days and pleasure-drenched nights—deluged his lungs. He had to get more, leave no breath unmingled with it.
He buried his face in her neck, inhaled her, absorbing her shudder into his. “I don’t want you in my bed. I need you there. I’ve craved you there for six long years.”
The body that had gone limp at contact with his stiffened, pushing away only enough to look confusedly up at him.
Feeling he’d said too much, he let her go before he swept her up and carried her to bed here and now.
Her face was a canvas of every turbulent emotion there was, so intense he felt almost dizzy at their onslaught.
And he found himself adding, “Passion was the one real thing we shared. You were the best I’ve ever had. I only ended it with you because you—” he barely caught back an accusation “—seemed to expect more than was on offer.” He injected his voice with nonchalance. “But now you know what is on offer. You have every choice in becoming my lover, but none in being my princess.”
Her gaze dropped to the dossier in her hand, which regulated their temporary relationship’s boundaries and how it would end with a cold precision he was already starting to question.
Then she raised her eyes, the azure now dull and distant. “Only for a year.”
Or longer. As long as we both want, he almost blurted out.
Catching back the impetuousness with all he had, he nodded. “Only for a year.”
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