Page 50 of Feral King

“Lyra. You’ve been avoiding me.”

I glance away.

“I have not. I’ve been busy with work.”

“I know you’ve been busy, but you’ve also been avoiding me.”

There’s no sense in lying. Julian is too good at seeing through people. What hope do I have of fooling a Bratva don? And what’s the point in even trying?

“It’s just that I don’t know how to handle any of this,” I say. “It’s confusing. The most confusing situation I’ve ever been in. You’re my boss, yet I don’t know what else you are. It’s just?—”

He kisses me.

That’s one way to get me to shut up, I suppose.

This kiss is different. Not the desperate collision from the office, not the gentle discovery the first time it happened. This is something in between—purposeful, deep, andintentional. His hand cups the back of my head, tilting me into the angle he wants.

I have been thinking about this, yearning for this, for seven damn days straight.

He walks me backward down the hallway without breaking the kiss. His bedroom is dark—tall curtains pulled in front of the massive windows, shadowing the room.

The bed is enormous and neatly made, exactly what I’d expect.

He gently pushes me back and looks at me, shaking his head slowly, as if he’s in denial about what he’s seeing in front of him. His hands go to the buttons of my blouse, slowly undoing them, as if he’s unwrapping something he plans to take his time with. The blouse falls open, and he pushes it off my shoulders.

He lifts my camisole over my head and unclasps my bra in the same smooth motion. It’s impressive—I have to admit.

And just like that, I’m bare from the waist up, standing in the shadowed light of the room. The old reflex flickers, that instinct to cover up, to angle, to minimize.

But before I can do any of that, Julian reaches forward and places his hand against my chest, right over my heart.

“No.” The word calms me, stops me where I stand. “Let me see you. Don’t even think about covering up.”

He looks. It’s not a glance or a sweep—it’s astudy. His gaze moves over my breasts and my waist, the soft curve of my stomach. Julian’s expression is one of hunger—thecontrolled hunger of a man who knows exactly what he wants and has no plans on pretending otherwise.

He drops to his knees, unzips my skirt and slides it down over my hips, taking my panties with it. His mouth follows the fabric down, pressing hot, open kisses to the inside of my thighs.

“On the bed,” he says.

I lie back. He strips—efficient and unhurried—and climbs over me. That first press of his solid, hot body against mine is overwhelming. He’s warm and hard—everywhere. His weight pins me to the mattress, and I arch into it, his mouth finding my neck, my collarbone, my nipples.

“Julian… God, just like that.” I find myself wondering if he’d be able to make me come just from the way he’s kissing me.

He works his way down, kissing places that no one has ever paid attention to before—the underside of my breasts, the curve of my waist, the dimple above my hip. By the time his mouth reaches where I need it the most, I’m already trembling, my fingers twisted in the sheets, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

The first stroke of his tongue against my pussy wrecks me. He eats me like it’s an act of devotion—slow and thorough, his hands gripping my inner thighs and spreading me wider, his groans vibrating against my clit.

He flattens the warm, wet velvet of his tongue against my swollen clit and drags it upward in one long sweep, like he’s savoring the taste, wanting to make sure he gets every last drop.

I thread my fingers into his thick hair and hold on to keep myself grounded. My nails drag against his scalp, and he growls in approval, the vibration sending another shockwave of pleasure through me. Julian’s tongue never stops its slow, devastating grind against my clit.

He flicks those gunmetal grays up at me.

“Come for me. Right now.”

It happens without any say from me. My back arches off the mattress, hips bucking hard against his mouth as the orgasm shatters through me in bright, pulsing waves. He doesn’t pull away, his lips soften, his tongue turns gentler. The aftershocks keep coming, smaller but just as relentless.

But then they start to build again. I’m practically whimpering by this point, not sure if I want him to give me a moment to compose myself or to keep going.