Page 91 of King of Praise
“Such beautiful hair,” he murmurs, separating the strands with careful fingers. “Like living fire.” His hands work methodically, starting at my scalp and slowly working down to the ends that brush just past my shoulders. Each stroke sends tingles down my spine.
I lean back against his chest, watching our reflection. The contrast between us is striking—his large, muscled frame behind my smaller one, his tanned skin against my pale freckled complexion, his dark beard and graying temples next to my vibrant red curls. Yet somehow, we fit together perfectly.
His fingers massage my scalp gently, and I can’t help the small moan that escapes me. The sensation is divine, relaxing and arousing all at once. In the mirror, his eyes darken at the sound.
“That’s it, lovely,” he encourages softly, continuing his ministrations. “Let me hear how good it feels.”
My hair falls in soft waves now, framing my face. Micah’s hands slide down to my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the muscles there as he admires his work. The way he looks at me—like I’m precious, beautiful, worthy—makes me love this man even more.
“Stay,” he instructs, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before disappearing into the main room.
His reflection moves to the dresser where my clothes are stored, anticipation building as he selects items with careful consideration.
He returns with an array of garments draped over one arm. My eyes widen at his choices—all items I’ve worn before, but combined in ways I might not have considered.
“Hands behind your head.” He directs, voice low but firm. “Elbows out.”
He starts with underwear—a matching set in pale green lace. The panties slide up my legs with tantalizing slowness, hisknuckles brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. When he reaches my hips, he allows his hands to linger, thumbs stroking along the lace edges in a way that makes me shiver.
“Perfect,” he says, admiring how the delicate fabric sits against my skin. “These were made for you.”
The bra comes next, but not before his hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing across nipples that instantly harden at his touch. He takes his time adjusting the straps, ensuring the cups sit perfectly, occasionally letting his fingers trail across my skin in deliberate ways.
Once my bra is in place, he leans down and presses a feather-light kiss to my cleavage. I want to reach out and tangle my hands in his hair. Strip the bra back off and beg him to suck on my hardened nipples. But I don’t. He’s in charge right now, and I need to be his good girl and obey.
“Arms up,” he instructs, reaching for a soft sweater in deep forest green. “This color brings out your eyes.”
The sweater slides over my head, his hands smoothing the fabric across my shoulders and down my sides. Each touch feels both practical and intimate—necessary for dressing yet charged with unspoken promise. When his fingers brush the sides of my breasts through the soft material, my breath hitches.
“Patience,” he murmurs, though I catch the slight darkening of his eyes in the mirror. “We have all day.”
Next come black leggings that hug my curves like a second skin. He rolls them up my legs inch by inch, hands skimming along my calves, behind my knees, up my thighs. When his fingers brush against me through the lace panties, the touch is too brief to provide satisfaction but enough to make me whimper.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Not yet. Good things come to those who wait,” he says with authority.
He adds knee-high boots in soft black leather, kneeling to zip them up with careful attention. The position—him on his knees before me yet clearly in control—makes my head spin.
Once he’s satisfied with my boots, he leans forward and presses a kiss right above my clit. I melt, even with all the layers of clothes.
Before I can reach for him, he steps back to survey his work, dark eyes traveling over me with appreciation. “Turn around. Slowly.”
I comply, watching myself in the mirror as I make a complete rotation. The outfit is perfectly put together—casual enough for our planned activities, yet feminine and flattering. More than that, it’s knowing Micah chose and applied each piece himself. I feel beautiful in ways clothing alone could never match.
“What do you think?” he asks, coming to stand behind me. His hands settle on my hips, thumbs stroking small circles.
I study our reflection with objective assessment. The woman in the mirror bears little resemblance to the frightened, diminished person who huddled with blood-spatter in Micah’s apartment. My cheeks have filled out from regular, stress-free meals. My posture has straightened, shoulders no longer hunched in anticipation of criticism or violence. Most significantly, my eyes have regained spark and purpose—the deadened look of prolonged abuse replaced by the clear gaze of someone reclaiming her life.
“I think…” I pause, choosing words carefully. “I think I’m starting to recognize myself again.”
His arms slide around my waist, pulling me back against his chest.
“Good.” He presses a kiss to the sensitive spot behind my ear. “That’s all I want—for you to be yourself. No hiding, no pretending.”
The sincerity of his words threatens to undo me. Micah’s acceptance of my authentic self feels revolutionary.
He steps away to retrieve my coat—a warm wool peacoat in classic camel that he brought from his apartment during our hasty departure. As he helps me into it, his movements remain unhurried, each adjustment of the collar and sleeves an excuse for subtle contact that leaves me aching for more.
