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“Orion...” she whispered, though she didn’t know what she meant to say. Or how she could say it when she was so wild with wanting him, it hurt.
“I want you,” he said, as if he knew. And his voice was thick with it.
With something else, too, though she couldn’t place it.
It was not until his hands found her face to slide along her cheeks, then his fingers dug into her hair and pulled it loose from its pins, that she realized what it was.
Wonder.
The word seemed to shimmer inside her, heat and flame. But then he was kissing her again, and everything became a part of that. The slide of his tongue. The dizzying, glorious mastery he took of her.
And then when he pulled back and gazed at her as if he’d never beheld such beauty.
Calista felt lit up from the inside out, and trembled with it, especially when all Orion did was smile.
A very male, very dark sort of smile.
And then he undressed her.
But he didn’t simply rip her clothes off, or hurry them along in any way.
He...unwrapped her, as if every bit of flesh he uncovered was a gift and he had nothing better to do than savor it. For eternity, if necessary.
Because that was what he did. He took his time, lavishing attention as much on the space between her breasts as the aching crest of each. He learned her collarbone, her shoulders, and each of her fingers. He spent a lifetime on the line of her spine, the curve of her lower back, the flare of her hips. Calista lost days, weeks, months, as he found his way down the length of each leg, then up again.
And by the time he made it between, to that place where she ached for him the most—molten and sweet and hot—she was gasping for breath.
Then her gasps turned to cries as he tasted her there, too.
Orion feasted on her with a fierce, possessive intensity that had her first falling back against the foot of the bed, and then lifting her hips up to meet the flat of his tongue, the faint scrape of his teeth, right where she needed it most.
And the first time she broke apart, arching up against him and sobbing, she understood fully why the French called it a little death.
Though there was nothinglittleabout it.
Orion shifted her, moving her farther back onto the bed. Calista simply...lay there, fighting for air, as he rid himself of the suit he wore at last.
And then, despite how hard it still was to breathe, she had to prop herself up on her elbows to watch. Because the truth about the King of Idylla was that he was far more beautiful naked than he was magnificently clothed. He was a work of art. He belonged on all the statues that cluttered up this palace, and she was half-afraid that her heart would clatter its way straight out of her chest, because she was going to get to touch him. All of him.
She was going to get to lose herself in all that spectacular maleness, and even imagining that made her flush. Everywhere.
And the look on his face as he regarded her, sprawled out naked on the bed while she waited for him, almost made her tip straight over that edge again.
It was so intense.Toointense, almost. He looked at her with so much focused ferocity that she felt fluttery.
And then he crawled his way up onto the bed to join her, and that only made the intensity and the fluttering worse.
Better, something in her argued.
“I want to touch you,” she whispered. “I want to taste you.”
“Next time,” he growled.
Calista meant to protest, but he was kissing her again. Deep, drugging, intense kisses that sent her spinning.
And when Orion finally gathered her in his arms, then rolled her beneath him, she could feel how close to out of control he was. She could feel that electric tremor in him, running through him, as if he’d plugged himself into a wall socket.
His kisses grew wilder. More glorious.
