All Chapters of The King’s Wrong Captive: Chapter 51 - Chapter 55

Her soft folds part under my tongue as I lap at her entrance, tasting the faint saltiness of her arousal already building. I circle her clit with slow, deliberate strokes, feeling it swell against my lips.She shifts slightly in her sleep, her thighs parting just a fraction more, inviting me deeper without even knowing it. I slide my tongue inside her pussy, thrusting gently, mimicking what I plan to do with my cock soon enough.Her moans grow louder, breathy whimpers escaping her lips as her body responds instinctively. One hand drifts down to tangle in my hair, not quite awake but urging me on.I suck her clit into my mouth, flicking it with the tip of my tongue while my fingers spread her lips wider, exposing every sensitive inch.She's getting wetter, her juices coating my chin, and I drink her in greedily, humming against her to send vibrations through her core.Suddenly, her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep and surprise, but the pleasure wins out."Oh fuck," she gasps, arching

I fall into a rhythm fast.Bacon crackles in one pan, pancakes puffing golden in another, eggs soft and folded instead of charred into oblivion. The coffee pot gurgles to life just as I’m plating the last stack, like the universe decided to cooperate for once.Footsteps on the stairs.I glance up just as Dante appears in the doorway.For half a second, his face tightens—eyes sharp, scanning the room like he’s bracing for damage.Then he sees me.The tension drains out of him so visibly it almost makes me laugh.“Are you burning my house down?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.I snort, jerking my chin toward the trash can. “Your sister and James attempted to make breakfast.”Danika gasps. “Attempted?”“I intervened,” I continue calmly. “I’d actually like to eat edible food.”James raises his hands. “In my defense, the pan betrayed me.”Danika scoffs. “I was trying to be nice.”I shoot her a look. “You tried to kill us with breakfast.”She grins. “Violence runs in the family.”Dante ste

The hotel doesn’t just loom—it welcomes.Glass, marble, gold-veined floors that reflect light like water. The kind of place where the air smells expensive and nothing creaks or echoes because nothing here is allowed to feel imperfect.The doors glide open before we even reach them.People are waiting.A bellhop steps forward immediately, already reaching for our bags like he knows exactly who we are. Another man opens the doors wider, ushering us inside with practiced ease. Off to the side, a woman in a sleek black uniform holds out a tray with champagne flutes arranged just so, condensation beading down the glass.For a second, I hesitate.Then I take one.I bring it to my lips and take a small sip—expecting bitterness, expecting something sharp—and blink when it’s sweet instead. Light. Almost dangerous in how easy it goes down.Danika hooks her arm through mine like she belongs there.“Oh, this place is perfect,” she says, already gesturing. “That’s the bar—live piano at night. Loun