Page 285 of Black Reign

His are dark, half-lidded, watching every flicker of sensation cross my face while he moves to the other breast and gives it the same slow, devastating attention.

Lips.

Tongue.

The light scrape of teeth that never quite becomes pain.

“Tu es parfaite comme ça,” he murmurs, the words pressed directly to my nipple before he sucks again, deeper.

“Soft… warm… mine for tonight.”

The robe falls completely open.

His hand slides down the center of my body, palm flat, unhurried, until his fingers find the place where I am already aching for him.

He strokes once, light, almost testing, and my hips lift helplessly into the touch.

“Ah… mon Dieu.”

The French is rough now, spoken against the curve of my breast while his fingers continue their slow, deliberate circles.

“So wet for me already.

Tu me rends fou.”

He doesn’t push inside.

He simply strokes—patient, relentless, learning exactly how much pressure makes my breath shatter—while his mouth never leaves my skin.

He kisses the underside of my breast, the valley between them, the sensitive place just above my navel, whispering filthy, beautiful things the entire time.

“Je veux te sentir venir.”

(Come for me, princesse.)

Just like this.

“Only my hand… only my mouth…”

The dual sensation—his tongue still teasing one tight nipple, his fingers working that perfect, unhurried rhythm between my legs—builds until I am trembling, half-dreaming and wide awake at the same time.

Every nerve feels too close to the surface.

Every whispered French word against my damp skin only makes it worse.

“Xavier—”

“Shh.

“Je sais.”

(I have you.)

He strokes me through it when the pleasure finally breaks, slow and deep, murmuring soft, filthy praise against my breast the entire time I shake apart for him.

“C’est ça… juste comme ça.”

(So beautiful when you fall.)