Page 24

I am so turned on right now, I’m sure he can see it— feel it —dripping down my thighs.

And somehow, I don’t feel embarrassed.

Not with him.

Not when Balor’s gaze tracks every inch of my body like I’m something sacred, not something to judge or conquer.

His eyes don’t just look— they see.

And in them, I’m not just Marat Volkov’s daughter. I’m not the curvy heiress in magazine spreads, the object in some songwriter’s hook, or the fantasy pinned to a thousand digital dream boards.

I’m Lucy.

Just me.

And right now, in his arms, with his dark, hungry eyes drinking me in like he’s been starved for years, I’ve never felt more beautiful. More powerful. More me.

I’d be lying if I said men haven’t wanted me before.

That they haven’t whispered pretty words and clung to some fantasy version of who they thought I was.

They loved the idea of Lucy Volkov.

They wanted the package, the image, the myth.

But none of them ever asked what I wanted.

None of them ever waited long enough to see me.

Balor doesn’t even flinch.

He waits— steady, silent, devastating. Like he already knows the truth and just needs me to say it.

And I do.

Because I’m tired of pretending. Tired of hiding behind poise and pedigree and perfect lashes.

I go for broke. I own it. Because yeah— Lucy Volkov is human.

Messy. Wanting. Desperate to belong to someone who can handle her realness and won’t be afraid of it.

“I just want you, Balor,” I say again, softer this time.

No pretense. No armor.

Just me.

And God help me, I think he might be the only one who’s ever truly deserved it.

“You got me, Angel. Now, come here. Gimme what’s mine.”

Then he moves, dragging me to him.

My lips part and my head lolls back as he spreads my thighs and kisses my aching pussy.

“So fucking sweet,” he growls, grabbing on to one of my thighs.

Balor squeezes and lifts my leg, draping it over his shoulder.

Dear Lord, please don’t let him stop.

“Been dying to get my mouth on you ever since you walked down the aisle in that fucking dress. That white fucking dress,” he growls, licking into me like a wild thing.

“Oh, God!”

“Not God,” he snarls, and bites the inside of my thigh. I squeak.

“It’s Balor or Husband. That’s what you yell when I’m eating you, Wife.”

“Oh my Go—Husband! Husband! Please,” I whimper.

“Good girl,” he grunts and rewards me with a sloppy wet kiss on my pussy.

I preen at the praise. I want to be his good girl. So damn bad.

Balor’s bi-colored gaze locks onto mine. Never leaving as he licks a path from my asshole to my clit.

And. My. Knees. Buckle.

Good thing I have a big, strong, sexy-as-fuck husband to hold me up— because I’m coming apart at the seams.

Sex has never felt like this.

I have never felt like this.

I’m not the kind of woman who melts this easily, who comes undone from just a touch, a look, a lick of attention—but Balor?

He makes everything feel raw and urgent and right .

I’ve never been this easily turned on.

Never so wanton.

Never so needy .

But he worships me like he owns me, like the space between my thighs holds every answer he’s ever needed.

I swear, the way he shoves his face into my sex—licking, nibbling, devouring with reverence and hunger—it has me spiraling.

I’m seconds from detonating into the stratosphere, and all I can think is this is what it feels like to be wanted. To be chosen. To be his.

I’m grabbing onto his short hair, crying out when he wrenches my other leg off the floor so he is the only thing holding me up.

All it takes is his lips closing over my clit, just one more pull from his hot, wet, mouth—and I am done.

“HUSBAND!”