He stopped breathing entirely, his eyes wide as she started to lower the crown. He caught her wrist, not in a painful grip, but certainly it wasn’t a gentle one either. She waited, unspeaking, unmoving, unwavering as she held his gaze. The room was shrinking now, spiraling down to only them, so close together.
“Ophelia,” he whispered again, this time almost a plea.
She refused to answer it. He didn’t release her wrist, but instead used his opposite hand to take the crown from her fingers. She expected him to put it on again, but instead he raised it up, hanging it on one of the ears of the throne where it dangled, swinging gently and making a light tap against the wood.
Then his fingers cupped her face and he was kissing her. Hard and fast, with more passion than he had allowed the last two times this had happened. He drove into her, forceful, demanding, and she met him stroke for stroke. He released her wrist and she wrapped both arms around his shoulders, opening her legs so he could lean in closer, bunching the fabric from her skirts around his body.
His fingers clenched at her back, molding her even closer until the heat between them began to feel combustible. She arched against him, her entire body pulsing with a desire unlike any she’d experienced in the past. Something animal and hungry that spread throughout her entire being, heating her every limb, settling to throb between her legs. She wanted this man. Wanted him so much that she could taste it on her tongue as much as she tasted him.
He dragged his mouth away, down the side of her throat, sucking there as she gasped in pleasure. His hands slid lower, cupping her hips, sliding her forward to the edge of the throne and tightening her skirts around her body even more.
One hand slid down the outside line of her leg, the pressure firm and warm through the fabric of her gown. He bunched the dress into his fist, tugging it up as he went, until her legs were exposed. Then he touched her stockinged thigh, and she cried out with surprise and pleasure. God, his hands. His hands were like fire against her. She wanted them to touch her bare skin, she wanted them to cradle her against him as he took her.
He dropped to his knees on the stairs, moving his mouth lower over her still-clothed breast. Down over her stomach.
“Please,” she gasped, lifting into him shamelessly, seeking pleasure she had only ever found with her own hand but instinctively knew he would provide in ways she probably hadn’t yet imagined.
He glanced up at her. His gaze was almost entirely black with desire, his expression hungry and heated. There was no king there anymore, just a man who had been denying himself for far too long. A man who would not deny himself now. Couldn’t.
He shoved the skirt the rest of the way up, bunching it around her stomach. Now he could open her legs, and he did, shouldering his way between them. She stared down at him, dizzied by what she saw. On his knees he looked like he was there to be knighted by her. Or to worship her.
All thoughts of any kind exited her mind when he slid his hands up the inside of her thighs, along the soft fabric of her drawers. When he reached the apex, he hesitated and then slowly tugged the slit in them open wide. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks as he stared at her sex. The moment stretched so long she feared he might come to his senses and back away. But instead, he glanced up at her, licked his lips and then bent between her legs.
He tugged at the slit in her drawers, tearing the fabric at the seam so it opened even wider. She felt the steam of his breath against the sensitive flesh and rocked toward him with a moan. One that elevated when he actually pressed his mouth to her.
Ophelia had once upon a time found a very naughty book that described this act, but she had never experienced it. She found herself happy because having this man be the first was something special. He licked her, at first very gently, tracing her length with his tongue and letting loose a rumble of pleasure deep in his chest. She found herself lifting into him, seeking what he was giving, seeking more.
He didn’t deny her. Slowly those licks became harder. He feasted on her, tasting every fold of her body, drawing her farther open with his thumbs to delve even deeper into her wet flesh. The sensation was unbelievable, like electric pleasure that pulsed from wherever he touched her and ricocheted through her entire being.
She writhed on the throne, gripping the armrests with both hands, grinding against his tongue as he began to focus the flick of it against her clitoris. Faster, harder, until the waves of pleasure mounted and her vision blurred. Still, he never let her fall over the edge, never allowed her to find the release she needed. Not until he sucked.
He sucked her clitoris and the world tipped on its side as her body began to pulse in hard, heavy, fantastic waves of sensation. She sat up straighter, gripping his head in both hands, pulsing against his tongue as she gasped and cried out in the quiet of the room. He dragged her through the sensation, pushing her just to the edge of pain before he finally withdrew his mouth from her body and rocked back to look at her.
It was silent for what felt like forever. At first he looked pleased, smug even as he took in the slick evidence of his handiwork. But then it was as if he woke up. Like he came back into himself at last and realized what he had done. Where he had done it.
“Grantham,” she whispered as the horror entered his stare.
She reached for him, but he stood up in one fluid unfolding of muscle and sinew, wiping her from his beard with the back of his hand. She could see the outline of his hard cock against his trousers before the robes of his formal garment fell to conceal it.
He didn’t answer, only shoved a hand through his hair. He looked down at her, still sprawled on his throne, sex surely glistening in the thin beam of light that highlighted her. He held up a hand, as if to touch her, as if to ward her off.
Then he turned and left the room without another word.
She stood, smoothing her gown back down over herself. Her body still pulsed with the pleasure he had created. The warmth that spread through every part of her in a way it never had before.
And yet she wasn’t happy. No, she was wrecked. She had looked into his eyes and seen so much pain, so much regret, so much self-recrimination that she feared this would end whatever they’d just begun. For the first time she realized she didn’t want that to end. She wanted to explore the tension that always existed between them.
She wanted more of him, more of this, more of everything. And maybe that was the problem. For a man like him, this was too much. She was too much. And she’d never disliked that fact more.
CHAPTER 10
Grantham didn’t remember leaving the throne room. He didn’t remember moving through the halls or mounting the steps to the tower he’d hated most of his life. He just found himself at the door there, staring at the barrier, his hand lifted to knock.
Or had he already knocked? There was movement inside the chamber like he had and the occupants were pulling themselves together to answer.
“It’s me,” he said, and he hardly recognized his own voice. It sounded so…hollow. “I…I need to talk to Remi.”
The key turned in the lock from the other side of the door and then opened. Remi was in his trousers, but was shirtless. Behind him, Grantham saw Priscilla, wrapped up in a robe, her hair mussed. Obviously he had interrupted. Normally he would have just excused himself, but right now…he couldn’t.
“I just need…” he began.