apartment I share with my sister in the heart of town.
As I sit here, the breeze of the car’s open windows hits me right up the bottom of my skirt, and I’m reminded of the fact that not only am I going commando, but also my underwear is bunched in the Prince of Edenvale’s pocket.
Just swallow me up, world, because I am too much of a cliché to exist. I can see the tabloid headline now:
Royal Touch Wakes Celibate Woman’s Libido
It isn’t that I’ve ignored the whole libido thing. I have an active imagination and a pretty stellar showerhead. It’s not like I’ve gone completely without. But the first time I go with is not supposed to be with my future king, and it certainly isn’t supposed to unleash a torrent of pent-up emotion, not when a pint of chocolate gelato is nowhere in sight.
I close my eyes and try to erase the image of him grinning before he went down on me, but it turns out that eyes open, closed, crossed or whatever still draw the same picture—Nikolai Lorentz pleasuring me and taking pleasure in doing so.
And then when I’d called our little maze dalliance a mistake, he’d ordered his driver to take care of me—right down to a ride in his private car and the cool pack soothing the throb in my twisted ankle.
Maybe I am a cliché, something I never thought I’d be. But then again, maybe Prince Nikolai, Duke of Westcraven, isn’t what I’d had in mind, either.
I pop a golden lemon macaron into my mouth and moan with pleasure.
Nope. Not what I had in mind at all.
Nikolai
NOTHING LIKE A scalding hot shower after a night of rough sex with your former best friend’s little sister, followed by impromptu cunnilingus in the palace maze with the matchmaker bankrolled by your father to find your future queen.
It’s been a strange twenty-four hours.
I rock my head back. Forget a standard showerhead. I custom designed my own personal waterfall. My groan bounces off the slate tiles as my tense muscles relax in the spray. Shit yeah. This feels good. Almost as good as it did to be on my knees between Miss Winter’s sweet thighs. I chuckle to myself. Me. On my knees before a woman. Can’t remember the last time that happened.
A visceral memory flies in from the outer reaches of my subconscious and slams my gut with the intensity of an earth-ending meteor.
There once had been a woman who brought me to my knees. But I wasn’t much past a boy then. Now I’m all man with a kingdom that’s mine for the taking.
I grab a bottle of my favorite Tom Ford body wash and pour a generous dollop in my palm. There’s one thing that will relax me. Using the wash as lube, I thrust my cock into my hand in slow, lazy strokes before upgrading to my tried-and-true fist-over-fist technique, my length enough that one hand can never do the job. My ass clenches as I give over to the build.
Here’s a fact. No woman, no matter how expert a lover, can touch a guy better than he touches himself. I’m captain of my own fucking ship. Yet here I am, imagining innocent, angel-faced Kate and her beautiful hands—small, delicate, manicured. I picture her grabbing me at the root, and I let out a guttural groan. What is it about this stranger that drives me crazy enough for her to invade my thoughts like this? Every nerve ending in my shaft is ready to burst into flames.
That’s when I remember.
I still have her panties in my pocket. I step out of the shower, not giving two shits about getting the floor wet, and yank them from my tuxedo pants. The delicate ivory is pale in my tanned hand. On instinct, I lift them to my face and inhale the elegant French lace. My eyes roll. Beguiling. I’m a goddam pussy connoisseur, and this is the equivalent to uncorking a bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild 1945. I keep a case in my wine cellar, each bottle valued at twenty-five thousand euros.
I clutch the matchmaker’s panties in one hand and step back in the shower, working over my cock with increased urgency as her scent overpowers my senses. Sweat breaks out across my chest and is washed away in a torrent of steamy water.
There are those who get intimidated by winery tasting rooms, but it’s simple. A good vintage is composed of four things: fruits, acids, tannins and sugars. Young tannins can make the mouth pucker, leave your tongue dry. Left over time it increases in complexity, covering your palate with a signature silkiness. My palate is exceptional, able to identify a vintage by the subtle yet complex notes of coffee, chocolate, blackberry and spice.
Women are much the same. Each with her own nuances. And Kate Winter is in a class all her own. Fruity, with a hint of cherry, but also darker, more intriguing notes, such as to be found in a rich forest floor. She is the fruit of the earth, and I’m starving for the harvest.
A few more strokes and I’m poised on the edge, and then I pitch over, shattering into the most mind-numbing orgasm in a decade. For a moment, I wonder if I’m struck blind. Then the world returns, and I wash my hands, turn off the spray and grab a towel for my waist.
It takes me five minutes to regain my breath. After an intense, almost holy, experience like that, there is only one place to go—my brother, the saint.
* * *
Benedict will enter the priesthood. As a virgin.
Fucking crazy, right? My father bursts with pride at the fact he has a son destined for the priesthood and St. Egbert Abbey. To me, it’s a fate worse than hell, and besides, it’s more pressure. Benedict’s put our bloodline at risk given that I’m the heir and he’s the spare. My youngest brother, Damien, doesn’t factor into the equation as he is banished and thereby removed from the line of succession. If I screw up here, the kingdom could pass from my family to my cousin Ingrid. She is a nice enough girl, and I don’t mean that dismissively. She is ten years old.
I shove on a pair of sweatpants, lace up my running shoes and catch my reflection in the window. I look like a debauched lord of the underworld.
Reflections on my banished brother Damien spiral me into a brooding darkness. The latest rumors claim that he resides half-time in London and the rest over in America. He could build a hermetically sealed tower in Madagascar for all I care, and it would still be too goddamn close. My family is like the setup to a bad joke: a commitment-phobic heir to the throne, a virgin almost-priest, and a black sheep all walk into a bar...
I jog through the quiet palace, past row after row of ancient ancestors appraising me from gilded frames. Do they wonder if I’ll ever measure up? If I’ll fulfill my legacy? Damn these black thoughts to hell. I get outside and run until my lungs are near bursting. On the edge of the grounds, near the Royal River, is the tower where my brother lives. He calls it his sanctuary, and he’s not wrong. Poor bastard might not use his cock, but he has peace. And he deserves it because I don’t say bastard lightly.
There isn’t conclusive proof, but there are many rumors that my mother took a brief liking to the head of her secret-service detail while my father was at a UN summit. The only evidence? My brother’s piercing green eyes—neither my mother’s nor my father’s.
I try the door.
“It’s locked, Sir,” a formal male voice calls out.
I
