Page 25 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

I should be in my office reviewing contracts, not standing in my private gallery at midnight thinking about my wife’s mouth.

But here I am.

The charity gala ended hours ago, but I can’t settle into normal routines.

My collection room calls to me—the one place in this sprawling estate where I can think clearly.

Floor-to-ceiling cases display artifacts I’ve acquired over decades—ancient Roman coins, medieval manuscripts, Renaissance sculptures that most museums would kill for.

Tonight the space feels different. Moonlight streams through the arched windows, casting shadows across marble pedestals and gilt frames. My grandfather’s Caravaggio dominates the far wall, the saint’s tortured expression seeming more relevant than usual.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Her voice carries across the silence, and I turn to see Kasimira standing in the doorway. She’s changed out of the burgundy gown into jeans and a cashmere sweater, but she’s no less beautiful.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask.

“Could you?”

The honest answer is no. Ever since Miami, sleep has been elusive. Every time I close my eyes, I see her arching beneath me and crying out my name. My bed feels too empty, and my control feels too thin.

“What are you doing here, Kasimira?”

“Looking for my husband.” She steps into the gallery, her footsteps echoing off the marble floor. “He’s avoiding me.”

“I am not.”

“Bullshit.”

The profanity sounds strange coming from her lips, but it makes my mouth curve up despite myself. “Watch your language in front of the Botticelli.”

“The Botticelli has heard worse.” She moves closer, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “Why are you running from me?”

“I don’t run.”

“Then what do you call what happened earlier? I proposition you, and you disappear into your office like I have the plague.”

Because touching you again would be a mistake. Because every time I have you, it gets harder to remember why this arrangement exists. Because I’m supposed to be protecting you, not corrupting you further.

“Miami was…” I search for the right words. “A lapse in judgment.”

“A lapse in judgment.” She repeats the phrase as if it tastes bitter. “Is that what you call the best sex of my life?”

The admission hits me in the chest. “Kasimira?—”

“Was it bad for you? Did I do something wrong?”

“Christ, no.” The words come out rougher than intend. “It was perfect. You were perfect.”

“Then why?—”

“Because perfect doesn’t last in my world. Because women who get too close to me end up dead or broken or both.” I drag a hand through my hair. “Because you deserve better than a man who kills people for a living.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face. When she speaks, her voice is steady.

“Don’t I get to decide what I deserve?”

“Not when it comes to this.”

“This?”

I gesture between us, at the electricity crackling in the space that separates us. “Whatever this is becoming.”

“What if I want it to become something?”

“Then you’re being naive.”

The words are meant to push her away, but they only make her step closer.

“You know what I think?” she says, tilting her face up to look at me. “I think you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared of anything.”

“You’re scared of me. Of how I make you feel.”

She’s right, and we both know it. This slip of a girl who survived two years with my monster of a son has me completely undone. She makes me want things I gave up on decades ago—peace, companionship, a future that doesn’t end in blood.

“You should go back to your bedroom,” I tell her.

“Should I?”

Instead of leaving, she moves close enough to touch if I wanted to.

And God help me, I want to.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I warn.

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to fuck you against a priceless work of art.”

The crude language makes her pupils dilate. “Maybe I do.”

My control snaps.

I back her against the wall beside a Caravaggio worth five hundred thousand dollars, my hands framing her face as I capture her mouth with mine. She responds immediately, her arms coming up to circle my neck as she melts into me.

“This is insane,” I mutter against her lips.

I lift her up, pinning her against the cool marble wall beside the Caravaggio, her legs wrapping around my waist with a fierceness that sets my nerves on fire.

The moonlight pours through the skylight, bathing her in a glow that makes her look like some forbidden goddess—her eyes burning, her lips parted, daring me to break every rule I’ve ever set for myself.

Her jeans are rough under my hands, her cashmere sweater soft as I grip her hips, pressing myself against her, the layers of fabric between us a cruel tease. Her sharp inhale, the way it catches in her throat, makes my blood pound so loud I can barely think.

“Fuck, Kasi,” I growl, my voice raw, scraped from somewhere deep. “You drive me insane, you know that?”

Her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt, hard enough to sting, and she arches into me, her breath hot against my jaw.

“Good,” she whispers, her voice low, taunting, laced with a hunger that mirrors mine. “Show me how much, Alaric.”

I kiss her like I’m drowning, all tongue and teeth, swallowing the soft moan she lets out as she kisses me back, just as fierce. Her hands claw at my shirt, fumbling with the top buttons, but I grab her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, the cold marble biting into my knuckles.

Her sweater’s ridden up, exposing a strip of skin above her jeans, and I lean down, my lips brushing that warm, soft patch, tasting her, feeling her shiver.

“You think you can just waltz in here,” I murmur against her stomach, my free hand popping the button of her jeans, “call me out, and I’ll stay in control?

