Asteria In Love with the Prince (19 page)

“You can’t tease them,” I warned her, remembering what had happened in Monaco. “Asterian men are different.”

“You’re not kidding. They’re gorgeous. And all brutal and brooding. Mmm....”

“But these are bodyguards: they’re trained not to look at you. They’re meant to be formal and respectful, but if you tease them too much—”

“What? They might attack me?”

“No! Nothing like that. They just—They might
look
at you.”

“Are you on drugs? I’ve been looked at before.”

“Not like this. Remember they see women differently...it’s hard to explain. Just don’t tease them, okay? Anyway, what about Louis?”

She glanced sideways and pulled a face.

“Gwen?”
I asked in horror.

“We broke up. Hence the bottle of wine.”

I wanted to sink through the floor. She’d come here for sympathy and found me in romantic heaven, with the man I loved down on one knee for me. Then I’d proceeded to dominate the entire evening with talk of Asteria and left her to stew. “Gwen, I am so, so sorry!” I pulled her into a hug. When I released her, she was wiping tears from her eyes – viciously, as if angry with herself for crying.

“What happened?” I asked. Gwen had chased after Louis for so long, I thought they’d never get together. For them to break up after just a few weeks was unthinkable.

She shrugged. “Nothing. We’re just...he likes all these weird things.”

“Like what?” I asked carefully, but very interested.

Gwen gave me a look. “Not weird in bed!” she hissed. “I can do weird in bed. Weird out of bed. He wrote me poetry.”

I melted. “That’s
sweet!
What’s wrong with that?”

“It was awful. I didn’t know how to tell him.”

“So you broke up with him?”

She shrugged.

“There has to be more to it than that.”

“He stares out the window and thinks too much.”

“That’s being arty. He’s waiting for his muse.”

“His what? Luce, he’s just too...
highbrow
for me.”

I sighed. I’d let her get some distance from him and then I’d try to get them back together. “Fine. Just stay away from the bodyguards, okay?”

“I promise nothing.”

***

Gwen finished off most of the bottle of wine and flaked out in my guest room. The two bodyguards inside the apartment would stay awake, relieved by a new shift at midnight. That meant I could finally be alone with Jagor, in my own bedroom. Now I came to think about it, it wasn’t as relaxing an idea as I’d hoped.

The problem was, Jagor hadn’t met me under normal circumstances. He’d met me dressed up at the embassy party – probably the best I’d looked all year – and then we’d been off to Monaco and then Asteria with a brand new wardrobe and expensive make-up. That night, I’d been taking it easy at home: the only company I’d been expecting had been Gwen. It’s not as if I was slobbing out in track pants, but I wasn’t in a designer suit, either. I’d been in jeans, an old band t-shirt and bare feet when I opened the door. I’d managed to slip some heels on, but I was still feeling underdressed compared to Jagor and the rest of the retinue in their suits.

It wasn’t just me, either. A UN translator makes less than you think and even with the money Jagor had paid me I was still in the same small apartment, with the damp patches I’d painted over but not quite managed to hide and the furniture that needed replacing. Jagor was used to the palace and luxury hotels: what if he saw a roach?

If he’d been a normal boyfriend, I would have spent at least an hour cleaning up the place and hiding anything embarrassing. If I’d known Jagor was going to visit I probably would have just burned all my possessions and claimed to be homeless. But that evening he’d just walked in unannounced: and now I was going to take him into my inner sanctum, the place where I’d huddled under a comforter and sobbed when we’d broken up.

We stood outside the door to my bedroom. I pushed him gently back against the wall so I could go in first. “I’ll just….” I told him. I didn’t have a good explanation for why, so I just smiled sweetly at him and slunk through the narrow opening, closing the door behind me even as he tried to look over my shoulder.

Mess is subjective. Gwen would have said it was a neat freak’s room. My mother, may she rest in peace, would have been appalled. To me, it was a normal bedroom: but normal wouldn’t cut it tonight. I frantically ran around hiding things. I stuffed a bra into a drawer, shoved some paperwork into a bag and kicked a romance novel under the bed. Then I shook out the covers and plumped the pillows. Behind me, I heard the door opening and felt as much as heard his presence. Okay: that would have to do. I was pretty sure it was alright. In fact, I was quite proud of myself.

I turned to see Jagor picking up my vibrator from the floor.

My brain ceased to function. I collapsed in on myself, like a paper cup thrown into a black hole: I think I actually put my hand to my mouth. The thing must have fallen out of the bed when I shook the covers.

Jagor was grinning at it. “Good,” he told me.

I snatched it off him and dropped it in a drawer. Then I buried my face in his chest so I didn’t have to look at him. He was trying not to laugh, now. “Stop it,” I told him.

“Why are you so embarrassed?”

“Stop!” I felt myself starting to laugh now, even though my face was still burning.

“I like to think of you using it. The librarian, all alone in her ivory tower—”

“Stop!” I was losing it now, giggling uncontrollably.

