Total pages in book: 194
Estimated words: 187021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 935(@200wpm)___ 748(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 187021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 935(@200wpm)___ 748(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
“Are you offering me the world?”
“And the stars.”
“All of the ones in the night sky?”
“We’ll see if I can get you to see them all,” he said before pushing her flat on her back.
Her heart thudded noisily in her chest as he loomed over her exposed body, ripe for the taking. His eyes crawled over her chest to the sliver of pale skin exposed at her navel. Down her toned legs in fitted leggings to the black boots. Her wren necklace beat its wings against her breastbone. A thrum calling like to like.
She was the wren to the Holly King. In so many ways—magical and metaphysical and spiritual—wrens belonged to the winter god. A physical manifestation of his power. A hope for spring in a long winter. The source of his own destruction. Because after the winter solstice, their connection ebbed and he lost his power to make way for spring. The changing of the seasons, born in this pair of men and monsters.
Which meant at the summer solstice, their connection would grow once more. A little bird power-booster, destined to destroy him.
Even if they were currently out of season, she could feel the power blossom between them. The temperature in the room dipped, the balmy summer weather responding to the anthropomorphic winter at its heart.
Her breath frosted. Graves smiled. “Hello, my wren.”
He methodically pulled his gloves off, finger by finger. Stripping himself bare and revealing the source of his powers all at once. Even though his magic didn’t work on her, she never got tired of watching him expose his true nature.
“I’ve been dreaming about this,” he told her as he dropped to one knee.
“What’s that?”
He slid off one of her boots. “Being on my knees before you.” Her breath hitched. He slipped off the second boot. “Spreading your legs.” Her socks were tossed onto the pile. He ran his hands beneath the waistband of her leggings. “Stripping you out of your clothes and tasting every inch of your sweet skin.” The leggings came off.
“That’s what your dreams are made of?”
“Do you blame me?” He placed a kiss to one inner knee, then the other. “One taste would never be enough.”
“You weren’t satisfied?”
“Satiated but never satisfied.” His bare hands slid up her thighs, dragging her inch by precious inch down the table until her ass nearly hung off. He lifted her knee over his shoulder and kissed a hot trail up her inner thigh. “Never enough of you.”
Her breathing was coming in quiet pants. This Graves she hardly knew what to do with. When it had been a game to get him out of her system, she had played it well. Now she heard his words and matched his energy tenfold. She wanted this. Him. Like this. However he’d have her. Laid flat on a table. Bent over. Spread eagle. Bound and teased and high on him.
“Shall I remember the taste of my favorite delicacy?”
“Yes,” she gasped as his lips reached the apex of her thighs.
She was already flushed and indecently wet from his coaxing. But the first brush of his tongue against her clit made her moan. He smirked dramatically up at her. Every bit the cat playing with his food before he pounced.
“I have missed that sound. Perhaps you can try to be louder.”
“Louder,” she whispered.
He slid one of his perfect pianist fingers down the center of her wet pussy.
“Louder, wren.”
It was a command, and she could do nothing but follow. All of her clever quips and careful banter lost to his touch.
He pushed one luxurious finger into her core. He gave her body a quick and efficient stroke before adding a second and stretching her wider.
“Oh fuck,” she said. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, holding on for dear life. It had been an achingly long five months. That one touch of him in Paris would never be enough. There was nothing like him.
“So wet,” he said. “So very wet, this pretty pussy of mine.”
“Graves,” she moaned louder as he licked up her center.
“I’m going to have you dripping on the floor.”
His tongue ran flat along her, dragging out her pleasure as he indulged in her. Then he dug in, burying his face in her pussy. His tongue grew incessant and insistent—hard, quick flicks against her clit that made her jump. She was desperate and turned on, and he was finger-fucking her like it was his job, as his tongue ruined her life in the very best way.
She was not going to last. Not even close.
“I…I…”
“Not yet,” he commanded, pulling back but leaving his hand.
“But…”
As his eyes lifted to her face, his strokes turned languid. Two fingers inside her and his thumb stroking ever so gently. Edging her until she thought she’d tip over, but he held her back.
He rose to his feet, spreading her wider.