The Alpha King Marked Me. I Still Haven't Told Him I'm A Girl-Chapter 153: Extra - s (Valka & Lucien) IV

His breath ghosts across my lips, warm and feverish. The scent of him, the delicate mix of man and perfume, something wild and dark and enticingly ancient wraps around my senses until I can barely think. The pulse at his throat is too fast, too loud.

"If you’d even bothered trying," he murmurs, voice dripping with pained sarcasm, "you’d have noticed the lack of guards. The unlocked doors." His nose grazes my ear as he speaks, as though he can’t decide whether to sniff me or shove me away. "You could have walked out of this palace any night you wished."

His breath is hot against my neck. "But you won’t leave, will you?"

Heat coils under my skin.

"You’ll stay," he growls. "You’ll linger. You’ll provoke me. You’ll run only so I will chase." His fingers flex against the desk. "You enjoy this. You enjoy me losing control. You enjoy peeling at my sanity like I’m one of your little puzzles."

My pulse stumbles. My breath hitches. My nipples tightens against his chest at the sound of his rage. Oh gods, I’m sick, aren’t I?

"What do you want, Lyra?" His eyes narrow to slits of violet flame. "Tell me. A tumble? A night in my bed? Is that it?" He tilts my chin up with a knuckle, forcing me to meet the violent storm in his stare. "If I give you that, will you leave and never come back?"

He tilts his head, bringing our mouths half an inch apart, and he holds perfectly still, waiting for my response. My eyes flutter, my stomach cramping so tight, I feel sick with need. Still, I jerk back, suddenly confused with myself, my emotions. Mine? Hers? Do I want him to touch me? Yes, I do. But like this? No. I want him... to like me. I want him to want me. Only me. I can never tell if he is attracted to me because of her, or because he genuinely is drawn to the bitch I am. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

I jerk back. "Get over yourself. You’re nothing special, Lucien. I have no interest in fucking you."

"Oh, of course. You wouldn’t be doing the fucking. I would."

I blanch, and his chuckle skitters off my bones as he pulls away from me and I walk away swiftly. Even after I have shut the door of my bedroom behind me, I still feel the words under my skin, between my legs, under my dress like phantom hands.

I trudge over to the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my pupils large and my breast swelled. Caught in a trance of eviscerating heat, I reach up slowly and circle my neck with my fingers, precisely where he’d strangled me the other day.

My lips part on an exhale that sounds so close to a moan.

My hands drift lower to the swell of my breasts, the curve of my neckline and the small rope keeping my breasts firm. My heart races rapidly as I tug and they spill free.

Fingers trembling, I cup them. My chest rises and falls in an unsteady rhythm as I try to break out of it. But I cannot. I am held by something I cannot fight, something that screams at me that I should have said yes. That a one-time tumble with the King would be worth giving my dignity away for.

I catch the aching buds between my fingers and twist, pinch, flick. My legs tremble and I find my knees pathetically weak.

I stumble for the bed and bite my bottom lip furiously, disgusted with myself. I lay down against the pillows and close my eyes. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Perhaps, being over fifty years old and still a virgin because every time a man touched me, I couldn’t get the image out of my head and would always end up making the comparison, was finally getting to me.

Every time I am kissed, I think of Lucien. Every time a male looks at me, I compare the lust in their gaze to the ravaging hunger I’d seen in Lucien’s eyes that night at the Red District when I’d grinded against him. And there was nothing hotter, nothing better. One kiss and he ruined me for every other man.

My fingers drift to the hem of my dress and my back arches against the wind as it kisses my bare thighs. I hike the fabric until it bunches up against my hips. My legs part and I reach for the pillow, the one that smells faintly of him. And gods help me, I bring it between my thighs and clamp them together tightly.

Heat kisses my skin and a moan climbs up my throat as I roll my hips against it, letting my imagination run freakishly wide.

We’re back in the Red District, the music a throbbing pulse in my blood. My nails dig into Lucien’s shoulder, my hips grind against his thigh, core melting as the hard length of him swell, tenting up his pants and pushing against my thighs.

But he doesn’t hold me against him like he did that night. He spins me around, presses me against the table, and his hand clamps over my mouth to silence my moans. In my fantasies, I’m wearing a gown and not those obstructive leather pants. His other hand pushes my skirts up and there is no hesitation.

My clit brushes against the pillow and sweat breaks against my skin. I can almost feel the rough fabric of his clothes against my bare skin as he pushes into me. Would it be as painful as they say it is? Or would it make me wild with hunger? My inner walls clench at the thought of either.

We’re in his chambers at the castle. His face is between my legs and his tongue pushes into my center as his fingers pump in and out of me.

My thighs shake. I toss the pillow aside and exhale as I reach for the bundle of nerves between them. And I stroke. The hushed cry is something carnal, echoing along the walls, and I let my lips close around the word, "Lucien," in the same breath my fingers push into my slick core.

He’s seated on that foreboding throne, his chin tucked neatly on a fist as he peers down at me where I kneel with that cold indifference. "Part your legs wider. Let me see you."

My hips begin an erratic uncontrollable movement. My other hand works my breast, tweaking and flicking, and I tilt my head into the pillow as I reach that delicious, tipping point. "Lucien."

I collapse back into the pillows, shaking, breathless and undone.

And then, my ears perk at the sound of footsteps outside. Soft and retracting.

My eyes fly open.

I scramble off the bed, nearly tripping over my own legs as I wrench the door open.

The hallway is empty.

But the air is warmer. Stirred. And the scent, gods, his scent clings to the doorframe like a handprint left on my throat.

Shame scorches through me so violently I have to brace my hand on the wall, my breath catching in a horrified, trembling gasp.

He was here.

Listening.

Hearing the way I moaned and cried out his name.

Hearing what he does to me without even touching me.