhythm that she melted beneath.

He let his weight settle over her more fully: his chest flattening her breasts, his hips pressing into the cradle of hers, and she realized, with a fresh burst of heated joy, that he was bare to the waist now, and that she had one hand free and could touch him.

They’d been naked together, before, that night in the bath. But she’d had her back to him, and hadn’t had this much access – he hadn’t been kissing her stupid then, either. She started hesitantly, laid her hand down on his shoulder, shocked by the heat of him. Smooth, fire-warmed skin that rippled beneath her, a great twitch like a horse shaking flies. Because she affected him just as he affected her. It was a desire that went both ways, equally strong, and the knowledge made her bold; had her feeling her way down his biceps – clenched and hard – and then back up, down along the taut muscles that framed his spine. To the twin dips she found right at his waistband. He felt like a wild thing in her grasp, all quick breaths, and swelling ribs, and shifting muscles; heavy, and masculine, and unrelenting.

He lifted her other hand to his face, broke their kiss – lips damp and gleaming in the firelight, swollen from kissing – so he could kiss her palm. He lifted her hand afterward to his other shoulder, fired her a fast, dark look –touch me– and then reached to slide his hand beneath the hem of her sweater.

His familiar callus pattern – the proof of his proficiency with weapons – touched the soft skin of her stomach for the first time, and she sucked in a breath, belly hollowing beneath a touch that was gentle, but electrifying. Too much and not enough all at once.

He kissed her again. “It’s alright.” A soft murmur against her lips.

“Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He shifted down – her hands slid up his neck and her fingers curled into his hair – and pushed her sweater up a few inches; pressed his face to her stomach. Butterfly kisses; a sly flick of his tongue in her navel that left her gasping, fists tightening in his hair.

His eased her sweater up, inch by teasing inch, and kissed each bit of newly exposed skin. Dragged the tip of his nose across the dip of her stomach; passed his tongue down the grooves of her ribs.

It was so much more sensation than she’d expected. She could feel the velvet of his lips, the wet heat of his tongue, the faint rasp of stubble. He sucked a bruise against her rib cage, not letting up until a squeal finally escaped her bitten lips. She wanted to squirm – and to lift into his mouth. Raked restless fingertips across his scalp.

He lifted his head a fraction, his gaze impossible, and shoved the sweater up and over her breasts, baring the simple black silk of her bra.

He grinned, all teeth, totally unrestrained, now. This was his real smile, the one he kept in careful check; his smile for knives, and blood, and violence – and for her.

Then he shifted forward on his knees and pressed his face into the valley between her breasts. Released a shaky breath, murmured something she couldn’t hear.

Her nipples contracted to stiff peaks, painfully tight, and her thighs tightened around his hips; a hard clenching echoed by the clenching of her sex, empty, and slick, and ready for him.

He tongued at her breastbone, and his hands came up to massage her breasts.

“Oh.” She arched up into the touch, delighted by it, nipples aching – but it wasn’t enough. There was still that silk barrier between them. She wanted to feel his calluses here, where she’d never realized she was so sensitive.

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