Page 13 of American Queen (New Camelot Trilogy 1)
“That’s the last time you are allowed to hurt yourself for her, do you understand?” His voice was almost disciplinary.
It’s not his business, a wayward thought intruded, but I pushed it away. The moment I’d mentioned his insomnia, the moment I’d touched his face, he and I had gone beyond what could be called a normal interaction. And there was something so knowing in the way he said it, so caring, and I realized how I felt now must have been how he felt when I told him I knew he couldn’t sleep.
“Yes,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I understand.”
He nodded. “Good girl.”
I flushed again, pleasure curling deep in my chest for reasons I didn’t understand, and he let out another long breath, his eyes on my pinkened cheeks.
I felt like a live wire, like a hot beam of light, all energy and vibration with no direction or outlet. A few minutes before, I’d felt female, but now, I felt young. He was a man, and I was still very much a girl, and that difference was so deeply erotic to me, so delicious, and I just wanted to melt into it. Dissolve into him.
Perhaps he felt it too, because he murmured, “You’re trembling. Are you scared of me?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. It was the truth.
He liked that answer, it seemed, because he smiled. “I’d like to touch you again, if that’s okay.”
I thought of his lips on my finger, the bruises under his eyes, the heavy ache somewhere deep in my body. “Yes, please,” I said.
His hands came up under my elbows, cradling them as he searched my face. He must have seen what I felt, the echo of my words stamped all over my face:
yes please
yes please
yes please
And then he pulled me closer, those large, warm hands sliding behind me, one planted firmly between my shoulder blades and the other against the small of my back, and I could feel every curve of my body pressed against the wide, hard expanse of his chest. My head tilted back of its own accord, and his eyes dropped to the long arch of my throat.
“Stay there,” he breathed. “Don’t move until I tell you.” And then he bent down to press his lips against my neck.
I shivered—no one had ever done that before. Everything he was doing to me, every command a
nd touch and caress—it was all new.
Virgin territory.
“What’s your name, angel?” he asked. I was still frozen like he’d asked, and he was clearly enjoying it, running his lips down to my collarbone.
“Greer.”
“Greer,” he echoed, nuzzling into me. “Tell me, Greer, do you like my lips on your skin?”
“Yes,” I responded, a little breathlessly. “And—”
“And what?”
“You telling me to do things. Ordering me. Moving my body.”
He groaned at that, lifting his head from my neck and pressing me closer to him. Even through the uniform jacket and my own dress, I could feel the firm lines of his chest and stomach. And for the first time, I could smell him. He smelled like leather and woodsmoke. He smelled like a fire burning.
Burn me, I thought, a little wildly. Consume me.
His gaze fell down to my mouth, and his eyelids hooded.
“You’re so young…” he whispered.
Somehow, I knew what was coming next, I knew what he’d say. In the same way he’d asked for permission to touch me, he’d need to know it was okay to do more. He’d need reassurance that I was old enough, that I was an adult, that my consent would have legal weight.
