Page 47 of King of Praise

“Don’t you dare stop.” Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me closer. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for weeks.”

The confession sends the last of my restraint crumbling. I capture her mouth in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger, letting her feel the full force of my desire.

She meets me passion for passion, her legs wrapping around my waist to pull me closer.

“Micah,” she gasps between kisses.

I’ve never heard my name sound like that—like a prayer and a demand wrapped in one.

Like permission to let go of the guilt plaguing me since the first time I noticed her beauty, strength, resilience.

Like absolution for wanting what should be forbidden.

Chapter 13

Surrender and Strength

Naomi

Extracting myself from Micah’s intense hold was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I needed a moment to catch my breath. I stare at myself in the mirror of the small bathroom, and I can’t help but smile. I’ve wanted this with him since long before Lucas’s death, and tonight it’s happening.

After taking one last deep breath, I open the door and step out into the main room. His eyes immediately find mine and a wave of nervousness washes over me.

The one-room cabin’s shadows soften its rustic edges while lamplight creates pools of golden warmth that make the small space feel intimate rather than confined. I move through this familiar environment with heightened awareness, every sensation magnified by anticipation.

The wooden floor beneath my bare feet feels solid and real. The whisper of my cotton dress against my skin sends little shivers down my spine. Most of all, I’m acutely aware of Micah’s heated gaze following my movements as I light candles on the small table.

The attempt at romance might seem absurd given our circumstances. Yet somehow it feels necessary, significant.

This isn’t just about physical attraction or release. It’s about reclaiming something Lucas tainted with his cruelty and control. About transforming an act that once meant pain into something consensual, something healing.

My hands tremble as I strike another match.

We’ve circled this moment like cautious dancers, neither rushing nor retreating, both understanding the weight of the step we’re about to take.

Warm hands settle gently on my shoulders, startling me despite having heard his approach. I lean back instinctively into Micah’s solid presence. The contrast between his strength and his careful touch creates a paradox that defines him—power restrained by consideration, dominance tempered by respect.

His beard tickles my neck as he places a kiss just below my ear, sending electricity through my body.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his deep voice rumbling through me where my back presses against his chest.

“Good trembling,” I assure him, tilting my head to give him better access to my neck. His gentle exploration bears no resemblance to Lucas’s demanding pawing or his entitled groping. Micah touches me as though I’m precious, his reverence evident in every careful caress.

My breath catches as his hands slide down my arms, fingers intertwining with mine. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he reminds me, though I feel the evidence of his desire pressed against my lower back.

I turn in his arms, needing to see his face. In the firelight, his dark eyes glow with an intensity that should frighten me. Instead, I find myself drawn to that controlled power, wanting to discover what happens when he finally lets go.

“I want this,” I tell him, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “I want you.”

His hands tighten on my waist. “Tell me what you want, lovely. What you like.”

The request—so different from Lucas’s demands—makes heat pool low in my belly. “I … I like when you praise me,” I admit, cheeks flushing. “Tell me I’m good.”

Something dangerous and thrilling flashes in his eyes. “Do you want to be my good girl, Naomi?”

The words send lightning through me. “Yes,” I breathe.

He steps back, leaving me bereft of his warmth as he settles into the leather armchair. His posture radiates authority despite his casual stance, legs spread, one arm draped along the chair’s back.