The Rogue Not Taken

“Tell me about last night,” he said softly, looking up at her, his hands at the hem of her skirts.

“What—” She caught her breath as his fingers explored the skin of her ankles. “What about it?”

“I hated it,” he said. “I hated stopping.”

She pressed her lips into a thin, straight line. “I hated that you stopped.”

His hands were beneath her skirts, pushing them back, farther and farther, up and over her knees. He pressed his lips to the inside of her knee, swirling his tongue there, loving the little gasp of surprised pleasure that came at the touch. “I hate that I will have to stop today, as well,” he whispered at her skin.

One of her hands came to his head, fingers threading into his hair as he began to kiss over her thighs, pushing her skirts higher, bunching the fabric on her lap as he bent over her, pressing long, hot kisses to soft, undiscovered skin—skin no one but he had ever touched. “King.” She sighed. “I won’t stop you.”

He closed his eyes at the words even as he pressed her thighs apart, making room for himself between them. He pressed a long, lingering kiss to the soft skin of her inner thigh, drawing a little cry from her as her fingers clenched in his hair and held him to her.

She was perfect.

He smiled against her skin, scraping his teeth there at that private, untouched place. “You won’t stop me from kissing you here?”

She opened her thighs wider, gloriously. “No,” she whispered.

He stroked higher with one hand, his fingers finding soft curls that he’d touched before but never seen. “Wider,” he said, and the word came like a demand. “I want you open to this place.”

She did as she was told, opening herself to his touch and his gaze, and he sat back on his heels, unable to stop himself from marveling at her, perfect and pink and his for the taking.

His, full stop.

He looked up at her, loving the flames in her cheeks—loving that even embarrassment was not enough to keep her from him. “Wider,” he said, letting the demand curl between them.

Damned if she didn’t obey, making his mouth water.

“Christ,” he whispered, reaching for her, running his fingers softly through those curls until they found the wet heat of her. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

She looked away. “It’s not true.”

He hated that she didn’t believe him.

“I know I said I wouldn’t tell you that. I know I said I would do as you asked, and find another way to compliment you, but I can’t.” He came up on his knees again, reaching for her, lifting her gaze to his. “You are beautiful, Sophie. More beautiful than you can imagine.”

Before she could deny it, he took her mouth in a long, wicked kiss, as though they had an eternity to explore each other. As though time did not pass in the labyrinth. And it was an exploration, a long, lingering journey of tongue and teeth and lips, of sighs and cries and growls that promised more than they could ever deliver.

Because he would not ruin her.

If it killed him, he would not ruin her.

He broke the kiss and ran his lips over her cheek, finding the soft skin beneath her ear, where he lingered before saying, “It’s true.”

She sighed, but he could tell she did not believe him. “I want you naked here, in this place, on this grass open to nothing but the sun and the sky and this statue and my mouth. I want to explore every inch of you, and learn the sounds you make when you come, hard and fast and yes, love, beautiful.”

He sucked on the lobe of one ear, long and lingering until she groaned her pleasure, her hands stroking across his chest, down his torso. “King,” she whispered.

He grasped one of her hands and guided it to where he strained, hard and desperate, against the fabric of his trousers. “Feel what you do to me,” he whispered. “You make me ache for you. You make me want to lay you down and take you until there is nothing left but us and the labyrinth.”

Her eager fingers explored. “Yes,” she said without hesitation, flattening her palm against him and making him want to show her precisely how to make him wild.

Instead, he shook his head and pulled her away from him. “No. I won’t ruin you, Sophie.”

Her brow furrowed. “But . . .”

“This is not for me, love. This is for you.”

She shook her head. “I want it to be for us both.”

He couldn’t let it be for them both. If he did, he might never let her leave.

Hating the thought, King returned his touch to her core, parting the folds there, baring her to the sun and air, loving her heat, her softness, her scent. “You’re so wet,” he marveled, dipping a single finger inside her, adoring the way she responded, rocking toward him, eager for more of him. And he was so eager to give her more.

“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t not taste you.”

He pressed her thighs wide and leaned in, painting her pretty pink center with his tongue, adoring the feel of her against him, the way she sighed and moved and guided him without even knowing what she did. He lifted his lips from her and blew a long stream of air directly on the center of her, adoring her cry of pleasure.

Her fingers slid into his hair, clutching him close, pressing him to the open, aching center of her, using him as he tasted her again and again, losing himself in her. He licked and sucked and stroked with tongue and fingers until she rocked against him, her breath coming faster and faster, her hips working to find that magnificent purchase that would give her release.