And then at him.
He watched her as if memorizing the sight.
“You don’t know what it does to me,” he said, stripping out of his shirt, his belt, his trousers. “Seeing you like this.”
She stared back, hungry and breathless, her heart hammering at her ribs. When he came to her, it was on his knees. One hand braced beside her head. The other ran up the inside of her thigh, maddening.
“You’re not quite ready,” he murmured.
She could have sworn she was. But she didn’t complain when his mouth started tracing the edge of her collarbone, and made its way lower.
Her hands slid into his hair. Into the ropes of muscle across his back. Her breath stuttered whenever his teeth grazed.
His hands followed with the confidence of a man who’d spent a year mapping every part of her and remembered all the hiddenplaces. He tantalized her breasts, the curve of her waist. Then one hand slid down further. To the heart of her.
His fingers found the seam of her. Touched her in slow, lazy passes. Over and over. Each one a spark. Each one a denial. He didn’t rush.
Her thighs fell open like an offering.
“Now you’re ready,” he said at last.
He nudged her knees apart with his thigh. Positioned himself above her.
Pushed inside in one long stroke.
Her breath left her in a gasp. Her back arched, firelight catching in her lashes.
“One year,” he murmured over her mouth. “How does it feel?”
He moved once. A long, slow movement that made her delirious.
“Tell me,” he said.
Tell him? He was inside her. He was around her. His queen was at her throat. What more was there to say?
He pulled back, just enough to make her body cry out in protest, and then drove in again. She made a small sound she didn’t recognize.
“With words.”
Bea forced herself to meet his eyes.
“You don’t need words,” she whispered. “You already know exactly what you’re doing to me.”
His blue eyes darkened with satisfaction.
Finally, he moved. Thrusts that seemed to pin her deeper into the fur. His hand slid beneath her knee, lifting it higher, opening her further. The queen tapped against her chest with every stroke. A silent witness.
She was close. Her thighs trembled. Her body tightened. Her hands scrambled over his back, helpless.
His hand moved. One slow sweep between her legs, exactly where she needed him. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d known the moment her body would tip.
She broke. Her cry was quiet but desperate, hips jerking beneath him. Every nerve in her body cinched tight, then gave way all at once.
He followed. Silent. Deep. A man who didn’t need to shout to prove it mattered. His hand gripped her thigh so hard it would probably bruise.
He held her through every aftershock. When their bodies stilled and only the fire moved, she kissed him. Gently. With everything that didn’t need to be said.
“Happy anniversary, Gage.”
