Page 126 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

“My Delia. My mate. My queen.” He meets my eyes. “My Alpha.”

His hands slide down my skirts, and he catches the hem and pushes it, ever so slowly, up over my calves and then my thighs. As his hands move, the tips of his fingers tickle up my bare legs. I close my eyes to savor the sensation.

He takes his time touching me, fingers first and then tongue and lips, tracing kisses with excruciating slowness up the inside of my legs. As he travels lower, he glances up, the briefest of pauses, making sure he’s not doing anything I don’t want. And I love him for that. I absolutely adore him for it, so much so that tears prickle my eyes.

I’ve spent the last two weeks having choices ripped from me. Being shown how little I matter after a lifetime of my mother and aunt showing me how much I matter. Bishop gives me back that power, every last bit of it.

He can play games of control, because he certainly likes to take it, but I never for one moment doubt that it is a game, and I can say I don’t want to play. And that might be the most attractive part of it. That I choose. I always choose.

I ease down in the throne, hips moving toward him as they lift in invitation. As his tongue slides up my inner thigh, I glance toward the door.

“Should we lock the door?”

“No,” he says, and his tongue goes in, making me gasp.

He takes his time. His tongue works and when his fingers slide around the back, his thumb running over that other hole, it startles me, and he stops and focuses on what he’s doing. But then I twist toward his hand, telling him he can try again, and when he does, that is a whole new sensation.

I writhe, moaning, as his tongue and lips and teeth and finger work magic that brings me to the brink over and over before pulling back, making it last until I put my hands on his head and keep him there. Even then, as I lie on the throne, panting, he only starts again, kissing my thighs and then teasing with his tongue, working back into me and bringing me to another climax.

After that one, he scoops me up, and I make a little noise of protest as he lifts me off the throne.

“You want something else?” He arches his brows. “Wasn’t that enough, woman?”

“Enough for a woman.” I reach to adjust my crown. “Not enough for a queen.”

“What more do you want?”

“You.” I slide my hand down his stomach and squeeze the very prominent bulge in his trousers. “Put me back on that throne.”

“Is that an order?” He kisses me. “Let me lock the door first.”

“I thought you were fine with having it unlocked.”

He grins. “Am I fine with someone walking in, seeing me pleasuring my queen? Yes. But not this part.”

“Agreed. However, before you lock it, I need something from over there.”

I point, and he detours to the cabinet, where he’d found my crown. I wriggle from his arms, and his brows arch in question, but he lets me down.

“Is the crown too heavy?” he asks.

I smile at him and quote, “Uneasy is the head that wears the crown?” I put my arms around his neck. “No, it will never be too heavy for you, and therefore it will never be too heavy for me.”

“As long as we wear them together, they will always be lighter,” he says. “I hope you know how much I appreciate that. Sharing the burden that wasn’t yours to take.”

“I want to share it, and thus it becomes ours.” I lift the king’s crown from the cabinet and reach to set it on his head. “That was my goal. Not to remove mine, but to give you yours.”

He kisses me lightly, and I back up to admire him.

“It suits you,” I say. “A proper crown for a proper king.”

I half kneel, as if bowing. Then I lower myself to my knees as I undo the top button on his trousers.

“My lord,” I say, looking up at him with a wicked smile.

His gaze flicks to the door, but I notice he doesn’t mention locking it first, and I smile to myself.

I tug down his drawers just enough to run my tongue across the tip of him. He groans and his hands go to my head, but I shake them off, and he chuckles but lets his fingers undo my hair instead.