Page 95 of Scarred Crown

“You know,” he says, sliding my shirt over my head and then tossing my loose bra with it. “I never got to taste my wedding cake.”

“That you remember.” I correct.

He suppresses a smile and traces a finger around my breast. “Oh, I think I’d remember this cake even if I don’t remember the wedding.” He lowers his head and flicks his tongue against my nipple and then swirls it around, drawing it into his mouth.

Desire zips down my center to my core. I dig my fingers into his hair, and I arch my back with the need to get closer. Will we ever be close enough?

“Beautiful and delicious,” he murmurs.

His body slides over mine, and he leaves a trail of hot kisses up to my lips. When we’re back face to face, he cups my chin and angles his mouth over my lips. His tongue brushes against mine, bringing with it the taste of peppermint. That’s all it takes for the haze of sensations to sweep me away. I’m lost. There’s nothing quite like having Nick, my Nick, setting my body on fire.

How did I go this long without this burning passion? I caught a glimpse of it the night he kissed me on top of the barn and again in Tanzania, but I never realized he could barely touch me and make me weak in the knees. Nothing in my life has prepared me for how good this could be between us.

Nick presses his mouth against my exposed skin on the way to the zipper on my jeans, and he peels them down my body. He slides his hands up my leg and then he kisses my inner thighs.

I grip the sheets to stop myself from wiggling closer, urging him on.

“My wife,” he murmurs against my thigh. He slips his index fingers into the edges of my panties and drags them down my thighs.

Warmth floods my core at the possessive taint to his voice, at the way his lips are worshiping my body as though he can’t get enough of me. When he drags one finger along my entrance, I raise my hips, wordlessly begging for more.

“You’re so wet,” he rasps. “You’re so wet for me.”

“I want you, Nick.” I run one hand along his shoulder. In so many ways, I want him.

He gazes at me greedily with hooded eyes. “I need a taste.” He parts my legs to lick up my center.

I squirm with wanton desire. Will I ever be satisfied, or will I always crave more with him?

He groans, and he glances up at me. “I knew one taste would never be enough.” He closes his mouth over me, and his tongue flicks along my core, circling my clit with exquisite pressure.

Just like when we were young, Nick seems able to read every movement, sigh, and caress of my hand as though I’ve spoken aloud. Other men have needed directions, a manual, but he knows my body, understands me. We’ve already got a rhythm like we’ve been doing this for years.

God, we could have been doing this for years.

His hands are under my ass, tilting me forward to give him better access. Tension coils in my belly, but I don’t want to come like this. I want to come with him inside me, as close as we can possibly get to each other. I want to look into his eyes when he achieves his own release and to know I’m the one who gave it to him.

“Nick,” I murmur. “Nick, please.”

“Tell me what you want, Jules.” His words vibrate against my core, and I shudder with pleasure.

“I want you inside me,” I say, dragging him up my body.

He moves back from the bed. His jeans and briefs hit the floor, and he opens the drawer of his nightstand, extracting a foil packet. I rise onto my knees and take it from his hand. Before I open it, I stroke the silky length of him, and he closes his eyes. His face is tight with pleasure, and then he swoops down to kiss me, deep and long. His hands are under my thighs, and he lifts me off the bed, so I’m clinging on to him.

I laugh with the packet still clutched in my hand. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you get your favorite position.” His lips quirk up. “Not all of Vegas is a blur.” He gives me a quick kiss as he climbs onto the bed, hauling me with him until we’re near the headboard.

I trail a line of kisses along his jaw. “Not all of Vegas is a blur?”

“I remember up until I asked you to marry me.” His voice roughens when my hand finds him again, stroking up and down in a leisurely rhythm.

“You asked me?” Most of me thought it was likely him in a bid to get out of his father’s arranged marriage threat. But given the familiar ease that sprung up between us, I wasn’t sure if I might have suggested it jokingly, and we went a little too far.

A short burst of laughter escapes him. “That was in question?”

“I remember playing cards in the hotel room and drinking tequila. I don’t remember a proposal whether it was serious or silly.” My last memory is a blurry mess of cards spilled across the couch and onto the floor.