Page 23 of King's Heir of Hate

For a moment, when she sank down on him, it was like the whole world stopped spinning.

It was that glorious, that impossiblyright, that good.

It was the same as it always was. It was perfect.

It was scalding hot and it made her want to sob out the pleasure of it, of him. He filled her completely, then slightly more, so it took her a moment to settle in against him. To let her body adjust that last small bit so that she could truly take all of him.

And this time there wasn’t anything the least bitblurryabout it.

Esme breathed until she felt herself relax internally. Even if she hadn’t been able to feel it herself, she would have known by the way his gaze sharpened. Those bright blue flames.

Making her wonder if this was the time he’d cause her to simplycombust.

After a moment, then, she propped her hands on his chest and began to work herself against him. She rocked herself back and forth. She raised herself up and then slid back down that whole, hard length of him.

He watched her, his hands on her hips to help her and to guide her, that gorgeous face of his filled with passion and command, desire and longing.

She doubted he knew she could see that, too.

Esme bit her lip and every stroke felt like glory. Like them.

Like everything she ever wanted, the way it always had.

The way it always would.

She kept on and on until his head fell back and hers drooped forward, his hands gripping her while he pounded into her from below, until they both exploded all over again—scattering themselves to every part of the Pyrenees. And the galaxy. And any universe that waited beyond.

Esme collapsed against him and he caught her, then pulled her down on top of him. She lay there, spent and giddy, especially because he didn’t toss her aside the way she had assumed he might. He didn’t order her to go. He didn’t ruin this.

She had been so sure he would cut them back down to size that the fact he didn’t made her heart swell inside her chest—until she was terrified that he would hear the way it beat. That he would know how much she loved this sweet heat they’d made and do something to make it cold again.

They lay there in the dark, silent—save for the way their breath sawed out into the dimly lit room.

And she got to drift off to sleep curled up into Tadeo’s side, which was—the way it always was, the way it always had been—the best sleep of her life.

Esme wasn’t exactly surprised to wake up alone the next morning. Hurt, yes. But notsurprised.

She sat up, looking around, but she could tell immediately that he was nowhere nearby. That wasn’t surprising either.

And when the immediate hurt subsided, she decided that she was perfectly satisfied. She had seen his face. She had held his body close to hers, and held him inside her. And yes, all of those things were true about the night of his father’s funeral, too.

She remembered that night entirely too well, despite the alcohol. She had found him in his father’s study, down near the offices in one of the more public areas of the palace. He had disappeared after the funeral and she hadn’t wanted to just…leave him to his grief.

Maybe it was silly, after all they’d been through over the years, but she couldn’t bear to think of him hurting. She’d instinctively headed for the study, not sure if she knew or simply remembered that his father had spent the bulk of his time with his books in his last years.

Sure enough, she’d found Tadeo there. Systematically working himself through a very large bottle of something amber-colored and pungent.

I don’t want you here, he’d growled at her when she’d come in, dressed in her fine black clothes.

But he’d gestured to the couch beside him, inviting her to take a seat.

Esme hadn’t intended for things to go the way they had. Or she didn’t think that was what she’d intended. They hadn’t spoken much. He’d passed the bottle to her and they’d traded back and forth like that for far longer than they should have.

When he’d buried his head in his hands, she’d rubbed his back—and then it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world when he’d pulled her close and kissed her.

It had been a savage kind of grief, she thought. She had offered him comfort, because she knew he needed it. Becauseshe’d known and cared about his father. Because despite everything, she cared about him, too.

Maybe that was when she’d understood that she always would.