7. LAYLA
Seven
LAYLA
We wake up naked on the sand at sunrise. I’m wrapped in Soren’s shirt, his heavy arm draped over my waist, his cock hard against my ass. The beach is empty, the waves gentle, the sky painted pink and gold.
“Morning, princess,” he rumbles against my neck.
“We fell asleep on the beach,” I mumble.
“I know.” He pushes two fingers inside me, slow and deep. “Best night of my fucking life.”
I gasp, pushing back against his hand. “Soren, someone could see…”
“No one here.” He rolls me on my back, covering me with his massive body. “Just me. Just you. And this pussy that I’m going to fuck again before we go back.”
He pushes inside me in one smooth thrust. I’m still swollen from last night, still full of his cum. The stretch makes me cry out. He fucks me slow and deep; the sunrise painting his blond hair gold.
“Look at you,” he whispers. “Taking me on a beach like a fucking savage. My savage queen.”
I wrap my legs around his waist. “Less talking. More fucking.”
He grins and picks up the pace, hammering into me until the sand shifts under us and I’m coming hard around his cock. He follows right after, flooding me again.
He carries me back to the palace wrapped in his shirt. We run into a guard in the hallway, some poor kid who looks sixteen. Soren throws his coat over me, growls, “Eyes forward or lose them,” and marches us to his suite.
The shower is enormous. Soren washes every inch of me with reverent hands. When he gets to the scar on my ribs, from a border skirmish two years ago, he pauses.
“How did you get this?”
“Knife fight. Three rebels.”
His jaw tightens. He leans down and presses his lips to the scar. “You could have died.”
“I didn’t.”
“Because you’re a fucking warrior.” He looks up at me, and there’s something in his eyes that scares me more than the sex. Something soft. Something real. “My warrior. My queen.”
He stands, water streaming down his carved body, and lifts me against the tiles. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he pushes inside me again. He fucks me against the shower wall, his mouth on my neck.
“Gonna keep you,” he growls. “Gonna breed you and keep you and never let you go. Say it, Layla. Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp. “Fuck, Soren, I’m yours.”
He comes with a roar, flooding me so deep I can feel it in my womb.
After, he dries me off with a towel soft as clouds. Then he carries me to the bed, feeds me mango from a silver tray, and makes me try his northern flatbread.
It’s terrible. Like eating cardboard that someone’s already chewed.
I make a face. He laughs, actually laughs, a deep rumble that makes my stomach flip.
“You northerners have no taste,” I say, pushing the bread away.
“We have taste.” He catches my wrist, pulls me closer. “We just prefer our women spicy.”
I roll my eyes. “That was terrible. Worst line I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet you’re still wet.”
I am. God help me; I am.
He pushes the tray aside and pulls me on his lap. I’m naked, he’s naked, and his cock is already hard again. He feeds me pieces of mango from his own fingers, letting me lick the juice from his skin. Then he lifts me, positions me over him, and lowers me on his cock.
“Ride me, princess,” he commands. “Show me how a southern queen takes her king.”
I do. I ride him slow at first, then faster, my tits bouncing in his face. He sucks my nipples, bites them, grips my hips and pounds up into me from below. The bed creaks. The tray crashes to the floor. Neither of us cares.
“Gonna fill you up one more time before we leave,” he promises, his thumb finding my clit. “Gonna make sure you’re dripping me on the plane.”
I come with a scream, my pussy milking his cock. He follows, groaning my name, flooding me so deep I know I’ll be feeling him for hours.
By the time we get dressed, I’m walking funny, his cum leaking down my legs. He looks at me like he’s already planning round four.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, though I’m smiling.
“Too late,” he says, taking my hand. “I’m always thinking about it. About you. About this.”
He squeezes my fingers. I squeeze back.
And I don’t let go.