THERE WERE THREE things Matthias Vasilliás loved in life. The glow of the sky as the sun dipped into the horizon, bathing the world in streaks of gold and peach; the country he was one week away from ruling; and women—but never the same woman for long, and never with any expectation of more than this: sex.
The wind blew in across the hotel room, draping the gauzy fabric of the curtain towards him, and for a moment he looked at it, his mind caught by the beauty, the brevity, of such a fragile material—the brevity of this moment.
In the morning he’d be gone, she’d be a memory—a ghost of this life. In the morning he would fly back to Tolmirós and step into his future.
He hadn’t come to New York for this. He hadn’t intended to meet her. He hadn’t intended to seduce a virgin—that wasn’t his usual modus operandi. Not when he couldn’t offer any degree of permanence in exchange for such a gift.
No, Matthias preferred experienced women.
Lovers who were au fait with the ways of the world, who understood that a man like Matthias had no heart to offer, no future he could provide.
One day he would marry, but his bride would be a political choice, a queen to equal him as King, a ruler to sit beside him and oversee his kingdom.
Until then, though, there was this: there was Frankie, and this night.
She ran her fingertips over his back, her nails digging into him, and he lost himself to her completely, plunging inside her, taking the sweetness she offered as she cried out into the balmy New York evening.
‘Matt.’ She used the shortened version of his name—it had been such a novelty to meet a woman who didn’t know who he was, didn’t know he was the heir to the throne of a powerful European country, that he was richer than Croesus and about to be King. Matt was simple, Matt was easy, and soon this would be over.
For ruling Tolmirós meant he would have to abandon his love of women, his love of sex and all that he was, outside the requirements of being King. His life would change completely in seven days’ time.
Seven days and he would be King.
In seven days he would be back in Tolmirós, the country before him. But for now he was here, with a woman who knew nothing of his life, his people, his duties.
‘This is perfect,’ she groaned, arching her back so two pert breasts pushed skyward and he shoved his guilt at this deception aside, his guilt at having taken an innocent young woman to bed for his own pleasure, to slake his own needs, knowing it could never be more than this.
She didn’t want complications either. They’d been clear on that score. It was this weekend and nothing more. But he was using her, of that he had no doubt. He was using her to rebel, one last time. Using her to avoid the inevitable truth of his life, for one night longer. Using her because right here, in this moment, sleeping with Frankie made him feel human—only human—and not even an inch royal.
He took one of her breasts in his mouth and rolled his tongue over the tight nipple. It budded in his mouth, desperate for his touch, his possession, and he thrust into her depths, wondering if any woman had ever been so perfectly made for a man?
His fingers fisted in her long, silky blonde hair and he pushed her head up to meet his, claiming her lips, kissing her until she whimpered beneath him and the whole of her body was at his command.
Power surged through him at the way this felt, but it was nothing to the power that awaited him, the duty that would soon be at his feet.
For his country and his people, he would turn his back on pleasures such as this, on women such as Frankie, and he would be King.
But not quite yet.
For a few more hours he would simply be Matt, and Frankie would be his...
Three years later
NEW YORK SPARKLED like a beautiful diorama, all high-rises, bright lights and muted subway noise. He stared down at the glittering city from the balcony of his Manhattan penthouse, breathing in the activity and forcing himself not to remember the last time he’d been in this exact position.
Forcing his eyes to stay trained in the opposite direction of the School of Art, and definitely not allowing himself to remember the woman who had bewitched him and charmed him.
The woman who had given him her innocence, given him her body, and imprinted something of herself in his mind.
Inwardly he groaned, her name just a whisper in his body, a curse too, because he had no business so much as thinking of her, let alone remembering everything about her.
Not when his engagement would be made formal within a month. Not when his future awaited—and duty to his country called to him as
