Maybe this is what it feels like to live in the moment, take a risk, something I never let myself do because I had to be careful for both of us. I had to move in with Madeline to save on rent. Never have I let myself simply want.
But this stranger’s hands on me are warm. Strong. And for a second I imagine what they could do. It’s intoxicating, this growing need and the possibility of satisfying it right here and now. I feel drunk and squirm in his grasp, hoping he’ll simply think I’m readjusting myself in his arms, but I miscalculate and my lips brush against his.
He sucks in a breath, and this makes me grin.
“I don’t like you,” I say. Truer words have never been spoken.
“Likewise,” he answers, his voice low and rough.
All my life I’ve played it safe, and where did it get me? Lost and alone. But this man exudes raw power, a power that draws me into his orbit, a pull stronger than gravity. I feel myself inching toward some sort of internal cliff, and the woman I thought I was relinquishes control.
“You said you’d sooner fuck me than let me arrange your nuptials.”
He nods. “I certainly did.”
I lean close to his ear, nip at his lobe, and step across the line of comfort I’ve hidden behind for far too long and whisper, “It’s sooner.”
I expect a savage response, but instead I feel him adjust his hands, and then I gasp as his thumb hits the crease of my panties.
That’s all it takes. I leap off the cliff with a whimper of need and straight into pure pleasure.
He growls.
“You’re fucking soaked.” He drops to his knees, still holding me like I’m precious cargo, and lays me gently on the grass. “And I want to drink every last sweet drop.”
Without another word, he hikes my skirt up and slides my panties down my thighs, over my knees and then off. I feel them snag on the heel of my remaining shoe but don’t care. He shoves them in the pocket of his pants, and I know I’m not getting them back. The thought makes me giddy, and I writhe under his gaze.
“Now, Nikolai,” I say, and he levels me with his grin.
The next thing I know, my hands are tangled in that jet-black hair as he licks the length of my folds from bottom to top until his tongue swirls around my swollen clit.
I moan and buck against him as he sucks me between his lips. I relish the feel of his stubble against my thighs, the slight pain only heightening my pleasure.
“Use fingers,” I command, and he obeys immediately.
One finger plunges deep while he continues to take his fill with his mouth. Then a second joins the first, and my vision 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.