Page 77 of King of Praise
Micah
The fire crackles softly, casting dancing shadows across the cabin walls as morning light filters through the windows. Naomi sits between my legs, her back pressed against my chest, both of us wrapped in a thick blanket beside the fireplace. The peaceful calm of the moment is surreal—her red curls tickling my neck, the warmth of her body melting into mine, Powder curled contentiously nearby.
Last night’s memories flood my mind, and I tighten my grip around her waist. The image of her kneeling in submission, offering herself with such trust and vulnerability, still takes my breath away. Even now, hours later, I struggle to process the depth of what transpired between us.
“Open up,” I say, bringing a piece of still-warm apple turnover to her lips. She’d been up before dawn baking. Her mouth parts obediently, accepting the morsel with a small sound of pleasure that shoots straight to my cock.
“So good.” She praises her own handiwork, tilting her head back to meet my gaze. “Though everything tastes better when you feed it to me.”
The simple admission creates a fierce ache in my chest. I press a kiss to her temple, inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo mingled with traces of cinnamon and vanilla.
“You spoil me,” I tell her, reaching for coffee with my free hand. “I haven’t eaten this well in years.”
She laughs, the sound light and genuine in a way I rarely heard during her first weeks here. “You deserve to be spoiled. Besides, baking helps me think.”
“What were you thinking about this morning?” I ask.
She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers absently stroking my forearm where it rests across her stomach. “About last night. About us. About how different everything feels now.”
The vulnerability in her voice makes me pause. “Different good or different scary?”
“Both?” She shifts, pressing closer as if seeking reassurance. “Good because I’ve never felt so safe, so seen. Scary because I never thought I could want this kind of submission. But with you, it feels right. Natural.”
I set my coffee aside to wrap both arms around her, enraptured by the trust she places in me. “You’re incredible,” I murmur against her hair. “So brave, so strong. The way you offered yourself last night.”
“I meant every bit of it,” she says, turning in my embrace to face me. Her green eyes meet mine with quiet certainty. “I choose this—choose you. Maybe we shouldn’t, given everything, but I don’t care anymore.”
The declaration steals my breath. I cup her face in my hands, studying the constellation of freckles across her nose, the subtle curve of her lips, the absolute conviction in her gaze. Everything about her captivates me—her resilience, her gentleness, the way she transforms our forced proximity into a home.
“My good girl,” I praise softly. Color floods her cheeks. “So perfect for me in every way.”
She practically purrs at my words, arching into my touch like a contented cat. The movement draws my attention to the marks I left on her neck last night. Pride and possessiveness flood through me.
Mine, something primitive inside me growls.All mine to protect, to pleasure, and to praise.
The buzz of my phone breaks through our peaceful bubble. I consider ignoring it, but years of ingrained caution win out. Keeping one arm around Naomi, I fish the device from the side table, checking the display with wariness.
My blood runs cold at the name illuminated on the screen. Sandra.
Naomi tenses in my arms, also catching sight of the caller ID. Her breath hitches. I shouldn’t answer. Nothing good can come from engaging with Sandra’s grief-fueled accusations but I’ve ignored her last few calls.
“I should take this,” I say, already regretting the decision even as I make it. “Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”
Naomi nods, though her expression reveals doubt that mirrors my own. She starts to move away, but I tighten my arm around her waist, keeping her close. Whatever vitriol Sandra spews, I want Naomi to feel my support.
Taking a deep breath, I accept the call. “Sandra.”
“Finally decided to answer your phone?” Her voice drips with venom. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
“I’ve been busy.” The neutrality in my tone comes from years of practice dealing with her dramatic finger-pointing. “What do you want?”
“Want?” She laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. “I want justice for my son. I want the police to do their jobs instead of accepting this ridiculous drug dealer story. I want to know why you’re protecting that murdering bitch.”
Anger flares hot in my chest, but I force it down. Letting Sandra provoke me will only make things worse. “The police investigation was thorough. The evidence supports their conclusions. Lucas made choices that—”
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses. “Don’t you dare suggest he was involved with drugs. He would never—”
“You don’t know everything about him,” I interrupt, keeping my voice level despite the growing urge to shout. “You never did.”
