Christmas In The City (Imperfect Match 1.50)

“A treasure is useless if it’s never found. Or never claimed.”

“Is that so?” In a glance, he rakes over the swells of my breasts and the place where my thighs meet my body, but there’s something else in his face right now, something behind the hunger and severity. Uncertainty? Doubt? Is the novelty of fucking a queen wearing off already? Of knowing one? Is it the difference in our stations?

No. No, I won’t let this crown steal tonight from me. It’s taken so much, the least it can do is give me a few stolen hours with this man of sternness and shadows.

I reach down to palm his thick erection, and then I wrap my fingers around it and squeeze.

“Yes, that is so,” I reply.

My touch seems to sear through him, sear away any doubts, and he lets out a slow breath. “Noelani,” he says. Just that, just my name.

“Lani.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “Lani.” My name emerges low and hot and rough, and hearing my girlhood nickname from his lips sends a deep thrill through me. For a moment, I think of how good he’d look in the palace amidst all the sun-drenched opulence, how good he’d look in my childhood home, surrounded by the lush Manaroan forest. How good he’d look in Manaroa, period.

Just tonight. He’s only yours tonight.

“My Lani,” he murmurs again, the possessiveness no less impactful because it’s—by necessity—temporary. And then he bands an arm behind my back so he can lift me off the table. His other hand tugs my thong down my hips and off my legs with expert skill and efficiency. Before I know it, I’m laid on my back with care and ease, and Grim’s taking a seat on the chair in front of me.

“What—” I start to ask, and then he dips his head between my spread thighs and gives my sex a slow, wet kiss. “Oh.”

I’ve never had this. I was born to marry a king; I was trained in the art of pleasing a king; and Rua was not only the particular king I was groomed to satisfy, but my only lover too. His kingly pleasure, his desires were the only ones considered, and he never wanted to do this. Never wanted to please his queen in turn.

There weren’t courses on pleasuring a queen, but Grim intuitively knows how. Each bold curl of his tongue at my center, each starving kiss is something so brand new it defies description.

It’s soft and light.

It’s hot and wicked.

It’s better than anything I’ve ever had.

“Oh.” My eyes drift closed. My back arches. “Oh, my God.”

His answer is to wrap his hands around my hips and haul me closer to the edge of the table and to his mouth. He sits there like a king at the feasting table, savoring every nook and fold of me. Exploring every inch with hot kisses and seeking tastes. He misses nowhere and nothing. He nuzzles into me and scents me, and his resulting growl is enough to make my toes curl against his shoulders.

Every kiss, every lick sends me squirming, aching for more and also overwrought with the expert oral he’s giving me. He doesn’t let me squirm away though, cradling my entire bottom in his giant hands and pinning me to his mouth as he eats me up like a starving man.

And then he starts these exquisite circles around my clit, and I know I’m almost lost. For all the delicacy of his skill, there’s a ruthless hunger behind it, and it’s intoxicating. Exhilarating. My heart throbs in tempo with my needy cunt.

The building orgasm tightens low in my belly, twining behind my clit and around my womb and my inner thighs. I want to see him when I come, want to see those proud shoulders wedged between my thighs and the sweep of his sooty eyelashes against his cheeks. I want to see Brock Grimsby—rugged, dangerous, roiling with trapped energy, still wearing his crisp tuxedo—giving this orgasm to me.

I push up

onto my elbows so I can look down my belly at him, and as I do, the diamond flower in my hair starts falling. I reach up to pull it out, and Grim’s head jerks up from between my legs.

“The flower stays,” he commands. His lips are wet with me, and his eyes—his eyes betray something I don’t think he knows they’re betraying. “Please,” he adds, and there’s a note of choked need in his voice. “I want it there.”

A carillon of breathless emotions plays through me. Breathless, perilous emotions. “Okay,” I answer, my voice a choked whisper too. I retuck the flower comb back into my hair. “It stays.”

And the look he gives me right then—like he’ll give me anything now, anything that’s his to give, simply because I’m doing this small thing for him—it’s worth everything. It’s worth the angry, lonely waiting I did for him tonight. It’s worth the courage it cost to move the flower to the other side of my hair as the snow fluttered around us.

Tonight, I have to remind myself again. This interlude will be as fleeting as the snow beyond these windows, melting before it even hits the ground.

He ducks his head again, adding his fingers as his shameless mouth coaxes my orgasm free, making everything hot and wonderful and tight and wonderful and oh my God—

My head falls back as everything below my navel detonates with sheer, unalloyed pleasure. My thighs, my belly, my cunt—they all clench so tight I can’t breathe, and then release in a quivering wave that has me keening and thrashing against his persistent mouth. The clench and the wave, clench and wave, over and over again, until I feel like a wave myself, like an entire sea of them, just churning and churning out to every horizon. Like I am even more than the sea, I am the horizon it stretches to. I am the sky arcing blue and happy over everything, and Grim is the sun, hot and life-giving and vital.

I can’t imagine not feeling this way ever again. I can’t imagine not riding the rest of a climax against Grim’s hand as he stands up and surveys how he’s wrecked me ever again.