The heels clattered softly as she kicked them off, one after the other, her posture never slumping—if anything, standing barefoot made her seem taller, more grounded. He watched, his hands resting on his knees, as she stepped closer, her gaze sweeping over him like she was appraising a seat fit for royalty.
Lowering herself onto his lap wasn’t a gentle settle. It was a deliberate placement—her thighs spreading to bracket his hips, her back straight, her hands resting on his shoulders with the weight of someone accustomed to being obeyed. This wasn’t intimacy. This was sovereignty.
“You’ll do,” she murmured, as if he were a piece of furniture that met her standards, and he laughed, surprised, but the sound died when she shifted, her hips pressing into his with a slow, deliberate roll. A throne isn’t just a seat. It’s a declaration—this is mine, I belong here, and you will answer to me.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, not to take control, but to steady her, and she smiled, a flicker of approval. “Better,” she said. Some thrones aren’t made of gold. Some are made of a man’s willingness to kneel—even when he’s the one sitting.