” I tug the zipper down, just enough to slide my fingers inside, finding her panties.

She’s already drenched, and the feel of her pulls a low, hungry sound from my chest. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me. ”

“Yes,” she gasps, her voice breaking as I tease her through the lace. Slow, deliberate circles that make her hips buck against my hand.

Her eyes flutter, but she keeps them on me, just like I told her to, and the sight of her—pinned, trembling, completely mine—makes my cock throb painfully against my pants.

“Say it,” I demand, my lips grazing her ear, my fingers slipping under the lace to touch her properly, feeling her pulse around me. “Who do you belong to, Kasi?”

“You,” she moans, her head tipping back against the wall, her wrists straining against my grip. “I’m yours, Alaric. Only yours.”

I release her wrists, and her hands are on me instantly, tangling in my hair, pulling me into a kiss that’s all fire and desperation.

I deepen it, my tongue claiming her mouth as my fingers work her, finding that spot that makes her gasp into me, her moans soft but urgent, echoing in the silent gallery. The faint hum of the city outside, the creak of the marble under our weight—it all fades, drowned out by the sound of her.

“Quiet, sweetheart,” I growl against her lips, my voice thick with want. “Unless you want someone to hear you falling apart for me.” I press harder, my thumb circling her clit, and she bites her lip, trying to stifle a whimper, but it slips out anyway, raw and needy.

“Alaric,” she pants, her thighs trembling, her nails digging into my neck. “Please, I need?—”

“Tell me,” I cut her off, nipping at her jaw, my free hand gripping her thigh to keep her steady against the wall. “Tell me exactly what you need, or I’ll make you wait.”

“You,” she says, her voice raw, breaking on the word. “I need you inside me. Now.”

I groan, the sound torn from deep in my chest, and I pull my hand from her jeans, ignoring her soft whine of protest.

“We shouldn’t,” I mutter, my voice rough as I unbuckle my belt. “Not here.” But I’m not stopping either. I shove my pants and boxers down just enough, freeing myself, and her eyes darken, her breath hitching as she takes me in, her gaze hungry.

I hike her higher against the wall, her legs tightening around me, and I push her jeans down just past her hips, enough to give me access.

Her panties get shoved aside, and when I press against her entrance, hot and slick, she moans my name, the sound reverberating in the empty gallery like a sin.

I enter her in one slow, deep thrust, and the way she stretches around me, tight and perfect, makes my vision blur.

“Fuck,” I hiss, pausing to let her adjust, my forehead pressed against hers, our breaths mingling. Her eyes are locked on mine, wide and vulnerable, and for a second, it’s just us—two people caught in a moment that could ruin us both.

Then I move, slow at first, each thrust deep and deliberate, savoring the way she clings to me, her legs trembling, her hands clutching my shoulders like I’m all that’s holding her together.

“Harder,” she whispers, her voice a desperate plea, and I can’t hold back. I pick up the pace, driving into her with a rhythm that’s raw, possessive, the sound of our bodies muffled by our clothes but loud in my ears—her gasps, my low groans, the faint creak of the wall.

Her nails rake down my back, catching on my shirt, and I grip her ass, angling her just right so I hit that spot that makes her cry out, her voice sharp and unrestrained.

“Shh,” I warn. “Someone will hear.” But I’m grinning, wild and alive, as I cover her mouth with mine, swallowing her moans.

“Let them,” she gasps, defiant even as she trembles, and it’s enough to push me to the edge. I thrust harder, deeper, my hand slipping between us to find her clit again, rubbing tight, relentless circles until she’s shaking, her whole body tensing as she nears the edge.

“Come for me, Kasi,” I growl, my voice rough with need, my lips brushing her ear. “Let me feel you break.”

She does, her body shuddering, her cry muffled against my shoulder as she clenches around me, the intensity of it pulling me under.

My release hits like a tidal wave, white-hot and overwhelming, and I bury my face in her neck, breathing in her scent—sweat, perfume, and that indefinable thing that’s just her—as I spill into her, my body trembling with the force of it.

I ease her down, careful to keep her steady as her feet touch the floor.

Her jeans are still bunched at her thighs, her sweater askew, and she looks so beautifully wrecked that my chest aches.

I adjust her clothes, my hands gentle now, smoothing her sweater, zipping her jeans with care.

She watches me, her eyes soft, searching, like she’s waiting for me to pull away, to shut her out again.

I don’t. I grab a soft throw from a nearby bench—some overpriced art piece meant for show—and wrap it around her shoulders, shielding her from the chill of the room.

I guide her to sit, kneeling in front of her to fix her hair, my fingers lingering on her cheek as I wipe away a smudge of her lipstick.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice quieter now, softer.

She nods, her lips curving into a small, almost shy smile. “More than okay.”