His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

Chapter 46: You Have No Experience

"Yes," Livia answered. "You have helped me quite a number of times already. Some you do not even know about. Let me help you with this before it becomes unbearable."

Henry exhaled slowly. Unbearable was a polite word for what was happening to him. The warmth that had begun as an irritation had now settled. It pulled at his thoughts, dragged at his control, his body demanded attention. "You have no experience," he said, the objection sounded weaker than he intended.

"I’ve been learning," she replied and stepped closer, reaching for the ties of his robe and began to loosen them. The fabric gave easily, falling open and then slipping from his shoulders altogether.

"Livia..." he said again.

The heat in his body, which had been spreading, unsettled and wild, finally narrowed into a single, undeniable focus. It settled in his cock, pulling his breath with it. He felt it responding, rising, throbbing, impossible to ignore.

"Let me please you, Henry," Livia said softly as her fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt and began to undo them.

Henry wanted to reach for her. God, he wanted to. To pull her closer, to strip away every layer between them, to give in to the heat burning through his body and the sharper, more dangerous hunger she stirred in him. Every instinct he had—every reckless, impatient part—urged him to take, to claim, to lose himself in her completely.

But he held himself still. He exhaled sharply and shrugged off his shirt instead, tossing it aside with more force than necessary.

Bare-chested, he stood before her, watching. Livia’s gaze lifted, and for a moment she simply looked.

She was drawing on what she had learned—he could see that—but she was also discovering.

The way her fingers traced along his torso, hesitant at first, then a little bolder. The way her touch lingered. Her inexperience showed, yes—it was impossible to miss—but so did her fascination, her willingness, her presence in the moment.

It was real. And Henry was dying for it. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold onto what little control he had left, but every second she looked at him like that—like he was something worth exploring—made it harder.

Livia’s hands moved lower. She reached for his belt. Her fingers fumbled with it, pulling, hesitating, clearly unsure how the damned thing worked. She tried again, brows drawing together slightly in concentration, and for one absurd moment, Henry almost laughed.

If he had not been so close to losing his mind, he might have found it charming. As it was, it nearly broke him.

Finally, his patience snapped. With a frustrated groan, he reached for her, sweeping her into his arms.

"Enough," he muttered, whether to her or himself, even he didn’t know. He carried her quickly across the room, the firelight flickering behind them.

The bedroom waited just beyond. Once inside, he placed her down on the bed. The fabric of her dress shifting as she landed, pulling up just enough to reveal the smooth line of her thighs.

Henry’s gaze dropped and stopped. All he saw was her. Whatever control he had left thinned dangerously. His eyes darkened, hunger rising, and this time, he could not hold it back. He leaned down, pressing slow kisses along her thighs, his hands firm as they traced the curve of her legs. The contact sent an unfamiliar heat through Livia, one that made her breath hitch.

She would not let this become one-sided. Jane’s voice echoed in her mind—always have your hands on him.

So she did. Her fingers reached for his hair, slipping into the strands, holding with enough intent to make her presence known.

A quiet, strained sound left him. A king’s head was not something touched so freely. Not even queens dared take such liberties without care.

But here, in this room, there was no throne. No court. No crown. Just Henry. And the way she touched him—uncertain yet bold, unraveled him faster than anything else had. The tension in his body shifted, sharpened, drawn tighter by her hands in his hair.

God help him. She was doing it right. He moved further up her thighs, his tongue tracing a slow, wet path along her inner skin. He didn’t want to be anywhere else, he didn’t want to be doing anything else.

His fingers found the waistband of her underwear. He hooked the fabric and drew it down in one pull.

Henry had never been a particularly selfless man in bed. Pleasure was always given to him — that had always been enough. But with Livia, the need to take care of her arrived before any other instinct. Natural. Unbidden. He was learning quickly that it had always lived in him and simply waited for her specifically.

His mouth closed over her heat. Kissing. Tonguing. Tasting her slowly, then deeply. Damn it, she was worth savouring.

"Oh my God — Henry—!"

The shock in her voice was genuine. Her fingers grasped harder at his hair. Jane hadn’t told her.

Not one word. Not a single warning that anything like this existed — that a mouth could do this, that heat could pool this fast and this deep, that her own body could betray her so completely and so willingly.

Why didn’t she prepare her? Henry hummed against her. The vibration alone drew a sharp breath from her lips. The sound she made only encouraged him — his mouth growing hungrier, eating her with the focused greed of a man who had decided this was exactly where he wanted to be.

His palm pressed flat against her lower stomach, pinning her down. She wasn’t going anywhere.

"What—" Livia’s voice broke. "What are you doing to me?"

Even as she asked, her head fell back against the pillow, neck arched, every word dissolving into a moan. Her hips had developed opinions of their own — pushing forward, chasing him, seeking more pressure, more contact, more.

Henry obliged. He spread her with his fingers, opening her slowly, then pushed his tongue inside.

(Brought to you by Missy Dionne)