Page 53 of King of Praise
Without prompting, she straddles my lap, settling her weight with natural grace. The flannel shirt rides up. Nothing underneath.
Fuck.
My hands find her bare thighs, sliding upward with appreciative pressure. A groan escapes me at her nakedness, my body responding instantly. My morning arousal intensifies to urgent desire as I map the soft skin beneath my palms.
Before I can act on this need, Naomi’s attention shifts to my bandaged arm—the knife wound from the club attack. Her fingers hover over the white gauze, concern furrowing her brow. The downward turn of her lips tugs at something in my chest.
“What happened?” she asks softly.
“It’s nothing.” The dismissal comes automatically. Years of compartmentalizing violence make the lie smooth, natural. “Just a minor injury. Not worth discussing.”
I won’t bring the brutality of my world into the safe space we’ve created. She’s seen enough violence to last a lifetime. Better to focus on pleasure, on teaching her touch can heal rather than harm.
My hands resume their exploration, moving from her thighs to her waist, then upward to cup her breasts through the soft flannel. The flannel shirt does little to conceal her body’s response—nipples hardening beneath my palms, breath quickening as I knead the soft flesh.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, pleased when the praise brings fresh color to her cheeks.
With deliberate movements, she begins unbuttoning the shirt. Each inch of revealed skin draws my gaze like a magnet until she shrugs the garment off entirely. My hands reclaim her breasts immediately, thumbs circling the sensitive peaks as I drink in the sight of her—all creamy skin and freckles in themorning light, her red curls wild from sleep and our late-night lovemaking.
“Show me how you like to be fucked,” I command softly. “Ride me. Take your pleasure while I watch.”
The words send shivers through her body. This request—part direction, part invitation—acknowledges both my dominance and her agency.
Naomi’s delicate fingers hook into the waistband of my sleep pants, tugging them down with gentle determination. My cock springs free, hard and aching for her touch. She wraps her hand around my length, her grip confident yet tender as she strokes me with a rhythm that makes my breath catch.
“Lovely,” I moan as she explores me, memorizing every detail with both hand and gaze. Her touch is curious, almost reverent, as if she’s learning what gives me pleasure. Each stroke sends sparks through my body, but it’s the look of wonder on her face that truly undoes me.
She shifts her position, rising up on her knees to hover above me. The morning light catches the golden highlights of her red curls, creating a halo effect that makes her appear ethereal. My hands find her hips, steadying her as she positions herself. The head of my cock brushes against her wet heat, drawing matching groans from both our throats.
With exquisite slowness, she begins to take me in. Her body accepts me inch by careful inch, the tight heat of her nearly overwhelming. I force myself to remain still, to let her set the pace, though every instinct screams to thrust up into her welcoming warmth.
Her eyes stay locked on mine as she sinks down, her lips parted, cheeks flushed with arousal. The vulnerability in her gaze strikes my heart. This isn’t just sex—it’s an act of trust, of choosing to be vulnerable with me in ways she never allowed herself before.
When she finally settles fully in my lap, taking me to the hilt, we both pause to savor the sensation of complete connection. Her inner muscles flutter around me as she adjusts to my size. My thumbs trace soothing circles on her hipbones, silently praising her for taking all of me.
“That’s it, lovely,” I encourage softly as pleasure blooms across her features. “You feel perfect around me. So tight, so warm.”
Naomi begins to move, rising and falling on my cock with growing confidence. Each roll of her hips draws a soft gasp from her lips. My hands grip her waist, steadying but not controlling, letting her find her own rhythm.
“Touch yourself.” The command comes out rough and gravelly from my rising desire. “Show me how you like it. Let me watch you take what you need.”
Her eyes meet mine, hesitant to comply. But I give her a nod of encouragement. When she slides her hand between our bodies, fingers finding her clit, I groan in pleasure. “That’s my good girl.”
The sight of her pleasuring herself while riding me nearly shatters my control. Her movements grow bolder, more urgent, as she chases her release.
“That’s it. So fucking beautiful like this.”
Her inner muscles clench around me with each circle of her fingers. Her other hand braces against my chest, nails digging into my skin. The slight pain only heightens my arousal.
“M-Micah,” she whimpers, her rhythm faltering as pleasure builds.
“I’ve got you.” I reassure her, my grip on her hips tightening just enough to help her maintain the pace she’s set. “Own your pleasure. Show me how good it feels.”
Her head falls back, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Red curls cascade down her back, blazing in the morninglight like flames. My gaze drinks in every detail—the flush spreading across her chest, the way her breasts bounce with each movement, the look of pure abandon on her face as she rides me.
The sight of her lost in pleasure, taking what she wants without shame or fear, makes my chest tight with emotion. This is what she deserves—freedom to explore her desires, to find joy in her own body. Every moan, every shudder of pleasure is a victory over Lucas’s attempts to break her spirit.
Fucking perfect.
