His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

In. Out. A long, devastating swipe upward. Then down. Then deep again. Livia’s thighs trembled on either side of his head. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer.

She had no language left. No thoughts. Only heat, and his mouth, and the unbearable, consuming pleasure of being completely undone.

The heat spread everywhere at once. It started where his mouth was and radiated outward — up her stomach, across her chest, down to the soles of her feet. Her skin felt too tight. Her dress felt like an offense. The fabric against her heated skin was suddenly unbearable, an interruption, an obstacle between her and everything she needed.

She needed more. The way lungs need air. With a frustrated, graceless yank, Livia pulled the dress over her head and threw it somewhere into the dark.

And just like that — shame left with it. She lay bare, chest heaving, completely exposed, and felt nothing close to embarrassment. Only heat. Only want.

She looked down. Henry, between her thighs. Dark head bent. Broad shoulders pressing her legs apart. Completely absorbed in her — in her — like she was the only thing in the world worth his full attention.

It was breathtaking.

"More—" She pushed his head down without thinking, fingers twisting in his hair, hips rolling shamelessly against his mouth. Some distant, mortified part of her brain filed a note — you will think about this moment and never recover — but that part was very far away right now and getting further by the second.

Right now there was only this. Only him. Only the bliss he was pulling from her body like he’d known exactly where it lived all along.

Her legs lifted off the bed. Her toes curled, coiling tight as the pressure built and built, starting deep and broke wide open, spilling through every nerve ending she owned.

"Henry—" She came apart completely. Shaking, gasping, one hand gripping the sheets and the other still buried in his hair as wave after wave moved through her.

By the time it ebbed, she was panting. Chest heaving. Entirely undone. Henry lifted his head.

He looked up at her — lips wet, eyes dark, satisfaction written across every line of his face. "My turn," he said, got off the bed and undid his pants. The fabric fell away and Livia — still flushed, still trembling faintly from what his mouth had just done to her — pushed herself up onto her elbows.

Her breath caught. He was — God. He was something. All hard muscle and warm skin, broad shoulders tapering down, and his cock — fully erect, unashamed, built in a way that made her simultaneously grateful for what had just happened and quietly terrified of what was coming next.

She didn’t look away. She wasn’t sure she could. Her mind, still hazy and pleasure-soft, began doing unhelpful calculations about what exactly he intended to do with all of that and whether her body was adequately prepared for the answer.

Henry’s patience had reached its absolute limit. He came back onto the bed, settling over her, hands finding her thighs and spreading them wider, making space for himself.

Livia bit her lip. He looked down at her, jaw tight, every muscle coiled with the effort of holding back just a moment longer.

He pushed inside her. Livia gasped — her nails finding his back and digging in as he pressed through the last of her resistance. The brief, bright sting of it made her breath stutter, her whole body tensing around him as the final thread of her innocence gave way.

Henry stilled. Just for a moment. Jaw clenched, forehead nearly touching hers, every muscle in his body screaming at him to move.

He gave her a moment anyway. She exhaled. Her grip on his back loosened, and she tilted her hips, the smallest, most involuntary invitation.

That was all he needed. He’d told himself slow. She deserved that much and he’d fully intended to deliver it.

Then he felt her. Warm and tight and perfect — impossibly, unfairly perfect — and every reasonable intention he’d arrived with quietly packed its things and left without saying goodbye.

His hips began to move. Livia’s nails returned to his back with conviction. She was determined — he could feel it — braced against him, refusing to surrender completely even as pleasure rewrote her expression entirely. He wasn’t slowing down. He couldn’t. Henry groaned.

His hands found her thighs, gripping them steady, holding her open and in place as he drove into her — fast, deep, pushing as far as her body would take him and then a little further still.

Livia held on. Her arms wrapped around him, lips finding his neck, his shoulder, his jaw — whatever skin she could reach, she kissed it. Tasted it. Marked it. It was the only thing her hands knew how to do while the rest of her was completely overwhelmed.

Jane had told her to speak. Say things. Use her voice as a weapon. Laughable. Her brain had vacated the premises entirely. There were no words left. Only sounds she had no control over. Moans that escaped before she could catch them. His name, broken apart, leaving her lips between every thrust.

He felt devastating inside her. Then she spasmed — her body clenching around him, fierce and involuntary — and the orgasm tore through her.

Henry groaned again. She was destroying him. The way her hands moved across his skin, her lips finding his neck, his shoulder, the curve of his jaw — touching him. Her cries of ecstasy were coming faster now, and every single one of them unravelled him further.

He went harder. Faster. Chasing the thing building at the base of his spine with single-minded, desperate purpose.

Then he remembered, who she was, who he was and where they both were coming from.

With a curse bitten back behind his teeth, Henry wrenched himself from her warmth — the cruelest thing he’d done all evening — and wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking himself through the last of it, jaw tight, every muscle locked.

(Forgot to post this Chapter earlier)