"Don't move."
This time, when he spoke, the words came hushed—no longer a command, but a whisper. A caress meant only for lovers in the quiet of midnight.
His hand slid back to my waist, moving slowly, tracing lazy circles that sent a shudder through me. My toes curled against the floor. I knew this was wrong, yet the sensation burst through me all the same—too sudden, too intense to fight.
TOO GOOD
"Isabel…"
He murmured my name against my skin, his lips grazing my neck.
I couldn't remember Harry Hulk ever saying my name like this. Each time the King spoke it now, his voice lingered—low, unhurried—like the soft pull of a melody that stayed long after the song ended.
"You…"
The word brushed over me, barely sound, more feeling than speech.
I leaned back without thinking, my eyes falling shut as my body pressed into his. Heat spread everywhere he touched. And suddenly, irrationally, jealousy bloomed.
Tyra.
His concubines.
Did he bring them here? Did he touch them like this?
