Reign of a King (Kingdom Duet #1) by Rina Kent

“Then come here. Now.” The edge in his authoritative tone leaves no room for negotiation.

Now I know why people fall at his feet — willingly or unwillingly. He’s the type of person you can’t say no to.

Especially in my case when he has a metaphorical gun pointed at my chest.

Or that’s what I tell myself as I throw the napkin on the table and walk to him with angry steps.

I ignore how my legs slightly shake or how, with every movement, friction builds at my core. The idea that he’ll repeat yesterday wraps around my neck like a tight noose, only it’s not strangling me. Or maybe it is, but it’s not the hurtful type.

Far from it.

Goosebumps break on my skin as a sudden thought assaults me out of the blue. Will my arse be so sore that I’ll feel it for the rest of the night? Or when I sit the next day?

My nipples tighten against my bra. I’m so glad it’s padded enough that the evidence of my arousal isn’t visible through my thin white shirt.

Snap out of it, Aurora.

Stopping a small distance away from him, I try to ignore his sensual scent and cross my arms over my chest. “I can’t eat if I’m face down, genius.”

“If you don’t lose the attitude, you’ll get that arse spanked so hard, you’ll be able to feel my touch on your skin for fucking days.”

My spine jerks at the dark promise in his words. Instead of repulsion, a rush of heat invades me from head to toe. My scalp tingles and my feet wobble as if the world is about to drop me off. My hand wraps around my watch on my wrist to root myself in place.

His lips twitch as he tilts his head to the side. “You want that.”

“I do not.”

“Do you crave that sting of pain, wild one? Did your first taste turn you into an addict?”

“I said I don’t.”

“The reddening of your cheeks, the parting of your lips, and the way you keep touching your watch say otherwise. If you don’t want to be so readable, school your reactions. Your tells are a sure way to have your weaknesses exploited.”

Damn him. How come no one’s attempted to kill this man before? It’s been less than a week since I’ve been caught in his orbit and I already have the urge to strangle the life out of him.

“Because of your attitude, I won’t give you what you want.” He taps his lap. “Now, sit down.”

I ignore the pang of disappointment settling at the bottom of my stomach as I lower myself to his lap. Despite the hardness of his thighs, the position isn’t as uncomfortable as I originally thought it would be.

The only thing I can’t get out of my head is the way his woodsy scent envelops me. It’s like smoke, thick and impenetrable. In this position, he’s engulfing me with his massive build. We’re so close that his warm breaths trickle on the sensitive skin of my nape, eliciting a shudder down my spine.

Damn.

I didn’t sign up for this intimacy. Sure, I knew he’d eventually fuck me, but the games and the push and pull are beyond anything I’ve experienced before.

How could he get me into a puddle of foreign emotions by just making me sit on his damn lap?

“Now, eat,” he orders, his ferocious gaze never leaving my face.

There’s something about the way Jonathan speaks that gets to me. All the way to my bones. His voice is that of a ruler, a warlord, or anyone who’s out for destruction.

But at the same time, his authoritative tone causes my thighs to clench. The strength in it creeps under my skin and grips me by the throat.

Not making eye contact, I motion at the plate. When I speak, my voice is still in that foreign breathy range. “I don’t have my utensils.”

“Use mine.”

“But —”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. I do not like it and neither would you.” The rumble of his voice so close to my ear tempts me to close my eyes so that I can get lost in it for a moment.

Instead, I grab the fork, thankful my hand doesn’t shake as I twirl spaghetti around it and take a bite. Although I’m chewing, I barely taste anything.

It’s impossible to.

All my senses are homed in on the warmth radiating off Jonathan’s chest at my back and his thighs underneath my arse. The burn from last night revives, pulsing with the need for…what? More? What the hell is wrong with me?

“Eat,” he enunciates. “And don’t stop.”

I take another forkful, trying to ignore him by focusing on the food.

Jonathan’s fingers latch on the buttons of my blouse and he undoes them until he reveals the skin below my bra. He runs his long fingers across my pale skin with cruel gentleness.

“Lace today,” he muses. “No ugly purple this time?”

“What are you doing?” I hate the neediness and the confusion in my tone.

“Keep eating.”

“I-I’m already eating.”

“You’re not doing it enough.”

“How about you? Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Who said I’m not? I’m having you for dinner.”

The chilling tone sends zaps of a foreign sensation down my back. Before I can focus on that, Jonathan wraps his hand around my throat, his long index finger pressing on the hollow skin. It’s not hard, but it’s firm enough to confiscate my attention.