Page 66 of Born for Silk

I rock my hips into the space between us, lifting my chin and inviting more of his mouth.

He accepts. Dragging his lips upward from my throat to my chin, where his teeth trail along my jawline.

I part my knees and shuffle forward to the edge, wanting his body to fill the inches of space between us. Before my backside can slide off, he presses his hips to catch me, his hard length meeting the soft, warm delta between my thighs.

He grinds against me, his abdominals bunching beneath my fingertips as he applies pressure to that spot—that spot. Yes.

I drop my head back further as his lips roam around my neck, down to my collarbone.

He nips it.

Drops to my heaving chest.

He skates his lips over my hard nipples, tormenting the aching beads with very little attention. I wonder if that is for him or me—the light touch.

Will he combust if he does more?

I will combust if he doesn’t.

“Please, my king.” I don’t know what I am asking for. I do. And I don’t. “Make it stop.”

A groan leaves him, his shattering resolve thickening the air. I pant its heavy, dark essence into my lungs as he releases the counter to position my feet on top.

My hands leave his abdomen as I lean backward, placing them behind me to brace my torso on an angle. I don’t know what he is doing. It—are we going to do it here?

We can’t.

It’s against the rules.

I thrust my hips in the air and his mouth hovers over my dress as he slides down to my breasts, taking his time. He kisses my nipple. The subtle stimulation reaches inside me and draws out a moan.

He continues leisurely over my stomach, stopping between my legs, where he nuzzles the place that yearns for attention—pressure. He mouths me over my dress, and I shudder from hundreds of tiny electric shocks.

“What are you doing with your mouth?”

This was not in my studies.

“My king?”

Between one confused thought and another, Rome has pushed my skirting to bunch at my hips.

Between my ‘no, this isn’t right,’ and my, ‘please make the need stop,’ he has torn my knickers down the centre and snapped the threads at each leg, stuffing the tatted remains of it into his front pocket.

My brain turns to mush.

With me exposed and weeping with demand, he straightens. Groaning under some kind of restraint, he stares at me open for him. All for him.

I can feel the wetness between my thighs cooling in the air and know that he can see it.

I pant as his hungry gaze penetrates the slit between my thighs, its heat driving in deep. So deep, I almost feel him, what he wants, what he’ll do.

“I’m going to keep you,” he declares, tracing a thin scar on my inner thigh leftover from Iris’s attack months ago.

One of his hands wraps around my upper leg, holding me, while two thick fingers touch the swelling valley between my lips, sliding up and down with ease.

I blush from my ears to my toes.

“You blush really pretty for me, little creature. Mm. I have thought about this pussy,” he tells me, moving his fingers in the warmth from my entrance, then lower, to a place that should not be touched. Ever. But he explores the outside of every inch between my thighs. “I couldn’t have even imagined this. And I imagined it a lot. So, so fucking sweet.”