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23
Lyon could hardly believe it. She was finally in his arms: wet from the bath and almost under duress, but in his arms just the same.
He’d stared after her for a long time after she went upstairs, his mind warring with his body — he didn’t dare think about his heart — after she’d left him at the dining table. It would be a mistake to go after her. A mistake to let her know how much he wanted her, that it was badly enough to make him follow her instead of making her come to him.
His feet had moved almost against his will, propelling up the stairs and into her room, where he’d followed the sweet scent of her bath to find her naked, his own desire mirrored in her eyes.
Now he lowered her to the floor and forced himself to step away. He didn’t trust himself to take it slow. And he had to take it slow. He didn’t know if or when she would allow him access to her body again. He was going to make it count even if it killed him.
She was even more beautiful than he’d imagined, her body lavish in its riches. She stood like a queen in spite of her nakedness, head held high, exactly as he expected.
Exactly as he’d dreamed.
He stood in front of her, stroking his chin and trying to memorize every detail as his eyes roamed her body. It was a luxury he’d waited for, and he intended to enjoy it, in spite of the fact that his cock was already rigid and begging for her.
Her hair was piled on top of her head in a mass of waves. It made her neck look even longer and more slender, and he watched with rapt attention as water dripped down her throat to her chest, beading on full breasts, her nipples the palest of pinks, erect and begging for his tongue, the nip of his teeth.
He let his gaze travel downward, around her tapered waist, over the soft swell of her stomach, just fleshy enough that he could imagine burying his face in it, breathing her in. Her hips flared like an invitation, and he lingered over the mound between her voluptuous thighs, the pale hair trimmed but not absent, exactly the way he liked it.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
“You turn around,” she demanded.
He stalked toward her and spun her in one motion and pushed her down over the bed. He pressed his cock, hard in his jeans, into her ass. “Still want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” she gasped.
And she did. He could feel the dampness between her legs, and he had to resist the urge to unzip his jeans and plunge into her then and there.
He leaned over her body, pressed his chest to her back, and took one of her ear lobes between his teeth.
She gasped when he bit down. He let it go, them pressed his lips against her ear. “Then you’ll do as I say.”
“You told me to beg,” she said.
“Begging is just the beginning, Kira.”
“Fucking me doesn’t mean you own me,” she said.
“It does here, in the bedroom.” He ground his hips against her, pressing into her heat. “Have you changed your mind?”
She hesitated. “No.”
He straightened and backed away. “Good. Now stand and let me look at you.”
She straightened, keeping her back to him, and he took in the line of her spine, her plush ass, the shadow hinting at the paradise between her thighs.
“You may turn around,” he said.
She turned to face him, and he didn’t think he was imagining the hatred on her face.
He didn’t care. She had to learn the rules. Had to know that he while he might allow her disobedient mouth, her stubbornness, outside of the bedroom, he reigned over her here.
He didn’t know any other way. Had never cared for a woman enough to be tender with one. When she was naked with him, he was the king, and she would do as he commanded.
He walked slowly toward her. He didn’t stop until he was pressed against her naked body. She held firm, green eyes blazing as she looked up at him.
He reached behind her head and felt for the pins holding her hair in place. He removed them one by one and watched as her hair fell in a tangle of flaxen silk around her shoulders.
