“Laurel,” he groans between kisses. I only pull him closer, unwilling to break the current of energy thrumming between us. After months of holding back, I finally allow myself to touch him, unrestricted, and I can’t stop now that I’ve opened that flood of need. My hands explore every hard line of his muscles, noticing the way he flexes under my touch. He pulls back from me and gives me one of those classic Thorne grins, dimple exposed, and I can’t keep my lips from kissing that tantalizing spot where his cheek hollows out. His resulting moan is reverent, and his hands take their time as they smooth up and down the curve of my waist.

When his hands finally still, they grip my hips firmly, not hurting but giving me the delicious feel that I’m possessed by him. I hum my satisfaction against his mouth, and he only grips me tighter, fingers digging into my love handles. I need to see more of him, need to explore every inch of his hard body.

Tentatively, I grab the bottom of his tunic and break our kiss to look up at him, a question in my eyes. The burning inferno that is his expression tells me I can do whatever I want, but I wait for him to nod. I slowly inch his shirt up his chest, hungrily taking in his tanned and toned stomach. When I reach his collarbone, he takes his hands off me for the briefest of moments to rip the shirt from his body, but I whimper at the loss of his touch. His resulting smirk tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking and that he likes it. He drinks me in hungrily with his eyes.

“Your turn, witchling. Take off your clothes.” The primal demand in his voice makes my skin prickle and my thighs clench together, but we haven’t spent months delighting in the game of catch and release with one another for me to give in so easily. I give him my best haughty expression, pure mirth in my eyes.

“I don’t take orders from princes. I’m a Queen.” His eyes darken with need.

“You wicked little thing,” he says slowly as his lips spread wide in a grin. “Witchling, please take off your clothes.” I shiver at the way he says witchling, deep in his throat. But I only shrug, like I’m considering his request. He grips my waist again and hauls me to him, devouring my mouth with another breathtaking kiss. When he breaks the kiss and I whimper, he gives me a challenging look that says he thinks he’s won this round, but I’m not giving him the satisfaction. At least not without a little more torture.