Page 90 of The Crowned Queen

Araya made a broken sound against his mouth, his name slipping from her lips as he broke the kiss with a sharp inhale. His head dropped onto her shoulder, his breathing ragged. And then his hands were on her hips, turning her as he pulled her down with him into the steaming water.

He settled her across his legs, his pupils blown wide and his cock bobbing in the water between them. He held her back though, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles in the divots of her hips.

“Look at me,” he ordered. “Do you want this?”

Araya nodded frantically. She wanted him—would always want him. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she rocked against his grip, a soft, desperate sound that should have embarrassed her tearing from her throat.

But Loren’s hands tightened, stilling her movements.

“No,” he said. “You have to make me a promise first.”

Araya shuddered. He was torturing her. Torturing himself.

“We go at your pace,” Loren continued, his voice too steady. “You do not do anything you don’t want to do. You will not push yourself for me. And if you need to stop—” His thumbs stilled, pressing into her hips. “You stop. Immediately.”

Araya swallowed, her heart twisting in her chest. “I promise.”

For a moment, his grip tightened, fingers digging into her skin as he stared at her—like he was bracing himself. Then something in him eased. He let his head fall back against the moss-softened edge of the spring, his throat working as he swallowed hard.

“Then take what you want, ael’sura.”

Chapter

Thirty-Three

This was it. After everything that had happened—this was going to be what killed him.

Araya surged forward, the sting of her nails biting into his shoulders eclipsed by the heat of her body against his. Her lips crashed into his, the coppery tang of blood filling his mouth as her sharp canines dragged against his lip. The sound she made was a lance through his heart, pinning him in place—at her mercy.

Loren’s breath hitched as her hand closed around him, water splashing in her haste. She notched his tip against herself, and for one delirious moment, instinct screamed at him to stop her. That she wasn’t ready. She would hurt herself⁠—

She sank down onto him.

“Fuuuck,” Loren groaned.

Araya dropped her head against his shoulder, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Her heart was racing so fast he could feel it against his chest, her entire body trembling around him.

It was bliss. It was agony.

It took every bit of his willpower not to grab her hips. Not to rock her against him. He could wait. He would wait. As long as she needed.

Because she had survived. She was here. With him. And this moment belonged to her.

Loren stroked his hands up and down her sides. Over her back—tracing each thick ridge of scar tissue. Her shoulders shook under his hands, her breath catching on a wet sob against his skin.

She was crying.

“Ael’sura—” Loren leaned back, one hand rising to cup her face. Her silver eyes almost glowed, the tears running down her cheeks a knife through his heart. “Do you want to stop?”

What did I do to hurt you?

But she shook her head immediately, leaning into his touch.

“I thought—” her voice broke, thick with tears. “I thought you hated them. That you couldn’t stand to look at me. Touch me⁠—”

Her scars. She thought he hated her scars.

“I don’t hate them,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I hate what was done to you.”