Page 77 of Feral King

He regards me with an expression of slight skepticism, sweat beading on his forehead. I reach up and pull himdown for another deep kiss. It gets him started again, giving me what I need.

He drives into me harder, my breasts rocking back and forth, my ankles locked at the small of his back, holding him right where I want him. He continues to kiss me, and it feels like he’s pouring his soul into it.

“God, you’re everything. My woman.”

I moan at his words, the third orgasm building slow and powerful. His thrusts grow faster but stay controlled, each one reaching that perfect spot. When the orgasm is right on the cusp and I start to shake, he presses his forehead against mine.

“Come with me, baby. Let me feel you.”

That’s all it takes. We crest together, my walls pulsing around him in deep, rhythmic waves, pleasure crashing through me bright and endless. Julian groans my name as he pulses and drains, his body shuddering against mine. We cling to each other through every aftershock, hearts hammering in sync.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Perfect.” I nuzzle closer. “Though we might break the bed if we do that again.”

A quiet laugh rumbles through him. His arm tightens around my waist, one hand cupping the back of my head.

He kisses my forehead. “I’d sleep on the floor if it meant holding you like this.”

I smile and close my eyes as I hold him tighter.

CHAPTER 28

LYRA

We spent four days in New Orleans.

Four days of hospital visits and Mama’s cooking, four days of Julian sitting on the front porch reading Dad’s battered copy ofA Confederate General from Big Surwhile I handle foundation calls from the kitchen table.

Dad recovered quicker than anyone expected. Dr. Broussard called him stubborn, but I know he meant it in a good way. Dad’s always followed his own timeline, and recovering from surgery has been no exception.

By day three, Dad was arguing with the nurses about the Saints’ defensive line and trying to talk Mama into sneaking boudin into the hospital.

By day four, Mama was shooing us back to New York, insisting that she had everything under control, reminding Julian that he had a company to run, and I had a fundraiser to plan.

She hugged Julian tightly at the airport, which surprised the hell out of me. A full-on embrace, arms-wrapped around him with enough strength to make Julian’s eyes go a little wide.

That was three weeks ago. Since then, everything has been about the fundraiser.

And tonight, it’s finally here.

The Whitmore looks like a completely different building. I barely recognize it from the bare-bones venue Anya and I first inspected almost a month ago. The entrance is flanked by white birches strung with micro-lights—ten thousand of them actually—all placed gently by hand.

Inside, the converted warehouse has been transformed into something between an art gallery vibe and a cathedral. The tables are draped in ivory linen, centerpieces of white peonies and eucalyptus in mercury glass adorn each one. Candlelight is multiplied by mirrors I had mounted along the east wall to double the visual depth of the room.

The stage is set for a string quartet, and there will be a keynote speaker from the Children’s Harbor Alliance. The bar has been repositioned, just like I’d asked, and Ethan’s security checkpoints have been seamlessly integrated into the flow—guests will pass through three layers of them without ever feeling like they’re being screened.

It’s taken a hell of a lot of work. Six weeks of fourteen-hour days, a venue change, and a drive-by shooting. Not to mention a quick trip to New Orleans for my dad’s surgery.

It’s perfect. I know it’s perfect.

But at the moment, I’m in the bathroom throwing up.

The nausea came out of nowhere twenty minutes ago.

Nerves. It has to be nerves.

But there’s a lot I’ve been chalking up to nerves lately—exhaustion, sensitivity to certain smells, the way coffee suddenly tastes like battery acid, and just the thought of alcohol makes my stomach roil.