In the Veins of the Drowning(78)

“Not yet,” he ordered, speaking against the soft skin of my inner thigh. He slid a finger inside me, groaning as he did. Then another. My hands clawed at the blanket, my hips bucked, but he pinned me still with a strong arm. With those fingers moving in and out, with his hot tongue set perfectly over the most sensitive part of me, it was impossible for me to wait any longer.

My cry filled the chamber. My entire body was beaded with sweat and pulsing, shaking under the fluid, sweet way his tongue, his lips, still worked at me. He rolled me onto my back, pushing my legs wide. He dragged his mouth over the inside of my thighs, biting and kissing me there. When I reached for him, utterly spent, he reared back.

He rested his cheek on my knee, gave me a wicked smile. “Did you forget that I’m greed-riddled when it comes to you?” He set his lips over me again—sucking, licking. “I’m not done yet.”

It wasn’t long before the candlelight guttered from euphoria, before I was moaning and arching against him again. I was splayed over the bed, limbs weak as sapling branches, and Theodore loomed over me wearing the smuggest smile I’d ever seen. “Do you need a moment?”

“You’re feeling very proud, aren’t you?”

He bent over me, that smile still on his beautiful face, and set his lips over my breast. “Mmm-hmm.”

I curved my back, urging him to take me deeper into his mouth. He obliged, flicking his marvelous tongue over me. “Take off your clothes,” I breathed.

He sat back on his knees and started on his buttons. I reached for his trousers with clumsy fingers, eyes stuck on the way his flat stomach and strong chest bunched and flexed as he removed his shirt. He was exquisite, shaped as perfectly as the statues that littered his palace. He watched me with dark, heavy-lidded eyes as I took him in. The curves of his muscles, the dark hair on his chest, the thin trail that ran down toward where my fingers hovered. I undid the fastening, pushing his trousers and underclothes over his hips.

I reveled in seeing him bare, in seeing his eagerness and the large, straining shape of him. I wrapped my hand around him, and he let out an aching breath.

“Lie down,” I said, my lips against his chest.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up.” I pushed him back into the pillows with my own self-satisfied smile curling my mouth. I set my lips around him, and elation fell through me at the hiss of air he pulled into his chest. His hand clasped the back of my neck, fingers gripping my hair. His head rolled back against the pillow, his swollen lips open in a quiet moan.

I was greedy too. I wanted to possess him completely, wanted to be consumed by him, wanted to string the memory of him through my sinew, my marrow, and carry it with me for as long as I lived. Finally, he gave a dark, frustrated growl and hauled me up into his lap.

He looked up at me with a warm, sweet emotion I didn’t bother to decipher. It would be hard enough to cut him from my blood, let alone from my heart. His lips were fervent, adoring, as they met mine, as they dragged to my neck, my ear. He guided my hips over his and watched with taut attention as he lowered me, so slowly, around him.

“Gods.” I gasped at the rapturous strain of being filled with him.

“Imogen,” he said against my neck. He adjusted himself, grasped my backside, and sank all the way inside me. “Immy.”

I didn’t breathe when he first guided me up and back down around him. He whispered his approval, his awe. Ecstasy was carved into his features, his heated gaze clinging to my every movement. A slow, replete smile lit his face.

“What?” I asked on a moan. He shook his head, hooked an arm around my waist. I squealed as he rolled me back and set a new pace above me. “Tell me.”

He stopped, breath heaving as his smile faded into an open, wondrous look. “I have never wanted anything…” He paused. “… the way I want you.”

My heart burst. He kissed me before I could reply, and we became a huddle of heavy gasps and trembling muscles and rapturous moans. He swept through every part of me on a rising tide, dissolving all lines, all rationality. Together we sank irretrievably into the sweetest, darkest deep.

The middle of the night was quiet and still. I dozed with my head on Theodore’s chest and a heavy leg thrown over his. My finger traced circles across his stomach. Over the weeks, I’d grown to know his mood by the rhythm of his breaths. They came soft and easy now. No tension pulled at his graceful muscles, no agitation splayed through his fingers, as it so often did.

He was at peace. And I envied it. My mind was an eddy of schemes, worries, and awful thoughts. It wove itself into knots trying to piece together some plan that would let me keep him, that would let me stay, but no matter how it twisted and spun it could not find one.

Theodore’s breaths were growing shallow as he slipped off to sleep. As his hand fell from where it rested in the narrow of my waist, a knock sounded. I raised my head from his chest.

“Your Majesty?” came a man’s voice from the other side of the door. “I got the books.”

Theodore grunted, then called out groggily, “Leave them.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” A thud sounded. “Night, Your Majesty.”

“What books?” I asked Theodore in an overloud whisper. I rose from the bed and padded toward the door, listening closely to make sure no one remained on the other side.

“You have too much energy after all that,” Theodore mumbled. “I feel like I’ve failed you.”