For me.
He growls low in his throat, hands fisting at his sides.
“Gods,” I whisper. “You really are a prince, aren’t you?”
His lips curl into a dangerous smile.
“Only for you, Wife.”
Hearing him say that? Christ, it makes me so hot for him.
I need him. Right now. But first, I plan to worship every inch of him. To ease his tension and bring him some of what he gave me last night.
“What did I give you last night?” he whispers.
Shit, I said that out loud, didn’t I?
I lick my lips.
“Peace. You gave me peace.”
Then I wrap my hand around the thick weight of him, feeling him pulse in my palm. Atlas sucks in a sharp breath, and I look up—just to see that look on his face.
The one that makes me feel powerful and cherished all at once.
His head is tilted back, his mouth parted, the muscle in his jaw jumping.
“You don’t have to?—”
I silence him with a slow stroke.
“I know I don’t have to. Maybe that’s why I want to.”
His hands hover at his sides. Like he doesn’t know whether to pull me or push me away, but the second I swirl my tongue over the flushed tip of him, he moans—a low, broken sound like it was torn from his chest.
God, that sound.
I do it again, and again, because I want to memorize the taste of him.
Salty. Spicy. Heady.
The way he grits my name like it’s the only anchor he has. The way his body trembles under my hands.
He’s trying to stay still for me. I can tell.
The tension is brutal in his thighs, in his fists, in his breath.
But when I hollow my cheeks and take more of him, that control snaps.
He groans and threads his fingers through my hair, cradling the back of my head with surprising gentleness.
“Christ, Cece,” he growls, flexing his hips.
I gag at first, then I try again. And this time he sinks deeper into my throat.
I hum around him, and that seems to do it.
His hips jerk, not hard, but insistent, like he’s chasing the edge of restraint and barely holding back.
