CHAPTER 103: TO CLAIM HER

Lorraine did not expect him to kiss her. Not like this... sudden, fierce, his mouth warm and insistent, filled with want and... something she dared not name.

The mask he wore slipped, just as his pride had.

The kiss deepened when his arms closed around her, lifting her as though he couldn’t bear for there to be any space between them. Her arms curled instinctively around his shoulders, and she clung to him as he carried her, his lips never leaving hers, as if the moment would shatter if he let go.

And truth be told, she didn’t want him to.

Sylvia’s eyes widened at the sight—the princess tangled against the prince, their kiss leaving no doubt where it would lead. "Emma!" she hissed, frantic. "It’s time to leave."

"Just one corner left—" Emma, who didn’t see past the divider, began, but Sylvia’s voice cracked with urgency: "Out. Now!" She was about to step to the bed area.

Then she caught sight of the prince pressing his wife against the wall, Lorraine’s legs wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back to his mouth. One step closer, and Sylvia was certain he would kill her for intruding. She knew the prince sharpened his ceremonial sword.

Muttering a curse, she left Emma to fate and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Lorraine exhaled shakily as his lips trailed to her throat, each kiss a plea she felt down to her bones. Her fingers fisted in his braids, the embroidery of his ceremonial robe pricking her palms. She tugged at the heavy garment, desperate to strip away anything that kept her from him.

Understanding, he gathered her to the bed. His hands, usually so careful, were almost desperate as he laid her down. He paused undressing only when he noticed Emma still frozen in the corner like a startled deer.

"Run," he ordered, his voice rough and unrecognizable.

With a startled yelp, she fled.

And then there was nothing but the two of them. He saw her, breathless, trembling, caught in the gravity of passion. He pulled free of his robe and shirt, slowly as he observed her.

This woman... this woman he loved... wanting him as much as he wanted her... Passionately...

When they married, they told her she was seventeen, but he knew she was younger. And she was so frail and small she didn’t even reach his shoulder. She was small, petite, and malnourished; he was afraid he’d break her if he let out his passion on her. And so, he held back.

She tried. She was ready for him. After all, she was the one who asked him to "touch her tits in exchange" when she was younger. He had avoided her because he didn’t trust himself to be gentle. Then he had to go to war.

Now, holding her, Leroy pressed on her, his skin fever-warm beneath her hands. His mouth found hers again, deeper this time, his kiss tasting of surrender and need, as his hand found her soft mounds to tease.

Her fingers fumbled at his belt, pulling him closer, closer still, until she felt the solid weight of him against her. He groaned into her mouth, his hand sliding along her thigh, drawing her into him with a reverence that warred with urgency.

He held her cheeks and looked into her blue eyes. Five years back, when he returned briefly, he almost crossed the line but stopped himself because he knew he would have to leave soon. He didn’t want her to handle pregnancy and everything else alone.

But now... no, he didn’t want to die. He couldn’t die. He had to survive for her. This wouldn’t be the last time. But if it was, and if she was pregnant, then the whole manor would know that it was his.

Lorraine watched him, drinking him in as if memorizing the shape of him — the slope of his shoulder, the plane of his chest, the quick hitch of breath he tried to hide.

This was better... looking into his green eyes, seeing the bulge of his muscles and the face he made as he tuned her to his will.... This was a thousand times better than the times they did it in the dark.

His breath trembled as he hovered above her, green eyes darkened with all the years he had denied himself. "Lorraine..." Her name left his mouth like a vow, ragged, reverent.

She reached for him, drawing him down until their foreheads touched, until she could feel the tremor running through him.

He knows it’s me... Lorraine’s heart jumped in glee. He was with her. Her. Not the Divina, not with Lazira. With her.

Her lips found his again, urgent, coaxing, pleading, banishing the hesitation he still clung to. His hand swept along her waist, fingers pressing into her, grounding himself in her warmth. She arched against him, a soft gasp escaping, urging him closer, urging him not to stop.

Fabric slipped aside under his hands, and when he bared her, his gaze lingered, devouring, awed, almost disbelieving that she was his. His mouth descended, trailing over her throat, her collarbone, lower still, until he found her breast. His lips closed around her, and she shuddered, clutching at his hair, her breath coming in broken gasps.

He worshipped her with his mouth, with the slow reverence of a man who had waited too long, his tongue teasing until she writhed beneath him.

When he moved lower, his lips charting a path down her belly, her thighs trembled around him. His mouth claimed her with aching devotion, tasting her, unraveling her with every flick of his tongue until she could only moan. She clutched at his shoulders, at his hair, half pulling him closer, half pushing him away from the unbearable pleasure.

But he didn’t stop, not until she arched against him, her body quaking as release tore through her.

Breathless, she dragged him up to her and kissed him fiercely, tasting herself on his lips, aching for more, for all of him, forgetting all the laws drawn for women of her stature. Her fingers fumbled at his belt, tugging it loose until he was freed, the weight of him pressing against her thigh—hot, solid, throbbing with need.

Sunlight spilled across the room, and for the first time her gaze fell on him fully. This was her husband. Entirely vulnerable. All hers. Her breath caught.

"Touch me," he whispered. Emerald eyes glistened in the morning light, lit with a fire she had never seen in him before. There was something new in it—an edge of possession, a hunger that claimed her even before his hands did.

She swallowed hard, her pulse stammering, unsure if she could bear the heat of that look.

"Touch me," he said again, his voice rougher, urgent.