How to Make a King (Even If You’re Really Not Into It)
half groan, the sound fueling the fire between them. When he began moving again, it was with devastating patience, each thrust deliberate and deep, slow enough that she felt every shift of muscle, every drag of him inside her, his body pinning her hips to the mattress while one hand held her wrists loosely, controlling the rhythm without force, moving as if he were memorizing every quiver, every gasp. Her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, heels digging into his back as curses tumbled from her mouth that she didn’t truly mean, sweat slicking every point of contact, heightening the slide of skin on skin. She felt everything—the scrape of his beard stubble at her throat, the flex of h
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