The Golden Dynasty (Fantasyland #2)(15)
Author: Kristen Ashley

He shifted his torso so my legs swung to the side then he fell forward, his mammoth weight landing on me.

I was winded but I was not beaten.

That, that right there, was why we needed to get things straight.

I arched my back, shoved at his shoulders and shouted, “Seriously, big guy, we need… to get… a few things… straight!”

His hand trailed my side then went between our bodies.

I lost it.

On a frustrated, furious cry, I struggled.

This surprisingly worked. I managed to push him back, slide out from under him and nearly gain the side of the bed before I was caught at the waist and pulled back.

I whirled and fought.

I managed to use my nails to score his skin, opening up two thin, short streaks that beaded instantly with blood just under his shoulder and that shoulder rocked back as I froze in shock that I’d managed to wound him. Then he gave me his full weight, tipped his head down to look at the scratches and, f**k me, when he looked back at me there was something in his eyes I did not like and whatever that something was made him grin like he was supremely pleased.

Shit!

I unfroze and again gave it my all, just like that heinous night, grunting with the effort.

The problem was, even with the bastard knowing he was bigger than me, stronger than me, he gave it his all too and it became clear that if I wasn’t smart, and fast, he’d break bones if he had to.

God, I hated him.

And when he’d maneuvered me to my knees, my back to him, my wrists held in one of his fists pinned unmoving to my chest and I knew what was next, I reared back my head and shouted it.

“God, I hate you!”

His free hand slid along the silk at my belly and his mouth went to my neck.

“Kah Lahnahsahna,” he muttered.

I jerked (to no avail) in his arms, and screamed, “Stop calling me that!”

His fingers curled in, fisting the material at my belly, bunching it up and when he had it all up, his hand moved down.

I froze.

“Kah Dahksahna,” he whispered against my neck.

“Fuck you! I’m not your queen!” I snapped, my h*ps finally moving to avoid the path of his hand.

“Kah rahna Dahksahna,” he murmured and his hand slid into my panties.

My h*ps stopped moving.

“God,” I whispered on a jerk of my arms that did nothing to loosen his hold, “I freaking hate you.”

His fingers glided between my legs.

And that was when it hit me his touch wasn’t clinical. It wasn’t removed. He wasn’t shoving me face first into the bed and taking me from behind like I was nothing but a warm vessel to receive his seed.

His touch was gentle, light, soft.

Oh shit.

His finger glided light as a whisper over my clit.

Oh shit!

“Lahn,” I whispered.

“Lahn,” he repeated, pushing his h*ps into my back as his finger started to circle in what was very clearly a caress. And dear God, I couldn’t believe it but it was a nice one. It was a sweet one. And my body, damn it all, recognized it as such.

What on earth was happening?

“Please.” I kept whispering.

“Please,” he repeated after me again, still circling his finger with a gentle touch.

“Don’t,” I begged.

“Don’t,” he repeated and my eyes closed slowly.

God, was this happening to me? After all he’d done, was this really happening to me?

His finger asserted just a wee bit more pressure.

My head automatically fell back to his shoulder as a tiny spiral of pleasure unfurled in my belly.

Yep, this was happening to me.

I jerked my hands again, whispering, “I won’t.”

“I won’t,” he whispered back and his deep, rumbling whisper spiraled through me too.

His finger started circling faster, a little harder, a lot better.

God.

I turned my head, his lifted and I pressed my forehead into his neck and I fought against that spiral of pleasure that was unfurling. But I didn’t win. It unfurled, then it grew, then it spread.

“Lahn,” I breathed as the continued workings of his fingers forced the last bits of tension from my body.

“Lahn,” he murmured and circled faster.

Oh, that felt nice.

“Circe,” I whispered.

His hand at my wrists tightened, pulling them into me as his finger pressed deeper.

“Circe,” he whispered and my h*ps bucked.

Yes. I liked that.

“Circe,” I said again and he pressed his hardness into my back and circled even faster.

“Circe,” he repeated softly and I whimpered as that spiral in my belly whirled out-of-control.

“Yes,” I breathed.

I felt his lips a whisper from mine.

“Yes,” he muttered.

Oh God.

My h*ps moved with his hand, grinding down, seeking more from his finger and he didn’t keep it from me. He gave it to me and I took it, I reached for it, and it started coming.

My eyes flew open and when they did, his dark ones, not looking detached, not blank, not impassive, but heated and turned on and God, could it be? Totally freaking sexy.

His finger pressed deeper and circled faster.

Oh yes.

I gasped, “Lahn!”

“Circe,” he whispered against my lips, I drew in a ragged breath and moaned against his as I came. Hard.

And while I was doing this, he let me go and shoved me down into the bed, ass in the air. He pulled the panel of my nightgown up, ripped my panties away, separated my legs with his knees and drove inside.

My head flew back.

Oh yeah. Hell yeah.

“Yes,” I breathed, without a thought, my body thinking for me, I reared back into his thrusts.

He leaned forward, reached around and cupped my breast in a rough hand as he pounded into me, jerking my h*ps back with his other hand.

“Kah Lahnahsahna,” he growled.

“Oh yeah,” I moaned.

His fingers found my nipple and tugged, that hard tug slashing through me like a hot knife, trailing fire. “Kah Lahnahsahna.”

“Kah Lahnahsahna,” I whimpered, pushing back, meeting him thrust for thrust.

His hand left my breast and both spanned my hips, hauling me back, giving me all of him and I took it, invited it, stretched for it.

Amazing.

So amazing, my head flew back again and my arms reached out straight.

He saw it, reached forward, his hand circled my throat, he pulled me up to my hands and kept driving into me, his hand gliding up to cup me under my jaw. The hold was gentle, tender even. And it was possessive, claiming.

King Lahn was f**king his queen.