Page 54 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

“I know what you want.” He presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. My jaw. The sensitive spot just below my ear. “And I’m going to give it to you. But I’m going to take my time.”

His hands are shaking.

I can feel it where they rest on my hips, a fine tremor, barely perceptible. The mighty lycan king, three hundred years old, trembling like this is his first time.

Because of me. He’s shaking because of me.

“You’re trembling,” I whisper.

“I’m trying to be restrained.”

“Why?”

“Because if I’m not restrained…” His mouth drags down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point. “…I’m going to do things to you that will make you forget your own name.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise.”

His hands find the hem of my shirt and pause there, thumbs stroking the bare skin just above my waistband.

His thumbs still, a question in the touch.

“Yes,” I say, before he can ask.

He pulls my shirt over my head in one smooth motion, and then his mouth is on my collarbone, my sternum, the swell of my breast above my bra. Each kiss is deliberate. Worshipful. Like he’s mapping my body and committing every inch to memory.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin. “You’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I’m not flattering you. I’m stating facts.” His fingers find the clasp of my bra, and he looks up at me with those gold eyes. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

The bra falls away, and he makes a sound, low and rough, somewhere between a groan and a growl, that sends heat flooding through my entire body.

“Perfect,” he breathes. “Absolutely perfect.”

His mouth closes over my nipple, and I cry out, back arching, hands fisting in his hair. His tongue swirls, teases, and then he’s sucking gently, and the sensation shoots straight to my core.

“Orion…”

“I love hearing you say my name.” He switches to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. “Say it again.”

“Orion…”

“That’s it. Just like that.”

He kisses down my stomach, each press of his lips deliberate, reverent. His fingers hook into the waistband of my leggings, thank god I wore leggings, thank god I didn’t wear something complicated, and he looks up at me again, asking permission.

I nod.

He pulls them down slowly. So slowly it’s almost torture. He watches my face the whole time he reveals me inch by inch, and the weight of that stare is almost as intense as his hands.

“Lift your hips.”

I do, and then the leggings are gone, and I’m in nothing but my underwear, sprawled on the arm of my couch with a naked lycan king kneeling between my thighs.