He bumps into the dresser with a grunt and stumbles toward the bed.
“No hurting yourself,” I tease. “I have plans for this gorgeous body of yours.”
“Oh, do you, now?”
He lays me down on the bed with such reverence it nearly undoes me. His gaze roams, hungry and gentle at the same time. I sit up and reach for my collar, then pause. Butterflies swamp my stomach. I’m suddenly hesitant.
“I’m rather pale and—”
“Perfect?” Lark finishes. “I happen to like the way you look.” His gaze deepens, as if he can see right through me. “And I’d still like you any other way you might look.”
My breath stutters.
The moment lies between us, practically begging me to admit my secret disguise. Then he dips his face with a sultry grin, kissing my neck while fingers fumble at buttons and laces between us. His hands are hot against my skin, melting me as they skim up my ribs.
“Oh, that’s…that…yes. More.”
I love that his breathing hitches when mine does, and that he has to take a moment to control himself when he has my blouse hanging open. He’s less gentle now as he tugs it out from under me, his eyes never leaving my body.
Fabric pools on the floor. His shirt follows. Then his trousers. His skin is warm against mine as he lies beside me, propped on one elbow. Looking. His eyes trace every curve of my body.
I’ve never been seen like this. Not just bare but…known.
“You are sodrowningbeautiful,” he whispers, his voice rough. “I don’t know why you agreed to help me or why you stayed, but I’m grateful for every moment you spend with me. They’re all gifts I’m not worthy of.”
“Now who’s selling themselves short?” I wish he could see himself the way I do. I trace firm abs with a featherlight touch, enjoying the way his skin dimples in response. “You know, at Court, it’s expected to give a gift before receiving one.”
I let my fingers trail down his torso to his base, enjoying the groan it draws out of him
“Then I’m very lax in my court protocol,” he teases, peppering small kisses along my shoulder. “Receiving all these gifts without giving. I’ll have to fix that.”
“It’s impossible, you know.” I meet his eyes, heart pounding. “How can both parties fulfill the expectation when one gift must always come first?”
“Easy. You’ll always come first.”
My stomach flip flops. There’s no world where Lark wouldn’t be unfailingly generous and giving. No reason that wouldn’t be the case in bed, too. I should have expected the way he’s setting me on fire with just his fingers and tongue, but he doesn’t make me feel like I need to play a game of reciprocation, though I may want to do that later.
Why, oh why, was I trying to live up to so many impossible standards all that time when someone like Lark exists, who never makes me feel lacking?
His kisses turn hotter, his hand gliding over my stomach, teasing warmth where I’m already aching. His hand slides lower.
I gasp, arching into his fingers as pleasure blooms at my core, sharp and sudden and all-encompassing. He reads every sound I make, every catch in my breath, with practiced focus like he’s been studying my pleasure for ages, not moments. Every touch is a question. And every time, my body answersyes, yes, storms yes.
I may have said that last one out loud.
His fingers trace slow, insistent circles that make my senses shatter. When he shifts to cover me, my hips rise to meet him, seeking more, wanting…
I reach for him, guiding him where I want him most. Needing him.
And he gives it. Firm. Steady. Slow at first.
He pauses to allow me time to adjust to how he fills me, waiting until I want to scream at him to move, already. It’s nothing but sweet, agonizing pleasure when he does.
He gives me everything, murmuring sweet nothings in that deep, reverent tone that could convince me I’m divine. I can’t stop touching.
Everywhere.
All at once.
