Page 14 of Promised to the Heir

My hands find her hips first, anchoring her against me. Her body fits where it belongs, every line matching mine. The first kiss is rougher than I mean it to be, hunger sharpening what should have been slow. She answers with a low sound that vibrates against my mouth, and then it’s gone beyond thought.

I taste her. Skin, air, the faint trace of wine. Her hands come up, fingers catching in my hair, pulling me closer. The small, desperate noise that leaves her throat almost undoes me.

Fabric gives under my hands. A button comes loose, then another. Her jacket slips off her shoulders and lands somewhere on the floor. My thumb finds the curve of her throat, and I revel at the rapid flutter beneath it.

She tilts her head up again, lips parting just before mine claim them. The kiss deepens, slower this time, drawing out the ache instead of feeding it. Her hand moves to my chest, tracing the outline of the shirt she’s already started to unfasten. I kick off my shoes and make quick work of pushing my pants down my legs.

I lift her as soon as we’re both stripped down to our underwear. She gasps, a mix of surprise and need, her arms circling my neck as I carry her to the bed and put her down like a pagan sacrifice.

For a breath, I just look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes half-lidded, and her lips parted like she’s still trying to catch the air I stole. I’m lean in, drawn by the pulse under her skin, and the small sound she makes when my mouth finds hers again.

The taste of her hits me first and sends a jolt straight through me, and any thought of restraint fractures. I kiss her harder, deeper, until the line between taking and giving disappears. Her fingers twist in my hair, pulling me closer, pulling me under.

The rhythm of it builds. Until the only sound I hear is my breath, hers, and the thrum of blood that drowns out everything else. She moves against me, unguarded now, and I match her without thinking. The heat between us grows until the air itself feels too thin.

I force myself to stop. Just for a second. My chest drags for air, and she blinks up at me, dazed, lips swollen, eyes wide with something I’ve never seen on her before. Pride hits low in my gut at the sight. I did that. I put that look there.

I press my forehead to hers, my hands braced at either side of her head, fighting the instinct to lose myself completely. Her breath fans over my mouth, shaky and uneven, and I know I’m hanging by a thread.

“Clara,” I whisper, more warning than word.

“I want this.”

Her words are all I need. “In that case, put your hands against the headboard and enjoy.” I reach for my wallet and pull out the small package. her gaze flicks to the movement, then back to my face. I drop the small square beside the pillow, close enough she can see it.

Her throat works as she swallows, a faint tremor running through her. I brush my knuckles along her jaw, tracing the edge of her pulse until it steadies.

“Good girl,” I murmur. “We’ll take our time.”

Her breath stutters. My hand trails down her neck, over the curve of her breast, pausing long enough for her nipple to tighten beneath my thumb.

Her words spill from her lips in a stream of breathless, half-formed sounds that catch at the edges of meaning. Each one lands against my skin like a pulse, keeping time with my hands as they chart her body. Every freckle, every subtle shift in texture, every small tremor beneath my palm becomes a point on the map I’m committing to memory.

Her skin is warm silk, damp where heat gathers. The faint scent of her—something clean, something womanly—rises as I lower my mouth to her stomach. I trace the soft hollow of her navel with my tongue, teasing the tender skin until her laughter breaks into a gasp. The sound sends a vibration through my chest that I feel in places I shouldn’t.

Her muscles tighten when I slide lower. The fine lace barrier scrapes lightly against my knuckles as I let my fingertips drift there, testing. Her hips shift, her breath stutters, and the sound she makes—small, helpless, perfect—shoots through me.

When I strip the fabric away, she draws in a sharp breath, her chest rising in a quick, involuntary arc. The room seems to contract around us, heat and air thick with the smell of desire and her skin’s faint sweetness. I settle between her thighs, close enough to feel her warmth, and look up. Her eyes are half-closed, lashes trembling, mouth parted.

Her breath hitches when my hands slide up her ribs. Her heartbeat flutters under my palm like something wild trying to get free. When I bend to her chest, her skin tastes faintly of salt and heat, the kind of flavor that ruins restraint. She grips my shoulders, nails grazing, her voice dissolving into sounds that barely reach language.

I shift my mouth from one side to the other, following each shiver, each small intake of breath. The soft drag of my tongue leaves her arching, restless. Her fingers clutch at my hair, urging me closer, guiding without words.

The air around us changes, heavier now, charged. My lips trail lower, and I feel her anticipation as if it’s my own—a current that runs between us. She trembles when I pause, hovering. The scent of her fills my lungs, heady and intoxicating.

“Jeremy…”

My name comes out like a sigh and a plea all at once. I lift my head, let her see the hunger in my eyes. “I told you,” I murmur, my voice rough from wanting, “I’m just getting started.”

Her answering sound is soft but wrecked, the kind that makes my pulse hammer. Every breath she takes feels synced with mine now. Her body speaks in tremors and heat, and all I can think about is how easily she answers to touch. The world shrinks to skin, breath, and the taste of her name on my tongue.

Her skin glows in the low light, flushed from the inside out. I hover there, breathing her in, fighting the instinct to devour. The pulse at her throat beats fast enough for both of us. When I lower my head again, it isn’t just hunger driving me, its reverence, a need to know every way she comes undone.

The faint tremor in her stomach tells me where to go next. I trace it with the tip of my tongue, slow, deliberate, until her hand finds the back of my head. Her fingers flex, gentle at first, then urgent, the tremor in her voice matching the one in her body.

Her scent is thick in the air now. It’s warm, salty-sweet, and layered with something faintly floral that clings to her hair and skin. Every breath tastes like her. Every sound she makes cuts through me. I draw another moan from her throat and feel it vibrate against my lips, a low hum that goes straight to my core.

She moves without thought, a ripple of motion beneath me. The way her hips roll, seeking more contact, more friction, makes my control falter. I grip her thighs, not to restrain but to steady us both. Her skin is hot beneath my palms, smooth where muscle shifts and tightens. I can feel every stuttered heartbeat through my fingertips.