Anne’s hand snaked up, gripping him by the nape of his neck, drawing his lips close to heres. “Break me, Henry. Ruin me. Take me to the edge of pleasure and drown me in it. I’m not afraid.” 

“I am not going to break you. I am going to make you whole. I am going to bond with you.”

“How?”

“I have to bite you …” he said with a nip to her earlobe. 

“Where?” Anne crooned, her hand trailing over the roundness of her breast. “Here?”

“No.”

Her hand slid down over her stomach, right to her drenched centre. “Here?”

“No.”

The table cut into Anne’s stomach as Henry whirled her around. Pressing his hand firmly between her shoulder blades, forcing her over the table, he peppered kisses along that taunt muscle up her spine, right to her nape. 

“Here. This is where I will mark you as mine. So all can see that you are my heart’s match. Would you like that, Fate?”

Anne nodded, lost for words in her need for him. 

Henry’s free hand slid up the backs of her thigh, gripping onto her lacy undergarments—if one could call it that. It was barely a strip of lace, just covering her round rear.

“What in Oryah’s name are you wearing?” he groaned, sliding a hand over the curve of her body.