Page 39 of Given to the Black King

He keeps the pressure until I am shaking, then releases and drags his tongue over the mark.

My skin throbs.

The fangs remain visible beside the bruise. One slip would have broken skin.

He did not slip.

“I want another.”

He catches the answer in my scent. “Where?”

I gather my skirts and show him the bare skin above my stocking. “Here.”

He drops to his knees.

The sight of the Black King kneeling between my legs empties every sensible thought from my head.

He pushes my skirts to my waist. His hands close around my thighs. The claws are out now, all ten black curves against my pale skin.

He does not scratch me.

He drives the points into the wood beside my legs instead. The table creaks.

“Open.”

My body obeys before pride can interfere.

The gray nearly disappears behind his pupils.

“Wider.”

I spread my legs farther.

The scent he drags into his lungs comes back out as a growl.

He rubs his cheek over the inside of one thigh. Then the other. Rough skin. Hot breath. The side of one horn brushes my knee.

“Mine,” he says, too low to be entirely human.

The word sends a pulse through me.

“Not yet.”

His gaze lifts.

“Your choice,” he says.

Then he bites my inner thigh.

His fangs remain outside the muscle. His back teeth clamp down, deep and possessive.

I cry out and fist both hands in his hair.

He holds the mark, breath hot against me. When he lets go, his mouth moves higher.

He pauses before touching me.

I can see exactly why.