“Not one fucking bit,” he growls. “Because you are mine.”
“I know.” I stroke the outer ridge of his ear. The effect is instant. His body locks. The gold in his eyes flares bright enough to warm the room. There is something very satisfying about knowing I can bring this terrifying prince to the edge of his control.
Power is not always loud. Sometimes it rotates toward your hand and tries not to whimper.
“I am very proud of you,” I say.
His nostrils flare. “Do not speak to me as if I am a trained animal.”
I stroke his ear again. A rough sound leaves him. “Would never dream of it.”
“You are doing it now.”
“Maybe a little.”
He catches my wrist. Not hard. Never careless. His hand wraps around me, hot and solid, and the room shrinks around us.
“I am not tame, Beatrice.” The words slide through me, dark and delicious. “I will never be tame.”
“Good.” I step closer until my breasts brush his chest. “I don’t want tame.”
His grip tightens on my wrist. “What do you want?”
The question has teeth. The good kind. The kind that flashes heat down my spine and makes my knees remember every wicked thing he did to me in that bed upstairs.
“I want the male who could destroy Todd and didn’t because I asked him not to.” His chest moves hard under my palm. “I want the prince who hated being quiet and still gave me the room.” His head lowers a fraction. “I want the Alpha who is mine enough to fight his instincts for me.” The bond surges.
He releases my wrist only to catch my waist and lift me onto the conference table in one clean motion. My breath leaves in a rush. Papers slide. A pen skitters off the edge and hits the floor.
“Skylor.”
“What?” His voice is rough, almost savage. “You said you wanted him.”
Heat pours through me so fast I grip his shoulders to keep from drowning.
The table is cold under my thighs. His body is hot between them. The charter draft sits somewhere to my left, probably learning things no legal document should know. A laugh escapes me.
He kisses it out of my mouth.
No gentle apology. No careful married peck. Skylor kisses me like restraint has been eating him alive. His mouth opens mine, tongue sliding deep, coffee-dark and aphrodisiac-sweet. The taste hits my bloodstream like a match dropped into liquor. My thighs part. My hands go to his hair, then his ears, because I am a menace and marriage should come with hobbies.
He groans against my mouth. The sound dives straight between my legs. His hands move under my blouse, over my waist, my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. Not grabbing. Not yet. Waiting for my arch into him. He takes the invitation exactly as I give it.
His palms close over my breasts through my bra, firm and reverent, and my head tips back. His mouth moves to my throat. His mark. The bite throbs the instant his breath touches it, and his eyes lock there with a hunger that makes me forget every intelligent sentence I have ever edited.
His thumb brushes the edge. I gasp. His mouth follows. The soft kiss he presses to the mark breaks me. Then his tongue swipes over it, and soft flees. Heat snaps through the bond. My body clenches around nothing. I dig my nails into his shoulders.
His hands close on my hips. Then I am flat on my back on the conference table, laughing and gasping while he drags me to the edge like I weigh nothing. The ceiling lights glow above me. His body blocks the rest of the room. My blouse rides up. My hairspills across a document. Very official. Very doomed. He drops to one knee. My laughter dies.
“Skylor.”
He looks up from between my thighs, all sharp cheekbones, burning eyes, and royal fury transformed into devotion with teeth. “You won your battle.”
My breath catches.
His hands slide up my thighs. “Let me celebrate the victor.”
Oh, damn. That line needs a license.
