“I don’t think your methods are backwards.” A sharp gasp escapes her as my fingers find a tight knot in her calf.
Her teeth settle into her lower lip.
“No?” My hands slide up to her knees.
She doesn’t stop me.
Mayah swallows again. “Any updates on the Rebellion?”
I hum, my fingers still moving over her skin. “They’ve taken more land on the Arbinj side.”
My hands skate higher still, caressing the soft skin of her upper thighs. Her breath catches. I’ve nearly reached the hem of her nightgown.
“What about—what about Tundrayn,” she asks, her voice unsteady. “My father—is he sending aid?”
“Two battalions to the border and a promise for another. Which was more than I expected. I don’t think he wants to risk losing you.”
Except you’re not his anymore. You’re mine, Mayah.
I nearly tell her about the new camp of Tundrayni warriors within a day’s ride, but the words won’t pass my lips. Would she want to visit the camp? And if they return to Tundrayn, what if she wishes to return with them? I swallow down the words, selfish bastard that I am.
I stroke higher, and she clenches her thighs, but my hands are already between them, massaging her legs, toying with the lace lining the hem of her nightgown.
“Any otherachesI can help you with, wife?” I rumble.
She wants to say yes. It’s clear on her face—the desire darkening her eyes, the pink flush across her chest.
Instead, she whispers, “Let’s go to bed.”
I know what she means, but I raise my brow anyway.
“To sleep!” she stammers. “Just—to sleep.”
She bolts from the sofa and practically dives beneath the covers. I chuckle lightly, following her. There’s only a foot of distance between us. I want nothing more than to lay her out on the bed and feast on her.
What would she taste like?
What sounds would she make?
It takes hours before I fall asleep.
Slick skin beneath my palms, smooth against my calluses.
Rose petals scattered beneath us, the rising sun painting her skin in glowing shades of pink.
My hands glide higher. Blue eyes snap to mine, mouth parted. Her tongue darts out, traces her lower lip, and I lose another bit of my sanity.
Her thighs part—slowly, ever so slowly.
I don’t dare draw a breath. Just watch this gorgeous woman open herself to me.
“Please, Zev,” she whimpers, each syllable drenched with aching need.
I exhale shakily. My fingers find her ankle, lifting her leg so I can kiss the inside of her knee. Then, the other.
She moans, a broken needy sound, and it snaps the last of my fraying restraint.
Nestling between her thighs, rose petals slicked against my bare chest, I—
