Amelia
I wonder if I’ve ever felt anything better than Owen’s fingers brushing up and down my arm like his skin was made of feathers.
Taking my focus off my back that still throbs under the numbing effect of the salve Prince Owen applied is gift enough, but to do it so tenderly nearly takes my breath away.
I didn’t realize how long my breath has felt strained. Since the time I almost kissed him until he walked away, through the evacuation and the ambush, then getting left behind by the rest of the werewolves, then the panic of Prince Owen’s injury and fearing for his life, then the intense pleasure of his tongue between my legs, then the crashing embarrassment when he regretted what happened to the agony of thirty lashes and not showing an inch of pain outwardly.
But now, lying in my
