Page 31 of His Queen

“Well, I’m glad this ordeal is making you happy,” Mirabella huffs, tossing the burnt steak into the garbage bin with a clatter. “I wanted to make something special for us tonight, but clearly, that’s not happening.”

“Babe, relax. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is to me. I wanted to cook you a nice dinner. You know? Like a real wife does for her husband.”

“You are a real wife, baby. You’re my wife.”

“I know. But the picture I have in my head about how it’s supposed to be is different than—” She wipes at some sauce on her cheek, only to leave more smudges of red on her nose. “—than this. I can’t even cook, Nicoli. How am I supposed to feed our children one day when I can’t cook?” There’s a shimmer in her eyes, a glimmer of an unshed tear. There’s certainly nothing remotely amusing about her insecurity, but there’s this prickle of excitement in the center of my stomach hearing her mentionourchildren. It’s not a subject we’ve discussed at length, but during the times we have, it was clear to me that she wasn’t ready. Fuck. Maybe I’m not, either. There’s just something about this woman having my children that awakes this primal urge in me to plant my seed in her womb, watch her belly grow, her breasts, see how she morphs from my hummingbird to my lioness—fiercely protecting our children the way I will protect my family. She might not know it yet, but she will be an amazing mother…when she’s ready. And when that day comes, God knows I’ll be more than ready.

“Hey,” I start stepping farther into the kitchen, “just because you can’t cook the food doesn’t mean you can’t feed our children one day. We have three chefs, for God’s sake. They won’t go hungry. I can promise you that.”

“I know that, but it’s not the same.” She pouts, wiping her hands and chucking the kitchen towel on the counter. “I want to at least know how to make them pancakes or a decent plate of scrambled eggs that aren’t rubbery.”

I snicker. “We still have time. I’m pretty sure you’ll be able to learn how to cook scrambled eggs before we have kids someday.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.” She sighs and tries to hide her eyes from me to conceal the embarrassment she shouldn’t be feeling in the first place.

I reach out and wrap my arms around her waist. “Some days, I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. Maybe then you’ll know just how fucking perfect you are.”

“Hmm,” she hums with suspicion. “Are you about to ease your way into foreplay, Mr. Del Rossa?”

“Ease? No, baby girl. You know there’s no easing into anything when it comes to me. So, how about I just eat you out here on the table?”

Her brow slant inward. “That is the worst pun ever.”

With a tug, I pull her up, forcing her to wrap her legs around me as I move forward, sweeping everything off the oak table with a loud clatter, placing her sweet ass on top of it. “I really don’t care if you think it’s the worst pun. It’s the truth.”

“I wanted dinner to be special tonight.”

“Believe me, Hummingbird. It’s not the food that’ll make tonight special.” I press a kiss against her neck, enjoying how her pulse quickens under my lips.

“Then what, in your opinion, will make tonight special?” she murmurs as her body relaxes against mine.

Slowly, my fingers move from button to button on her blouse, loosening them until the fabric hangs loose, revealing the curves of her breasts hidden under a white lace bra. “The number of times I can make you come on this expensive oak table.”

Mirabella’s eyes widen and her cheeks flush, but I can see the desire in them. “Oh,” she breathes.

I tilt my head and catch her eye, a mischievous grin spreading across my face, then lean in to kiss her deeply. My tongue glides past hers in a slow, sultry dance as I snake an arm around her back, jerking her closer to the edge and harder against me, feeling the heat between us building. Her hands tangle in my hair as she arches into me. She tastes like sugar, the smell of burnt steak and garlic dissipating, replaced with that familiar musk that always surrounds her when we get like this—a scent that drives me fucking wild.

The soft, steady moans that fall from her perfect lips as I trail kisses down her jawline is the most erotic sound I’ll ever hear. She whimpers even louder as I continue lower until I am lightly biting at her nipples through the thin fabric of her bra. With a grin, I pull it aside roughly and take one fully into my mouth, causing her to arch against me with a gasp. Her skin is smooth and silky under my fingertips, where I’ve reached up to hold the back of her neck. My pulse starts to race as her hands find their way to my belt buckle, deftly unbuckling it before dipping inside my pants to wrap her fingers around me with an eager grip. “Someone can walk in,” she whispers breathlessly.

“Let them. Lift your ass, baby girl.” Her arms tighten around my neck as she lifts herself, and I quickly pull her tights off, yanking them over and off her legs, dropping them to the floor.

“This is not how I imagined tonight going,” she murmurs.

“What? You didn’t think we’d end up having sex?”

“Of course, I knew that part. I just thought it would happen after dinner and definitely not on the kitchen table.”

“It’s the unexpected fuckery that keeps things interesting.” I lick my lips, anticipating the night ahead as I trail two fingers down her thigh and then up between her legs. “You know what would be a better sight to witness than you destroying a kitchen?”

“Do tell.”

“Watching people eat off the table I fucked you on so good and hard, your juices seeped through the grooves in the wood,” I purr softly into her ear before tugging at it with my teeth and kissing a path back down the soft skin of her neck.

“You’re a special kind of freak, husband,” she says with a wicked grin, and I force two fingers inside her without warning or preamble, replacing that smirk with lips forming an O as she gasps. Her arms drop to my waist, her palms digging into my ass, and she suddenly stills, staring at me, her expression unreadable.

I’m frozen as she slides her hand into my pocket, pulling out my Espada pocketknife, clutching it between her delicate fingers. There’s no need for her to say anything. Her thoughts are written in her forest-green eyes as she looks at me, clutching the metal blade.

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