Free The Prince of Pleasure by YoBro Page B

bed with her. She dug her hands into his biceps as he settled between her thighs, and he thrust into her.
    Laurel gasped in frenzied joy, lifted her hips and met him, thrust for thrust.
    He filled her, filled her with his size, his heat, his hunger, but it wasn't enough. How could it be enough when she had dreamed of this all week, ached for his possession even as she'd told herself she never wanted to see him again?
    She felt her body stretching,  her heart racing, her soul soaring to take all of him inside her, within her, around her even as he drove her higher, up and up and up until she found herself standing  on a precipice that looked out over the moon, the stars, the universe.
    Khan drew back one last time, then surged forward.
    He groaned her name; she sobbed his.
    Then he spilled himself inside her and she wrapped her arms around him, drew him tight against her, and wept.
     
    ********
     
    Tears?
    Khan felt them, hot on his neck.
     Not a good thing, he thought, his heart dropping, until Laurel sighed, turned her face, and kissed the hollow of his throat.
    His lips curved.
    "Good tears, then," he said softly.
    She nodded. He closed his eyes as her silky curls slid gently over his jaw.
    "Sorry. I don't know why I—"
    In one easy motion, his arms still around her, he rolled onto his side and smiled at her.
    "It's the best compliment you could have given me, sweetheart. Thank you."
    "I've never—I mean, crying like that isn't—I mean—"
    She was blushing. It was a lovely thing to see.
    "An even more welcome compliment," he said solemnly, and when the color in her face didn't ease, he said, "My people  have an old saying. When a woman weeps with happiness in her lover's arms, fortune has surely smiled on him."
    She looked at him, her eyebrows delicately arched.
    "You made that up."
    He grinned. "Maybe."
    She laughed softly, put her palm against his face and stroked the end-of-day stubble on his jaw. "Mmm," she said. "I like the feel of that."
    "In that case, I'll grow a beard."
    She laughed again. Her laugh was lovely, open and honest and generous.
    "Stubble isn't the same as a beard, Lord Khan."
    He caught one of her fingers between his teeth, gave it a playful nip.
    "Exactly what a prince needs," he said with a mock scowl. "A woman who knows the proper way to address him, at all times."
    Laurel stuck out her tongue. Khan bent quickly, met it with the tip of his own tongue. Her eyes turned an ever deeper shade of blue.
    "I love the way you taste," he whispered. "Like fine wine."
    "Is that a good thing?" she whispered back, and threaded her hand into his thick, dark hair.
    He shifted against her. She gasped, arched her hips at the feel of him, hot and hard and instantly swollen.
    "It is a very good thing," he said, kissing her mouth, her throat, her breasts. "An excellent thing."
    "Khan," she said, his name a long, lovely sigh, and he moved over her, entered her, and took her with him, again, on that long, wonderful journey to the stars.
     
     
    ********
     
    She fell asleep in his arms.
    He lay in a bed too short for him, in a room softly lit by a lamp when he could not sleep in anything but absolute darkness, the muscles in his shoulder cramping.
    He raised his arm, just enough so he could see his watch.
    It was three in the morning.
    He had an early meeting tomorrow, with a realtor. Caleb had made the arrangements at the same time he'd given him Laurel's address.
    He added up all the excellent reasons he had to slip from her bed and go home.
    And, of course, there was one more reason, the best one of them all.
    He never stayed the entire night in a woman's bed. 
    It led to complications, the simplest of which was The Morning After. He'd done it a few times when he was in university and then in graduate school, and the memory still made him shudder.
    The only good thing about The Morning After was early morning sex.
    The rest was high on his list of Things to Live Without.
    Conversation, for one. The attempt