Page 97 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

He pushed her backward into the soft bed, the ornate wooden posts carved with delicate moths. She would ask him about all of the moths. Later. Much later. When she could form a coherent thought. Lachlan’s low, reverent whisper against her belly made her head spin. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

Warmth chased under her skin, the kind of warmth that did not frighten her or make her push more magic into the cuff around her scarred wrist. This warmth only made her squirm and clutch at him, pushing his shirt off. He chuckled and pulled it over the back of his head, tossing it aside. “Better, love?”

“Finally. I hate that shirt,” she muttered.

“Then I hate it too.”

“And your breeches.”

His grin was lopsided. “The breeches stay on, love.”

She pushed up on her elbows, momentarily incensed. “What?”

“For now.” He chuckled. “As a precaution. I want to take my time with you, and I’m not sure how possible that will be if you touch me right now.”

She pouted. She had never pouted in her life. “A theory is not a theory at all if you don’t test it.”

“Trying to torture me, wisp?”

“Seems only fair, as I distinctly remember saying no more talking.”

He kissed her clavicle. “Only you could make me laugh even while I burn.”

She went still. “Did I burn you?” she asked in a small, horrified voice.

“Shh.” He moved up to brush his lips over hers. “You didn’t burn me. And I wouldn’t care if you did.”

“I would care.”

“I know.” He touched her cuff, ice riming the fluted edges. It was a relief, a soothing kind of cold she didn’t know she needed. “You don’t have to worry about me, wisp.”

“Someone has to.”

“Not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” she agreed, though secretly she thought she was perfectly capable of worrying and kissing him at the same time.

How wrong she was.

When Lachlan touched her, there was nothing else. No Library, no fire, no Labyrinth. She hadn’t even thought such a thing possible. They were always circling in her head, circling, circling. But tonight there was only Lachlan and his clever hands and wicked mouth. His lethal grace all reserved for her. Her.

He dragged his mouth over her breast, sucking lightly at her nipple, before trailing down across to her belly, as if he had all the time in the world. As if there were nothing more pressing. She was naked in his bed, and it was all that mattered.

Still, she silently cursed those breeches. She wanted all of him to herself: the lean, sculpted muscles, the corded forearms. His strong thighs between hers.

His mouth ghosted lower as his hands gripped her firmly, dimpling the skin of her inner thighs. She was whimpering before he even put his mouth over her, lapping at her bud, her warm, wet quim, drawing bolts of heat from her core. He was patient and unyielding, groaning with every lick, every swipe of his tongue. As if she were the fairy fruit.

He sucked at her bud, fingers stroking deep into her heat, other hand pinching her nipple lightly, all on the same rhythm. She was a harp and there was music here she had never heard before. She arched against his mouth, moaning. “Perfect,” he said against her wetness. “So fucking perfect.”

She flew apart. She shattered into a thousand fluttering moths, a thousand drifting sparks. Her back bent; her toes curled. She finally came back down to the soft bed, the soft light, Lachlan’s soft murmurs along her hipbone. She touched his dark, tousled hair, tightening her hold. His eyes darkened. “Breeches, if you please,” she said briskly. “Now.”

“Very demanding,” Lachlan said huskily. “Very queenly.”

She tugged at his belt. “Lachlan!” She had no experience with this. Why were belts so complicated? Was he sewn into his clothes? Where were the buttons? Was this some sort of Fae trickery?

“Your wish is my command,” he said, finally shucking his boots and breeches.

She watched him hungrily as he prowled back to her, the candlelight gilding his hard muscles, his strong thighs and chest dusted with hair. The scar across his throat glinted, as did the one across his eye. He leaned one knee onto the bed, then the other, finally within reach. She ran her hands down his arms, across his chest, raking her nails lightly through the hair and lower, lower. He growled very softly in the back of his throat as though he could not help himself.

She closed her fingers around his cock and he nudged her thighs apart, leaning down to kiss her as if he hadn’t been kissing her all of this time, as if he could never tire of it. Or of her. She kissed him back, ragged breaths braiding together. He paused at her entrance, tendons in his neck stark. She wiggled. “What are you waiting for? Must I solve another riddle first?”

He smiled again. She had never seen him smile so many times in such close succession. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You just want me to beg,” she teased.

He raised an eyebrow. “Intriguing thought.”

She canted her hips up so that he sank slowly inside of her. There was a twinge of discomfort, quickly turning to hot pleasure. He eased back, and she nearly scolded him for it, until he plunged back into her heat, each thrust sending frissons of pleasure into her belly. She couldn’t get close enough. He slid his hand under her bottom and lifted her, angling her so the pleasure sharpened, bloomed. She met each thrust, each moan and gasp.

When he came, she was already fluttering around him, intimate muscles clenching around his cock. When they had finally caught their breath, the candles were burning high; the mists were thick at the window, curling under the bed. But it didn’t matter. Not for some time.