clouds with stars. My body bucks with shivers of reaction.
“God, I wish you could fuck me,” I say, daring to voice what I long for—what I’ve gone without for what seems like an eternity. I try and fail not to whimper as he reaches a spot inside me that almost makes me black out.
Two years. It’s been two freaking years since a man has touched me. The thought—coupled with his hands on me, in me—threatens to unleash something more than just the adrenaline rush, but I swallow the impending wave of emotion. Because that’s not what this is about. These feelings aren’t for the prince.
He peeks from between my legs and slides his fingers from my aching pussy. He takes care in licking each one clean.
“You said it was sooner, sweetheart, and I’m always prepared for sooner.” From the pocket that does not hold my ruined panties, he pulls a foil packet and holds it up for me to see. “Your wish is my command.”
Nikolai
HER TASTE IS ADDICTIVE—honey, salt and rainwater. I hate the idea of matchmaking. But matchmakers? I take my time drinking in the woman panting on the grass, her conservative blouse opened a button too far, exposing delicate white lace, creamy skin and lush, womanly curves.
Yes. I believe I could learn to like matchmakers.
“Sire. Hurry.” She stares through a fringe of dark, thick lashes. Her red lipstick is smudging off her plump lower lip. I’m responsible for that, and the fact draws my balls tight against my engorged cock, clearly outlined through the panel of my tux pants. My muscles ripple with suppressed need.
I fold my arms, making an elaborate show of regarding the condom foil, and set my face into my trademark arrogant sneer. It’s my mask. The one the public expects a prince to wear, especially a prince with the world at his feet. It comes easy as instinct, which is good because I am not used to being unsettled. And this woman is—unsettling.
“Interesting business you run.” I lower my voice to a sensual drawl.
“No, not mine. I mean... I am not... It’s not mine...um... It’s my sister’s...her business,” she babbles, skimming one hand over the ragged tear in her prim skirt, the one currently offering me an eyeful of the thighs I’d feasted on. Her eyes darken, pupils dilating at my blatant appraisal.
“And do you provide these services—” I clear my throat and raise an insinuating eyebrow “—to every client?”
A dusky rose color flushes the skin of her throat as she catches my insinuation. She’s pissed. Angry and turned on, my favorite combination in a woman. Hate fucking has all of the fun and none of the responsibility.
“Of course not,” she snaps.
I dip a finger between my lips and give it a long lazy suck. The muscles in my neck cord. It still tastes like her. My mouth waters. “Mmm-hmm. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“Damn it.” A tear spills from the corner of one gorgeous eye, trickles along her high cheekbone. “I don’t know what came over me.”
My hands twitch to comfort her. Christ. I did not see that response coming. I should regroup, charm her thighs open and plunge into her from behind, working her fancy hairdo and composure loose in brutal doggy-style strokes. Bet it would make her bum ankle feel a lot better than two ibuprofens and an ice pack.
So why am I pocketing the condom? Or brushing a wayward lock of hair on her forehead.
“Look. It’s been...” She flinches from my touch with a bitter laugh. “A while. And you...well, you’re royal sex on a stick. It’s a lot for a normal person to take in.” She closes the gaping button on her shirt. “An error in judgment that won’t happen again.”
Looks like I’m not the only one who slaps on a mask when the going gets tough. In a blink of an eye my feisty sex kitten has retracted her claws and is now back to Miss Prim and Proper.
“Pity,” I rumble, trying not to appear disconcerted. “Errors in judgment happen to be my specialty.” I take my time adjusting my cock, the proud, hard length straining inside my pants.
The point of her pink tongue makes a quick appearance, dabs her lower lip. The kitten reemerges for a second. “You do seem quite...specialized.”
“And you have once again proven my long-tested theory correct.”
“Which is?”
I tap the tip of her nose with my index finger. “Inside every good girl is a bad girl waiting to get out.”
She fingers her pearl choker. “I’m not going to argue with you there.” Her laugh is high-pitched—nervous. “I’ve always been the good girl. Oral in a royal maze is a first and so, so not me.”
I believe her. She looks like an angel. I might have sucked her sweet clit, but those doe-like eyes speak to nothing but innocence. That’s when I’m slammed by a vision of a woman naked in my bed, long legs spread wide, hiding nothing, each pink honeyed fold exposed for my pleasure. Her delicate wrists and ankles bound by thick ropes of pearl.
I blink. My shoulders go rigid. I’ve never invited a woman into my royal bed. The west wing of the palace is my personal sanctuary. No one is welcome there save for my brother Benedict. Not my dalliances. And not my father or stepmother. It’s the only place that is just for me. Where I can be—me.
The world gets my dick. No one has a right to my soul.
“This was obviously a mistake,” she murmurs to herself before rising unsteadily. “We got off on the wrong foot.”
“You got off on the wrong foot.” I nod at her bare right foot, the one on which she can barely place any weight, and I offer her my arm. She takes it, but not before rolling her eyes. “We got off on more than that,” I add. My cock jumps like a dog hungry for a treat. “At least you did.”
She sniffs. Who’d imagine this ice queen could melt into such a passionate, bright, fiery lover?
Interesting.
She limps but is able to hold her own now. I like to think it has something to do with my talent between her legs, that my skillful tongue has a healing effect. I guide her out of the maze. Grass stains mar her perfectly tailored ivory skirt, a visible reminder of what we just did, and just like that, I’m hard as a rock again.
“From the tabloids,” she says, “it sounds like you won’t suffer for long. Tell me, how long has it been since you were inside a woman?”
I shrug with studied nonchalance. “Mouth or pussy?”
She gasps as my words sink in.
I pretend to count my fingers. “Six hours for pussy. Seven for her mouth. Give or take fifteen minutes. And if her brother hadn’t barged in on us this morning, I’m guessing those numbers would be significantly smaller.”
“You’re a pig.” Her brows slam together. “A rutting, depraved boar.”
“No.
