Page 14 of Bred By The King

“Take it,” I grunt. “Take your husband’s cock. Every day. Every night. I’m going to keep you full of my cum until you’re carrying my heir.”

I reach around and rub her clit. She comes again, shaking. I bury myself deep and unload, flooding her with thick ropes of cum. I stay inside her, grinding slow.

But I’m not done.

I pull out, flip her on her back, and push back in while she’s still pulsing. Slower. Deeper. I kiss her neck, her tits, her mouth.

“This stopped being about the contract weeks ago,” I mutter. “I want you. Not just the peace. Not just the heir. You, Layla. The fierce, curvy, pain-in-my-ass woman who makes me crazy. You’re mine. For real.”

She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me hard. “Then keep fucking me like it, husband.”

I do. We go again. I take her against the window overlooking the fjord, her breasts pressed to the cold glass while I pound her from behind. I eat her pussy on the rug in front of the fire. I fuck her slow and deep in the middle of the night while she rides me, her body glowing in the firelight.

By the time the sun rises, she’s limp and full of my cum, belly slightly swollen from how much I’ve pumped into her. I pull her against my chest, one big hand on her stomach.

“I’m going to breed you,” I say quietly. “And then I’m going to keep you. No more war. No more enemies. Just us.”

She smiles against my skin. “Good. Because I’m keeping you too, you big grumpy bastard.”

I hold her tighter.

This is exactly where we were always going to end up.

Twelve

LAYLA

Three weeks after the wedding, Soren hosts a feast to introduce his “southern queen” to the northern court. The great hall is roaring with firelight, long tables groaning under roasted boar, the air thick with pine and mead.

I wear a gown of midnight-blue velvet that Soren picked himself, low-cut, hugging every curve. He said he wanted everyone to see exactly what he comes home to. I told him he’s a pig. He said I’m his pig. Then he bent me over the dressing table.

“Your Majesty.” A tall, blond woman approaches. She’s beautiful in that sharp, icy way. Silver dress, body like marble. “I’m Astrid. Of the northern house of Vane.”

Soren’s hand tightens on my thigh. Warning.

“Lady Astrid,” he says, voice flat. “You were not on the guest list.”

“Your steward must have made an error.” She smiles, but her eyes are on me. Assessing. Dismissive. “I simply had to meet the woman who… warmed your bed long enough to secure the peace.”

The table goes quiet. My blood boils. But I don’t snap. I smile.

“Oh, honey,” I say, popping a grape in my mouth. “Don’t worry. I’m not just warming it, I own the deed. And the mortgage. And the king’s cock, which is currently hard under this table because he’s staring at my tits.”

Soren chokes on his mead.

The hall goes silent. Then someone laughs. Then someone else. The tension breaks.

Astrid’s face turns the color of the snow outside. “How… crude.”

“And yet accurate,” Soren rumbles. He pulls me on his lap in front of everyone, his big hand spanning my waist. “Layla is my wife. My queen. And if you ever speak to her like that again, I’ll have you escorted from every palace in the north.”

Astrid flees.

Soren’s mouth is at my ear. “You just claimed me in front of my entire court, little queen.”

“Someone had to,” I whisper back.

“I’m going to reward that mouth later. With my cock down your throat while you tell me who I belong to.”