Page 115 of The Widow and the Wanted

“Still,” I murmur, letting the challenge settle between us, “when I take you, I expect you to yield.”

She goes very still. “Expect all you like,” she says. “A queen yields when it pleases her.”

I slide my hand lower, over the soft give of her belly, and pause there long enough to feel her breath turn shallow. She could stop me. She does not.

When I touch her, she is slick against my fingers. Hot and wet enough to force my eyes closed in a second of near-violent restraint. I gather myself. The promise of taking Lula apart piece by perfect piece makes me smile against her throat. “Then it seems Her Majesty is already pleased.” My fingers sink between her folds, her sensitive pearl tucked between my middle and forefinger. I work her over, feeling every twitch of her body against mine. “All that royal dignity, and here you are wet and ready for me.”

She grips my forearm. For a moment I think she means to stop me, but then her knees part wider over mine.

Boone curses softly. Her focus cuts to him in the mirror, then darkens when she sees what we see: herself held open in my lap, my darker hand between her pale thighs, Boone watching like a man being slowly starved.

I withdraw my hand slowly, letting her feel the loss of it as I guide her body over mine.

“Now, you’re going to watch your kings ruin you.”

She sinks down with a moan, taking half my length in one slow glide before her tightness forces me to pause. Then she rolls her hips and takes the rest, stretching around every thick inch until I am buried to the hilt.

The sight nearly ends me. Not only the feel of her, though God knows that is sin enough, but the sight of her spread open—I cannot look away from the place where my cock disappears inside her, and the taut, heavy pull of my stones beneath her, drawn up tight from days of hard travel and no release.

I reach down, my fingers returning to that tender place between her thighs, moving with slow certainty until her grip tightens around my wrist and her breath comes apart. As though all evening she has been trapped inside costume and calculation, and now every honest thing in her body is rushing back at once.

“Goddamn,” Boone breathes, eyes locked on our joined bodies.

He opens his own robe, cock already rigid. I turn slightly so he can see the three of us in the mirror—the place where her body opens to mine, the slick shine of us together, the fearless lift of her chin as she watches herself being taken.

“That’s a mighty beautiful sight,” Boone rasps, voice hoarse with awe. One hand strokes himself while the other reaches forward, fingers gliding reverently over us.

A moment later I feel the wet heat of his mouth as he presses kisses and slow, hungry licks where her cunt parts for me. Boone works her slow at first, then with cruel little bursts of attention that make her clench hard around me. Each time she tries to ride away from his mouth, I hold her there. Each time she tries to sink too far down on me, Boone draws her back to himself.

Between us, she has nowhere to hide.

Her fingers catch in my hair, then Boone’s, and for a moment she is the one holding us both in place. That pleases me more than it should. She is not yielding like a conquered thing.

“Harder,” she says, the words breaking apart in her throat.

A queen commands, even as she yields. Lula comes apart between us with a sharp cry she tries—and fails—to smother. I hold her through it, feeling every last shudder take her, until the strength goes out of her all at once. Only when her hand slips weakly from my hair do I let her slip away.

After, she sinks down to the side with a soft, sated sigh, cheeks flushed and eyes heavy. Boone lifts his head, mouth wet, expression bright with satisfaction.

I put a hand in his hair and make him look at me.

“Mon garçon,” I murmur.

The words strike him exactly where I mean them to.

“Look what you did to our queen.”

His throat works. Lula, still trembling, makes a small sound of approval.

I tighten my grip in his hair and draw him closer. “That’s it, my love.”

Boone opens for me without hesitation, eager and ruined and pleased with himself.

“Taste how well you made our queen come.”

He groans around me, the sound low and hungry, his hands finding my thighs as though he needs something to hold on to. Boone has always loved like that—with his whole greedy heart, all heat and devotion, as if every inch of me is something he means to worship and destroy in the same breath.

I let him have only enough to make him ache for more. Then I catch his jaw and draw him off me, slow enough to watch the protest gather in his eyes.