Page 32 of His Forbidden Princess
His breathing grows more ragged as I work, his hips beginning to move in shallow, controlled thrusts. I can tell by the tightening of his fingers that he's approaching the edge faster than he'd like to admit.
"Enough," he says hoarsely, attempting to pull back. "Lirien, enough."
I grasp his hips firmly, refusing to release him, instead increasing my efforts. This is what I want—to push past his endless control, to make him surrender completely. The taste of him, the sounds he makes, the knowledge that I alone can reduce this powerful man to trembling need—it's a heady power I've grown addicted to.
"Princess," he warns, voice strained, using my title as a last attempt at distance.
I respond by taking him deeper, my hands sliding around to grip his muscular backside, pulling him closer in unmistakable intention. I want this—want to taste his pleasure, want to know I've shattered his composure.
His resistance breaks with a muttered curse. His head falls back, the cords of his neck standing out in sharp relief as he surrenders to the inevitable. His release floods my mouth, hotand sudden, and I accept it eagerly, continuing until I've drawn every last shudder from him.
When I finally pull away, looking up at him with undisguised satisfaction, his eyes are nearly black with dilated pupils. His chest heaves with labored breathing, and for a moment, he looks almost undone—exactly what I wanted.
The moment doesn't last. With startling swiftness for a man who just experienced such intense pleasure, he pulls me to my feet, his recovery time nothing short of miraculous.
"That wasn't the plan," he says, voice graveled and low.
I smile, wiping the corner of my mouth with my thumb. "I don't recall asking for your plan."
Something predatory crosses his features, and before I can react, he's lifted me bodily, carrying me toward our massive bed. "Always so willful," he murmurs against my ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Always pushing boundaries."
"You'd be disappointed if I didn't," I reply, fingers already working at the laces of my gown.
He deposits me on the bed with surprising gentleness, then steps back to shed his clothes with efficient movements. I watch, propped on my elbows, as each new expanse of skin is revealed—the broad shoulders marked with old battle scars, the tapering waist, powerful thighs dusted with dark hair. My husband's body is a roadmap of duty and sacrifice, each mark telling a story of protection. And now, as he stands fully naked before me, I'm struck anew by how completely he belongs to me.
He helps me with my gown, hands that can break a man's neck with terrifying ease now carefully navigating delicate fabric and laces. Despite his obvious renewed arousal, he takes his time, unwrapping me like something precious. When I'm finally bare before him, his eyes track over my body with possessive hunger.
"A year," he says, almost to himself, "and still I can hardly believe you're mine."
I reach for him, pulling him down to cover my body with his much larger frame. "Show me I am."
The words ignite something primal in him. His mouth claims mine in a bruising kiss, all pretense of gentleness abandoned. His hands map my skin with urgent need, finding all the places he knows will make me gasp and arch against him. When his fingers slide between my thighs, he groans against my mouth at the evidence of my desire.
"This," he murmurs, "this is what I live for. Knowing that you want me as desperately as I want you."
"I've always wanted you," I confess, the words punched out of me as his fingers work their magic. "Even when I shouldn't have."
He shifts suddenly, positioning himself between my spread thighs, the blunt head of his renewed erection pressing against me. "I'm going to make you forget there was ever a time we weren't like this," he promises, then drives forward in one powerful thrust.
The sensation of fullness makes me cry out, my nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. He stills for a moment, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling in the narrow space between us.
"Move," I command, lifting my hips in encouragement.
A feral grin crosses his face. "As my princess demands."
He establishes a rhythm that's just shy of punishing, each thrust deliberate and deep. His usual control has slipped, replaced by something rawer, more instinctive. His hands grip my hips, angling me to take him deeper, and the change in position sends sparks of pleasure shooting up my spine.
"You feel so fucking perfect," he growls, words he'd never use outside this room, this bed. "Made for me. Only me."
"Only you," I agree, breathless, my hands clutching at him, trying to pull him impossibly closer.
He shifts his weight to one arm, his free hand sliding between us to find the center of my pleasure. "Come for me," he demands, circling his thumb in knowing patterns. "Let me feel you."
I'm already close, balancing on the knife-edge of climax. His words, his touch, the relentless drive of his body into mine—it's overwhelming, a sensory assault I have no defense against. When he lowers his head to my ear and speaks again, his voice is rough with emotion.
"I want to breed you, my little princess," he whispers, the crude words somehow transformed into something sacred by the reverence in his tone. "Fill you with my child. Watch your belly grow round with the proof of what we are to each other."
The image his words conjure—me swollen with his child, his possessiveness multiplied tenfold—sends me careening over the edge. I shatter beneath him, crying out his name as pleasure washes through me in pulsing waves. My body clenches around him, and I feel the moment he loses himself in response, his rhythm faltering as he follows me into release.
