Page 137 of Feral King

“Julian… yes, just like that. I love you. I love you so much.”

He slows down but doesn’t stop, kissing me through the aftershocks.

When I can breathe again, I push at his chest until he rolls onto his back. Then I straddle him and take him back inside, my hands braced on his chest.

“My turn.” I whisper it with a wicked smile. Then I rock slowly, then faster, chasing a third orgasm.

Julian’s hands grip my hips, guiding me in just the way I want, the way I need. “That’s it. Take what you need. You’re so goddamn perfect like this. So wet, so tight, somine.”

I ride him with total abandon. Our breathing turns ragged and he sits up suddenly, arms wrapping tight around me, mouth latching onto a nipple as he thrusts up to meet every roll of my hips.

“I’m close again,” I pant. “So close. Julian, come with me. Please. I want to feel you come inside me while I?—”

“Yes,” he growls. “Together. Look at me, Lyra.”

Our eyes lock, the eye contact just what it takes to cause the third orgasm to crash over me. I shatter, body clenching tight around him in pulsing waves. Julian follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a feral groan, pulsing hot inside of me.

“I love you. Fuck, I love you.”

We collapse together, sweaty and trembling, his arms tight around me, my face pressed to the damp curve of his neck. For a long moment, there is only the sound of our breathing and the distant hum of the city far below.

He brushes damp strands of hair from my forehead and kisses my temple.

“Three times,” he mutters, a smile threading through the words. “Greedy girl.”

I laugh softly and nuzzle closer, the ring catching the light as I rest my hand on his chest. “You’re the one who proposed. This is your fault.”

“Best decision I ever made.” His hand finds my stomach. It’s warm and protective over the small curve. “My future wife. Mother of my child. The only woman I’ve ever needed.”

I lift my head, eyes shining as I meet his gaze. “I love you, Julian Volkov. Every day until I die. And even after that.”

He kisses me slowly, reverently.

“Then I guess we have forever, Mrs. Volkov-to-be.”

Outside, the New York night keeps spinning.

Inside, the world narrows to this bed, this man, this love—fierce and filthy, and finally, beautifully permanent.

EPILOGUE I

LYRA

“Mama, if you cry one more time, I’m going to start, too. And I won’t be able to stop until the damn wedding’s over.”

“I’m not crying.”

“You’re absolutelycrying.”

“Well, maybe I am. But a mother is allowed to cry on her daughter’s wedding day!”

I can’t help but smile. Then I lean in, giving Mama a big hug, one that she gives right back.

We’re standing at the back of the chapel, Mama’s arm hooked through mine, the other clutching a handkerchief.

The dogwoods are blooming, bumblebees zipping here and there. Through the open chapel doors, I can see a row of hand-painted Mardi Gras pennants strung up along the railing—Mama and Dad’s contribution—shipped from a shop on Magazine Street and hung by Ethan and Anya this morning.

Inside, the string quartet begins the opening notes of the processional. Three hundred people stand.