“That’s what worries me,” he breathes the words.
I smile faintly, my body trembling beneath him. “You worry too much.”
His mouth stills against my throat. He huffs a chuckle, low and rough, almost like it was forced out of him.
“Maybe I do. Or maybe you don’t worry enough,” he murmurs. “I think I’ve let you gettoocomfortable.”
“Are you going to punish me for getting too comfortable?” I tease, feeling his hand tighten on my hip.
“Not tonight,” he smiles against my throat.
I feel a twinge of disappointment. I know I’d get even more aroused if I was over his knee. Possibly aroused enough that he wouldn’t be able to resist me. But I know he’s not denying me because he doesn’t want me. I can feelexactlyhow much he wants me. His hard length is between my thighs, lightly teasing me every time I move my hips. Every movement makes the ache inside me hurt a little more.
He wants me. He loves me. Yet he’s still trying to protect me from the one thing we both want most.
I slide my hands down his chest, feeling the old scars beneath my palms. I trace them, then the hard lines of his ribs. He watches me, breathing heavier with every slow movement of my fingers, until his eyes finally close. He lets out a quiet groan, then he lowers his mouth to mine once more.
This kiss is slower. Deeper. Less like hunger and more like surrender. My body melts beneath him. I part my lips and let him in, humming softly when his tongue wraps around mine. The hand on my hip squeezes tighter, like he’s trying to pull me closer, even though there’s nothing between us but thin fabric, heat, and whatever restraint is still left.
I feel him between my legs, hard, hot, and needy. I move against him, practically begging him to take me. But he doesn’t. He rests his forehead against mine, breathing heavily, the need in his dark gaze burning hotter than ever.
“Getting this close is dangerous. It’s a really bad idea,” he rasps.
“Probably,” I whisper.
“You should tell me to move. Tell me to go back to my side of the bed,” his voice carries a note of desperation.
“I don’t get to tell a king what he has to do,” I breathe out.
“My crown has been wrapped around your finger for longer than I’d like to admit,” his rough whisper is like a caress, his hand moving to my throat.
“Then don’t stop,” I beg, grinding against him until we both groan.
“Clover,” he takes a deep breath, one hand tightening on my throat, the other squeezing my thigh. “You should have known the moment I released you from the whipping cross that I’d never be able to truly hurt you.”
“Wanting you like this hurts more,” I mewl.
“You’re lucky one of us still has some sense,” he chuffs, his grip loosening before he begins pulling away.
“No, please…” I whimper as I latch onto him, not wanting to let go.
“We need rest,” he insists. “Tomorrow will be another long day.”
His lips and tusks brush my forehead, then he disentangles himself from my legs. He sinks into the mattress beside me and turns out the lights. I’m still wet, aching, and moaning quietly. But I don’t want his finger or his tongue tonight. Not because I don’t ache for them, but because they aren’t what I’m aching for most.
After a few minutes, he reaches for me. Pulling me into a tight embrace, he holds me in the warmth and safety of his strongarms. I feel so safe here. Cherished. Loved. I still want more. So much more. My body aches for it, and I know his does too.
“I’m sorry, Clover,” he whispers.
“For what?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“For making you want me,” he rumbles. “For being too weak not to want you.”
“You’re not weak,” I sigh, resting my head on his chest, listening to the way his heartbeat changes. “You just allowed yourself to be lonely for way too long.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he sighs.
“You don’t have to be lonely anymore,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere.”
