I sigh and cling to the last shred of my dignity, holding my head high even as my just-been-finger-fucked hair falls into my face.
“I’m quite content walking through the palace...” But I trail off as I note myself gesturing with my shoes in my hands—as threads from my torn skirt tickle my thigh—and I immediately deflate.
“So...you were instructed to take me home?”
The man nods, the hints of silver in his dark hair glinting in the sun, and it’s only now that I realize his impeccably tailored suit, his straightened spine and hands clasped in front of his hips. His jaw is chiseled and his brown eyes are dark and knowing. He is not royalty. I can tell that much. But he exudes an undisputable authority nonetheless.
“Yes, Miss. His Royal Highness the Prince texted me with the order to see you home safely. I can lead you through the kitchen and out the servants’ exit to avoid any unpleasant encounters upon your departure.”
I hold out my arms, shoes dangling from my index fingers. “I guess I’m not in any shape to run into the king and queen again, especially if I want to keep this job.”
The man doesn’t even crack a smile but instead offers me a single nod.
“This way, Miss.” He motions toward the garden from which he came.
I limp in his direction, trying not to read into the prince’s gesture of making sure I get home safely. There is no way Nikolai Lorentz cares what happens between us from here on out other than him opposing my very being here.
“You can call me Kate,” I say, once I reach his side and he holds out an arm. I grab both of my shoes with my right hand and take his arm with my left—not because I need to but because it would seem rude to decline.
I breathe in sharply as my hand grips muscle so tight and corded that I can feel it through his suit.
“As you wish, Miss Kate,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“Maybe you could drop the Miss altogether? Makes me sound like a prim-and-proper governess.” I let out a nervous laugh. What just transpired between me and the heir apparent was not behavior becoming of a governess. Or the me I thought I knew, for that matter.
“As you wish, Kate,” he says, his voice devoid of any hint of emotion.
“You got a name?” I ask as he pushes open a door hidden in the brick of the palace’s side wall.
“His Highness calls me X,” he says, ushering me inside a small corridor. The servants’ quarters, no doubt.
“What do your friends and family call you?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “I have neither, Miss—my apologies—Kate.”
My stomach sinks at the thought as he leads me through a white six-panel door. But I forget the heartbreaking answer just as quickly as we enter an enormous kitchen and my senses are assaulted in the best possible way. The aroma of garlic wafts in our direction, and my mouth immediately waters. I skipped breakfast this morning because—hello—I was ordered to the palace. Who can eat with that kind of pressure? And now that I’d been satiated in a whole other way entirely, I was famished. There’s also something sweet in the air, a richness I can almost taste.
“Would you like one for the road, Miss?” A woman covered in a white apron spins from where she’s plating macarons from a baking pan onto a three-tiered plate.
I swallow before I start to drool. “Please,” I say, and she grabs a small saucer from beneath the island where she works and serves me five of the delicious-looking confections.
“Our secret,” she says with a wink and a smile, handing my bounty to X. The man simply nods and continues piloting me toward the exit.
The next thing I know, I’m sitting in the luxury of a Rolls-Royce, a plate of macarons in my lap, and an ice pack on my ankle—also, according to X, ordered by the prince. But the older man speaks no more as he pulls free of the palace gates, out onto the main thoroughfare and toward the 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