Page 124 of The Wolf King

He lifts an eyebrow, then carefully, lazily, detaches himself. He doesn’t stop palming my breast. I arch into his hand, wanting to curse the material between us. His breathing is heavy and his cheeks are flushed. He is not as in control as he is implying.

“I asked you a question, Princess,” he says. “And until we get to the bottom of it, I’m not going to be able to move on to my next lesson.”

He pinches my nipple between his finger and thumb and an almost feral sound escapes my lips. The wolf becomes dominant in his eyes in answer to my call, before he pushes it back.

“No. That’s not very gentlemanly at all!” I gasp.

His grin widens. “No? Good. Because, there’s another place I’ve imagined kissing you for weeks now. You’ll have to let me know whether it’s gentlemanly or not.”

There’s a question in his eyes. My breathing is fast as I nod, my head brushing against the pillow.

I watch, entranced, as he lowers himself further down the bed. He pushes himself up, and kneels between my legs. His gaze sweeps up and down my body and his face darkens.

He is a vision of power and dominance. For a moment, he reminds me of a statue of a warrior—impenetrable, his expression serious. Only his chest moves up and down, deeply.

There is the same intent on his face as there was when I first saw him in that fighting ring.

Slowly, he slides his hands up my hips, hitching up the shirt and exposing my midriff and my underwear. I feel all of his attention hone in on the place between my legs that throbs with need. A low, almost inaudible growl builds in his chest, before his gaze moves back to mine.

My breathing is fast. I am completely at his mercy, and I do not know what he is going to do next. I am captivated. I cannot move. Cannot think. Not beyond the restlessness that builds like a storm in my chest, and the fire in my veins, and the ache that consumes me.

He shifts, and plants a soft kiss on my torso. The feel of his mouth and his stubble against my bare skin is almost too much to bear, and I whimper.

Then he lowers himself even further and my breathing becomes frantic.

He plants a kiss on my most intimate place, and I cry out as a jolt of pleasure surges through my body. He glances up at me, his mouth inches away from my core. His breath is warm through my underwear.

I should be pushing him away. I should not be so exposed, so brazen, so wanton with a man. Is this the kind of thing that happens in a brothel? I do not know. This is certainly not the way that a lady is supposed to behave. Least of all a princess.

Yet I lie there, my legs parted.

He cocks an eyebrow—and I know the question he is asking is not just part of his game. He is asking permission. If I play along, he will take this even further. How far, I do not know.

All I can think of ismore.

“No,” I whimper. “Gentleman do not do that.”

He smiles, but his eyes darken. He slides down my underwear and tosses it aside, and my heartbeat hammers in my chest as he exposes me fully to him. His breathing becomes ragged, his shoulders hardening.

“Fuck. You’re beautiful,” he mutters, as he looks at me where no man has ever looked at me before. His eyes lift to mine once more. “Do they do this?”

He lowers his head and lightly kisses the sensitive bundle of nerves. I cry out as heat and surprise surge through my veins. Before I can process what he has just done, his mouth is on me, fully, completely. Hot and wet and hungry. He devours me. My back arches. My hips buck, and he grabs them, growling like a wild animal being disturbed from his prey, as he plants them firmly against the mattress.

He slides his tongue along my center, and I moan. I have never felt anything like it. He flicks, and licks, and sucks as though he cannot get enough of me, and the storm inside me becomes frantic. I want to lose myself to it. To this feeling. To him.

I reach for him, threading my fingers into his hair, pulling his mouth closer to me. I rock, shamelessly, against his face. He growls, sliding his hand up the shirt to roughly palm my breast.

“Fuck,” he groans against me, and I shiver.

I do not feel like a human or a princess. I feel primal. That wildness builds with each lap of his tongue, each squeeze of my breast, each time he rubs my nipple with his thumb. I am writhing beneath him, my legs spread fully for him, my fingers clenched in his hair.

He moves his hand away, and I’m about to protest when he slides a finger inside me.

I cry out at the pressure of it, at the friction. He moves his hand at the same pace as his tongue—deep and fast and rough. It builds, and I rock harder, needing more. Needing him.

He groans, the noise vibrating through me, then he slides in another finger, spreading me wider, opening me up even more to him. It is too much to bear.

“Callum. . . I’m going to. . . It feels. . . I. . .”

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