Page 114 of The Widow and the Wanted

Boone’s breath shaking beside us.

The firelight on her bare face.

The fallen gown abandoned at our feet.

She reaches for me, hand in my robe, and strokes, watching my face as I harden in her grasp. There is no coyness in it. No false innocence. Lula has never done anything by halves—not healing, not quarreling, not risking her life for people too foolish to deserve it. Desire is no different. She wants, and lets herself want, and the sight of that freedom in her nearly brings me to my knees.

She presses me back toward the bed, guiding me to sit as she lowers to the floor. Pushing my knees apart, my robe falls open and I’m bare for her. Lula presses a kiss to my thigh, above my knee, and I spread wider. Boone follows, kneeling beside her.

“Mm,” he hums with delight. “Okee likes being admired proper.”

Lula giggles at that, her hand cupping my balls with gentle curiosity. “Is that so?”

The touch steals the breath clean out of me.

“Ain’t that something?” Boone says. “Easy enough to admire. Look how pretty he is. His cock is downright elegant.”

“Elegant,” Lula and I scoff back at once. He wraps his hand around me, stroking firm, and any trace of humor in me disappears.

Lula doesn’t wait for instructions. She teases a finger behind my balls as Boone takes me into his mouth. Submerged in sensation, I let my head roll back. It’s when I notice their reflections. A beautiful picture.

My thoughts quickly escalate to the obscene.

“The chemise comes off. Now.”

A mischievous thrill seems to run through her, the way she springs up and eagerly slips it over her head. Now she’s nude before me, the reflection of the soft smooth skin of her back, the cleft of her ass, drives me to reach for her.

“Get up here,” I say, taking her wrist. I help her to her feet, turn her to see her own reflection.

“Do you see how beautiful you are?” She doesn’t answer, fascinated by her image, hands drifting down her soft body.

I settle her in my lap, her back to my chest, and remember this room was made for such pleasures. The mirror was placed here with purpose.

“Look at you,” I whisper against the shell of her ear, as I tighten my arms around her just hard enough for her to know who is in control.

We exchange a glance in the mirror that reminds me: Lula never fully yields. Boone would go to his knees for the promise of being taken apart properly, trusting I know just how far to take him. Not Lula.

She gives nothing so freely. Her look is a challenge, a dare. Chin lifted like a queen, eyes bright, as if to say: if I mean to have her, I had better prove myself equal to the task.

“Boone calls you a general,” I murmur. “But you are no general.” I let my mouth brush the side of her throat, feeling the quick answer of her. “You, my dear, are a queen.”

The word changes her. I feel it in the slight stilling of her body, the proud lift of her chin, the way she tries not to want the title and fails.

“Your queen?” she asks. Her mouth curves. “And what does that make you?”

I let the answer come without apology. “Your king.”

From the floor, Boone gives a short, offended laugh. “Well, hell. We got us a king and queen now? What the hellfire does that make me—the court jester?”

“If the bell cap fits,” Lula teases. I squeeze her hip.

“No,” I chide. “This kingdom has two kings.”

Lula’s breath shakes with a laugh as I lower my mouth to her throat.

“And you,” I murmur, “are the queen bold enough to challenge us both.”

My fingertips graze the skin of her belly, rising to her breasts, tender points already stiffened. Her breathing falters as I capture them and gently tug.