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“I need you, my king.”

He sheathed himself inside me so fast, I gasped. “Gods.”

He started a punishing rhythm. I loved every thrust and fastened my teeth to his neck.

“My queen,” he growled and put even more force behind his words. The bed shook as he claimed his bride. I reveled in his pure power.

“Come for me.” He sank his fangs into my neck.

He didn’t have to tell me twice. His fangs were a weapon. When he used them against me, I couldn’t defend myself from the rush of pleasure. The pressure grew, and he never slowed his pace. The sensations each tremor sent through me were like sweet torture.

When he took another pull at my vein, a scream of ecstasy ripped from me, filling the room with the sound of our lovemaking. He gave a few more thrusts as I milked him, and he followed me down into the depths of bliss. His seed filled me as he groaned at my throat. His shaft kicked as he spent himself. He slowed and stilled before rolling me over so I was on top of him.

“My queen.” He gave me one more lingering kiss.

I was sated, and more than happy to spend the rest of our wedding night in the confines of our bedchamber. But we had responsibilities.

“The banquet,” I said and pushed myself up on my elbows.

“I thought you’d never ask.” He flipped me on my back and slid down my body before beginning anew.

My cries echoed through the keep for the rest of the night and many, many nights thereafter. I had given myself to Paris, utterly and completely swept up in the passion of the blood prince.