He guided her deeper into the gardens, away from the manicured paths and into a grove of ancient, silver-barked trees. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the soft moss underfoot. It was a place of quiet, shielded and sacred.
When they reached a small clearing, he turned to her. The sight of her—hair silvered by moonlight, lips swollen from his kisses, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths—nearly shattered his control.
He pulled her down with him onto the moss. It yielded beneath them, a fragrant, living cushion. He let himself fall back just enough that she straddled his hips, the heat of her through the thin fabric of her dress searing him. The position, her on top, sent a bolt of pure possession through him.
She didn’t hesitate. She kissed him again, deeper now, hungrier, and Kovrak stopped being the restrained prince. He was all male, all mate.
His hands roamed her back, finding the zipper of her black dress. He tugged it down a few inches, the sound loud in the quiet clearing.
She broke the kiss, her hands pushing against his chest. “No.”
He stilled instantly, a growl lodging in his throat. “Faith?”
“I want to see you first,” she breathed, her gaze dropping to his henley.
He was used to commanding. Used to controlling every situation and every seduction. But the awe in her expression, the reverent curiosity, disarmed him. He gave a single, tight nod.
She peeled the soft fabric up slowly, her knuckles brushing his stomach and his ribs. The night air hit his skin, and her gaze followed, wide and appreciative. She stared at the hard lines of his chest and abdomen, muscles honed by decades of discipline and combat.
No woman had ever looked at him like this. Not assessing his value as a political alliance. Not calculating the advantage he could bring. Faith was simply admiring. Appreciating. Her gaze was a physical caress, and his tiger preened under the attention.
“You’re magnificent,” she whispered, the words a soft exhale.
He had been worshipped for his power, feared for his dominance, and desired for his status. But never cherished.
She mapped him with her hands first, her palms skating over his shoulders, down the rigid cut of his pectorals. Then she leaned down, and her mouth followed the same path, planting open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone then down his chest until she reached his abdomen. A low rumble vibrated in his chest. For once, he wanted to feel what it was to be wanted without expectation. For just him.
When her exploration ventured even lower, her fingers tracing the line of hair that led beneath his waistband, his famed control thinned to a fraying thread.
Her fingers worked the button of his trousers, then the zipper. He lifted his hips to help her push them down, along with his boxers, until he was bare to the cool night and her heated gaze.
Her breath hitched as she took him in. He was thick and fully erect, the evidence of his desire for her undeniable. A spark of primal pride flashed through him at the awed look on her face.
Then she did something that stole the air from his lungs. She leaned down and took him into her mouth.
Heat and wetness enveloped him, and a groan was torn from his throat. Her tongue swirled with confident, clever strokes, and the pride in her expression—even as she pleasured him—ignited something ancient and dangerous. His tiger roared its approval. She was masterful, and the sensation of her hot mouth and clever tongue was an exquisite torture. It took every ounce of his legendary restraint not to spill himself down her throat.
He let her explore, let her learn what made him shudder, for long, dizzying minutes. But even as pleasure coiled tight in his gut, a deeper need asserted itself. He would not take without giving. He would not let her worship him without returning it in full measure.
With a gentleness that cost him, he guided her back up. “Enough.”
Her lips were slick and swollen, her eyes questioning. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, you are perfect,” he growled, the words raw. “Devastatingly perfect.” He rolled them in one smooth motion, reversing their positions so she lay beneath him on the soft moss, her dress rumpled and half-unzipped. He loomed over her, caging her with his arms. “But this isn’t a transaction. I don’t want your surrender. I want your pleasure.”
He lowered his head to her neck. “My turn to learn you,” he murmured against her skin, his hand sliding down her back to her zipper. “Every inch.”
Kovrak’s lips traced the delicate line of her throat, each kiss a whispered claim against the frantic pulse he found there. His hands, capable of breaking stone, moved with deliberateslowness. He found the zipper of her black dress, a thin metal seam against the heat of her spine, and drew it down. The sound was a soft sigh in the moon-drenched quiet. He did not tear or rush. He unwrapped her, layer by layer, as if revealing a treasure long hidden and meant only for him. The dark fabric whispered over her skin and finally pooled on the silvered moss like discarded armor.
Moonlight cascaded over her naked skin, and the sight stole the air from his lungs. She was radiant and luminous. Her breasts were full and perfect, tipped with peaks already hardened to tight buds. A low, possessive groan vibrated in his chest.
Mine. All mine.
He didn’t waste time. He worshipped her with his mouth. He traced the elegant architecture of her collarbone, then descended. He took one pebbled peak into the heat of his mouth, circling with his tongue before sucking deeply. Her gasp was a sharp, beautiful sound. Her hands flew to his hair, her fingers tangling in the dark blonde strands, not pushing him away but holding him to her.
“Kovrak…”
Her breathy plea was a command he would follow to the ends of the universe. He lavished the same devoted attention on her other breast until her moans were a continuous melody of pleasure, her back arching off the soft ground to press herself more fully into his care.