Page 164 of Dangerous King
I trail my fingers down the column of his neck, over the pulse hammering there, then lower, mapping him in a way that'sgreedy and reverent at the same time. I want every secret he's hiding under this armor. My hair falls forward as I bend to taste the line of his clavicle, and his hands snap up to cup my hips, squeezing once. He smiles up at me like I've surprised him, like I've taken his script and shredded it, and he loves not knowing what I'll do next.
I run my tongue in a slow circle around his nipple, watching his stomach tighten, listening to his breath catch. Then I do it again, waiting for the shiver that snakes through him before I go lower, lips and teeth grazing every scar and plane. Every tat. I know every mark on his body, what it means—where he was stabbed, where he broke a rib, where the old puncture wounds rise under skin like faded Braille. When I reach his cock, I hesitate, just for a split second, because there's something ceremonial about being here, in this moment, with him laid open for me. It's like touching a weapon that's killed and protected at the same time.
I curl my hand around him again, lean forward until my head is nuzzled against his stomach, and I just stay like that for a moment, breathing him in. I shift my hips forward, putting his cock between the lips of my pussy, letting him feel how ready I am, how absolutely slick and greedy. I roll my hips once and watch his eyes fly open, black and wild.
"You sure?" he asks, voice like gravel.
I nod, holding his gaze. "I've never been so sure of anything."
He guides me down slowly, hands bracing my hips, and I feel him, not just the stretch, but the way it shivers up my spine, the way it unspools heat everywhere at once. He's so thick it almost burns, but I want it. I want everything he's never let anyone have, and I want him to see it, the noise I make, the way I tip my head back and let his name out like a prayer.
He doesn't thrust up, doesn't rush. He lets me rock against him, slow at first, then grinding down because I want to feel the full length of him, all the way, until my clit rubs against his pelvis and I know it's going to end me. His body is music under mine, his hands are now everywhere, my breasts, my throat, the small of my back, his thumbs drawing circles over my nipples until I gasp. Sweat beads at his temples, and he stares up at me like he's seeing a miracle.
We're slow, but nothing about it is gentle. It's hunger, worship, possession. Every time I take him deeper, the air between us changes, gets more urgent, more electric. I ride him the way I want, hard, savoring every drag and slide, loving the way his eyes go glassy with it. He tries to keep a hold on himself, not to lose it, but I can tell I'm destroying him. That makes me want to keep going.
"Cat," he groans, voice like he's been punched. "If you—fuck—keep doing that, I won't?—"
"Don't you dare finish before me," I say, and flex my hips just right, because I want him to break for me, just this once. And he does. He lets out a string of desperate obscenities while grabbing my ass so tight it almost bruises, but I love it, I love being the thing that undoes him.
It's so hot, so perfect, somuchthat I feel myself cresting before I realize it. My vision whites out at the edges, and all I know is the blunt head of his cock rubbing that spot inside, his hand flattening me down, the bones of his wrist sharp against my clit. The orgasm rips through me, sharp and endless, and I howl, I don't even care if the whole house hears. I convulse around him, milking every last pulse, while he loses it too, coming hard, helpless, shuddering under me while he bites my shoulder to stay anchored.
We stay like that, tangled, breathless, forehead to forehead. My sweat and his, our skin stuck together, my thighs trembling from the force of it. He's still buried deep inside me, softening slowly, but he doesn't let me go. He wraps his arms around my waist, as if he's afraid I'd float away.
After a long minute, he nuzzles my hair, voice so quiet it almost doesn't make it into the room. "If I die tonight, I die happy."
"You're not dying." I press my lips to his cheek, salt and shadow. "You're mine. I'm not letting you go."
His laugh is shaky, full of disbelief and relief and a thousand years of need. "You're fucking incredible, you know that?"
"So are you."
We let the silence be what it is, whole, alive, no longer weighted by threat or secrets. When he finally slides out of me, I roll onto my side, head on his chest, and he strokes my hair like he's taming a wild animal.
"Never thought I'd have this," he says after a while, almost to himself.
I don't ask whatthisis. I know. I can feel it, shivering between us, the hope, the fear. The knowledge that nothing in this world is safe, but right now, we are.
"I love you," I say, just to hear it in the air.
He kisses my forehead. "I love you more."
We fall silent for another few beats. This time, he's the one who breaks the silence, "You're going to be an amazing mom."
"You'll be an amazing dad," I say, meaning it.
He snorts, doubtful. "I hope our kid gets your sense of right and wrong."
"Maybe," I say, "but I'm hoping they get your heart."
He looks startled, actually startled, and I realize nobody's ever said that to him before. He covers it with a laugh, but I can feel the warmth radiating off him. It's one more secret we get to keep, just for us.
We stay wrapped around each other like that for a long time. No alarms. No threats. No weight pressing down on my chest for the first time in what feels like years.
Just us.
Our bodies are still humming, while our breathing slowly syncs just like the tide to the moon.Thisis what safety feels like.
This.
