She was the king's prize. Body ripe for his heirs, curves swelling under courtly eyes that judged every untouched inch. I told myself I'd keep distance-strategic whispers in shadowed halls, nothing more. But duty's a fragile chain when her scent lingers like crushed grass in the royal gardens, pulling me into the dew where moonlight watches our first reckless tangle.
God, the way she fights it. Defiant glances over goblets of spiced wine, sharp words hiding that breathless crack in her voice. "It's for the crown," she whispers, even as her skin fever-glints in the locked archive's candle haze, charts of stars and seed strewn like broken oaths. I was her protector once, plotting alliances against vengeful spies. Now I'm the one who pins her down, hands greedy for those heavy swells, drawing milk that should never wet my tongue-sweet ruin profaning royal blood.
Every union twists obligation into torment. Her womb demands a dynasty, yet she arches for me alone, body yielding seed and nectar in exquisite betrayal. Distance chokes like velvet noose; one night apart and I'm prowling her chambers, obsessed with the pulse that defies the throne. She's my salvation and my fall-court whispers sharpen knives, her position teeters on our secret.
What if this milk-drenched fire forges our hidden line, or drags us both to the block under merciless Tudor gaze?
A full-length Tudor breeding milking lactation erotic romance featuring a possessive noble protector and his king's defiant fertile consort.
