Page 146 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

She moaned softly, a sound that sent heat surging through his veins like wildfire.

His grip tightened, his hands finding her waist, anchoring her to him.

And when she shifted against him, when he felt her warmth through the barrier of his trousers, he nearly lost his mind.

‘Ride me, Mal,’ he whispered against her mouth.

She tore his trousers away, casting them carelessly across the room, as if the mere presence of anything between them was an offense to the gods themselves. A low, guttural moan escaped him when she sank onto him, taking him into her, enveloping him in a heat that unravelled every fiber of his being.

The damn woman would be his undoing.

And she knew it. Oh, she knew it—her wicked, knowing smile curling as she settled over him, unmoving, savoring the torment, making him wait, making him crave.

‘Please,’ he begged her, his grip on her tightening.

‘Beg me again, Fire Prince,’ she said, biting his earlobe.

‘I’m injured,’ he replied, chuckling.

‘Beg.’

‘Ride me, Mal.Please.’

She kissed him slowly—languid, torturous kisses that trailed from his lips to the sharp cut of his jaw, to the burning pulse at his throat. And Ash knew then, with a certainty deeper than marrow, that for her, he would fall to his knees and beg the Eight Kingdoms.

For her, he would walk away from everything.

Her hips rolled, a slow, deliberate motion that shattered his control, that sent lightning snappingthrough every nerve in his body. He tilted his head back, his jaw clenched tight as his fingers dug into her hips, holding her steady, trying desperately to stop himself from unraveling too soon.

But Mal was relentless. She picked up her rhythm, grinding down against him, riding him like she was claiming him.

A strangled cry of pleasure tore from her throat, and it broke him.

He ripped the dress from her shoulders, needing to feel her—all of her—beneath his touch. His hands roamed over the bare silk of her skin, memorising every inch, every curve, every tremor of her body as she moved over him.

Her scent consumed him.

The heat of her—the wildness—it destroyed him.

He had been with others before. Even Adara—once, long ago. And he had been foolish enough to believe nothing would ever compare.

How wrong he had been.

Nothing in the world compared to Mal Blackburn astride him, her wild black hair falling in tangled waves around them, her pale skin glowing against his own.

She was chaos and divinity woven together, a creature sculpted by the Sun God himself, made of midnight and flame.

Her voice captured him, her scent intoxicated him, her mere presence brought him to his knees.

And Ash knew that some part of this was lust—but another, deeper part knew it was something else entirely.

It had begun the moment they had fought in the Champions Battle. It had seeded itself within him, growing silently, unnoticed, until now—when he realised he could not imagine a life without her.

He could not imagine a world where she was not his.

His wife.

HisMal.

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