Chapter 8 Desire’s Deadly Curse #2
Valen’s smile deepened, his eyes glittering with something between amusement and promise. “I believe, Mireille, that you deserve to be worshipped as thoroughly as you have been neglected.”
Before I could form a retort, he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine.
The kiss was astonishing in its gentleness—a careful exploration rather than a conquest. His lips moved against mine with a practiced slowness, coaxing rather than demanding a response.
I remained frozen, caught between the urge to resist on principle and the desire to yield to the unexpected tenderness of his approach.
When his tongue traced the seam of my lips, requesting entry rather than forcing it, something within me yielded.
I opened to him with a soft sound that might have been surrender, might have been relief.
His arms encircled me, drawing me against the solid warmth of his still-clothed body.
The contrast of textures—the soft velvet of his shirt coat against my bare skin, the cool metal of his buttons pressing into my flesh—sent a shiver of awareness through me.
His kiss deepened gradually, a slow building of intensity that left me breathless.
His hands remained respectfully at my ribs, neither wandering nor grasping, though I could feel the restraint in his touch, the carefully leashed energy.
I had expected to be devoured, to be taken. I had not expected to be savored.
When he finally broke the kiss, I was trembling. Not with fear or cold, but with a need I never allowed myself to acknowledge. The look in his eyes as he gazed down at me was not the triumph I had expected, but something darker, more complex.
“You taste sweeter than I deserve,” he murmured seemingly without thought, his fingers threading through my loose hair. “Nearly sweeter than revenge.”
I should have had a clever retort, some barbed comment to maintain the armor around my heart. Instead, I found myself pulling him back to me, undone by the deference I had not anticipated from the Blood King.
The kiss transformed like a storm gathering strength.
What had begun as gentle exploration rapidly deepened into something hungrier, more desperate.
The careful restraint he’d shown moments before frayed at the edges, revealing glimpses of something wilder beneath his controlled exterior.
I found myself leaning into it, my body responding to his growing urgency with a heat that pooled low in my abdomen and spread outward like wildfire.
His tongue swept against mine with increasing demand, no longer asking but claiming.
I matched his fervor, my hands sliding up to grasp his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath the fine fabric of his wedding attire.
He tasted of wine and something darker, something that sent a forbidden thrill racing through my veins.
Valen’s hand abandoned its respectful position at my ribs, descending to the curve of my spine and pressing me against him with unmistakable intent.
His heat seared through the layers of fabric, the hard planes of his chest and the rigid evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against my stomach.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured against my lips, his voice a low growl that vibrated through me. “Exquisite.”
I wanted to maintain some semblance of resistance, needed to, but my traitorous body arched toward him of its own accord, seeking more contact, more pressure, more of everything he offered.
A small sound escaped me—half gasp, half moan—when his hand slid lower to cup my bare backside, fingers digging into the flesh with possessive hunger.
In one fluid motion, Valen lifted me against him. Instinctively, my legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locking behind his back. The new position pressed me more firmly against him, feeling his own arousal against mine, drawing another shameless sound from my throat.
“Hold tight,” he commanded, his eyes now dark pools of desire, any pretense of indifference long abandoned.
I clung to him as he carried me toward the massive bed that dominated the chamber, my arms looped around his neck, my face buried against his throat.
I could feel his pulse hammering beneath my lips, the rapid rhythm betraying that his calm facade was just that—a facade.
The knowledge that he wanted me with equal desperation was intoxicating, a heady power that made me bold enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to the junction of his neck and shoulder.
His grip tightened in response, a barely audible hiss escaping through clenched teeth. “Dangerous game, wife,” he warned, though there was a note of appreciation in his voice.
The bed loomed before us, its ivory silks gleaming in the candlelight. With surprising gentleness, Valen laid me down in its center, my dark hair spilling across the rich fabric like ink. He stood back, his eyes raking over my naked form with undisguised hunger.
I should have felt vulnerable, exposed beneath his predatory gaze. Instead, I felt powerful. Desired. I stretched deliberately, arching my back slightly, watching as his eyes tracked the movement with rapt attention.
“Are you going to merely look at me?” I challenged, my voice huskier than I intended. “Or are you planning on doing something with me, now that you have me?”
A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes. “Impatient, aren’t we?” He placed one knee on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “Good things come to those who wait, Mireille.”
Gods help me, the sound of my name on his lips stirred a need within me that overcame all thought.
I wanted him. Wanted this king, this conqueror, this man who had claimed me as a political prize.
The realization should have horrified me, should have reminded me of all I stood to lose by surrendering to him.
Instead, it freed the wildness within me.
Freed the hunger that matched his own—a desire untainted by politics or pride.
Valen moved onto the bed, positioning himself above me without touching me. His knees settled on either side of my hips, his hands braced beside my shoulders. With deliberate slowness, he lowered himself until our faces were inches apart, his breath warm against my lips.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded softly.
“You,” I whispered, the admission torn from me before I could consider its implications. “I want you.”
A slow smile spread across his face, triumphant yet appreciative. “And so you shall have me.” He shifted, shoving my thighs apart with his knees, the sudden dominance of the gesture drawing a ragged gasp from my lips.
The sound seemed to please him, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest as he settled between my spread legs.
The fabric of his trousers rubbed against the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs, the friction both maddening and insufficient.
I reached for the laces of his formal attire, fingers fumbling with uncharacteristic clumsiness.
“You’re still dressed,” I complained, tugging at the intricate fastenings.
Valen caught my wrists in one large hand, pinning them gently but firmly above my head. “Patience,” he admonished, the word a silken command. “There is no rush, Mireille.”
“I am not a patient woman,” I retorted, squirming beneath him in a futile attempt to create the friction my body craved.
His smile deepened, transforming into something wolfish. “No, I imagine not.” He lowered his head, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of my ear. “But tonight, you will learn patience. Tonight, you will learn what it means to be properly worshipped.”
Before I could form a response, his mouth moved to my throat, teeth grazing the tender skin where my pulse raced.
I tilted my head instinctively, offering better access, drawing another of those approving chuckles from him.
His free hand traced lazy patterns down the center of my body, fingertips ghosting over the curve of my breast, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hip.
“You are breathtaking,” he murmured against my collarbone, his breath hot against my skin. “Every inch of you deserves attention.”
True to his word, Valen began a slow exploration of my body, his mouth following the path his fingers had blazed.
He released my wrists, but the unspoken command to keep them above my head remained.
I complied, not out of submission but out of curiosity—what would this man, this king feared throughout the realm, do when given free access to my form?
His lips closed around my nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from me as pleasure shot directly to my core.
His tongue circled the sensitive peak, alternating between gentle flicks and firmer pressure until I was arching beneath him, seeking more contact.
When he introduced his teeth, grazing the hardened bud with just enough pressure to skirt the edge of pain, I nearly came undone, a broken moan escaping my lips.
“So responsive,” he praised, moving to lavish equal attention on my other breast. “So perfectly made for pleasure.”
I writhed beneath him, caught between embarrassment at my body’s eager response and a desperate need for more. No lover had ever taken such time with me, had ever seemed to derive such satisfaction from my pleasure rather than their own. It was disarming, this singular focus on my enjoyment.
Valen continued his downward journey, lips and tongue and occasionally teeth marking a path across my ribs, the soft plane of my stomach, the jut of my hipbones.
Each touch was deliberate, each kiss placed with careful attention to my responses.
When he reached the apex of my thighs, he paused, his breath hot against my most intimate flesh.
I propped myself up on my elbows, looking down at him with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. His eyes met mine, dark with desire but also questioning—seeking permission despite his earlier dominance.