He stopped and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in close, and I managed to get my giggles on lockdown. Then he put his mouth close to my ear and said, “Bzzzzzzzzzz....”

I snorted in a very unprincess-like way and we hugged even tighter, both of us rocking with laughter, my cheek pressed hard against one curving rock of his chest, his laughter rumbling through me. It was the release I needed, the escape from thoughts of Calara and Asteria and what was waiting for us: for a moment it was just about us and I could relish it and celebrate:
he’s back, he’s back!

He pulled me onto the bed, making sure I landed on top of him. I straddled him, nestling myself down on the reassuring warmth of him. I prized my heels off and they landed with soft thumps on the floor. There was a long, comfortable silence.

“I’m sorry I’m not...” I looked down at my t-shirt and jeans.

He looked at me as if I was crazy. “I like it,” he told me. He brushed my hair back from my face and then traced from my cheek all the way down my arm. “It’s innocent.” He interweaved his fingers with mine.

“Innocent?” I adjusted my position slightly, getting comfortable. Already, I could feel the heat of my sex as it pressed hard against his stomach, touching him save for a few thin layers of fabric.

He spread his arms wide, pulling mine with them and so drawing me down to him. I kissed him, just brushing his lips at first, savoring the feel of them, delighting in the way they fitted mine. Then harder, more demanding; both of our mouths opening as we tasted and hungrily explored. Need swelled inside me, hot and vital and I let out a whimper, craning my head up as he laid a string of kisses along my throat.

“Take it off,” he whispered, his hands releasing mine and smoothing the fabric of my t-shirt. I sat up and peeled it over my head, dropping it on the floor, watching his eyes rove over me. His hands found my shoulders, massaging there for a second, before they pulled me down for another long kiss. “Stand up and do the rest,” he said.

I was about to, but then something hit me. Every time we’d had sex, I’d been naked or near naked and he’d been pretty much fully clothed. I liked that, in a way: it added to the spirit of it, the idea that he was dominating me. I’d been his aide, his slave…the lowly serving wench. But now I was going to be his princess: it was time to be on equal terms, even if just this once.

“I want to see you too,” I said simply. I stood and pulled on his shoulders. Fortunately, he got the idea: I had no hope of lifting him as a dead weight.

I slid my hands under his jacket and pushed it down his arms, then undid his tie. As I unfastened his shirt, I could feel him working the button of my jeans, teasing down the zipper. Neither of us was rushing: that was what made it great, that finally we could take our time. My hands were clumsy at his shirt buttons: I was finally going to see what that magnificent body really looked like.

“Stand up,” I told him, a little breathless. When he did, he towered over me: I’d got used to those five-inch heels he’d made me wear and forgotten just how tall he was. I moved close and spread his shirt apart like curtains. His chest was perfect, the broad curves seeming even bigger, bare. I ran my fingers down the valley between his pecs and followed with my lips. My hands smoothed over the tight ripples of his stomach, sweeping around the sides to caress the sensitive skin there. He was hairless, but not in some pretty-boy gym and wax way. He reminded me of earth and nature, his muscles like hewn rock, sculpted by hauling logs or rolling boulders. An honest body, not a poser’s creation.

Those massive hands of his were pushing under the denim of my loosened jeans, cupping my ass and pulling me tightly to him. I wriggled out of the jeans, barely conscious of it: all of me focused on the feel of his body. I was rubbing my cheek against him now, cat like, my lips stroking over each firm muscle. God, why had he made me wait so long to enjoy him like this?

My hands were on at his pants, working the buckle of his belt and then the fly, shoving them down his thighs. He stepped out of them and then – gloriously – I was running my palms over his naked legs. He had just the finest covering of fine, light hair there, his thighs thick and hard. He was so big, so solidly planted; it was as if he’d grown out of the ground.

He had one hand in my panties. At first, he just cupped me, the warmth of his hand making me groan. Then one finger started to rub at my folds – a tiny movement, almost a rocking, but it was enough to make me shift from foot to foot, grinding myself against him.

I felt my bra pull tight and then it was loosening...gone. I stripped it off and suddenly he was kissing me again, his lips descending to meet mine just as they had in the embassy the very first time. We pressed together, my breasts pillowing against his chest as his tongue darted into my mouth.

I wanted him entirely naked. Pulling back from the kiss, I hooked my hands under the waistband of his jockey shorts and...stopped.

“
Purple
?” I asked.

“Royal Purple,” he said proudly. “They make them specially. By Royal Appointment.”

I wasn’t sure if he was serious or joking. Neither would have surprised me. I bent to strip them off him, his cock springing out. Even though he wasn’t fully hard yet, the fullness of him sent a little flutter through me: remembering what he’d feel like inside me.

He crouched, slipping my panties down my legs and off, stopping to kiss the fronts of my thighs. Then we were standing there, fully naked, just looking at each other.

I could have looked at him forever. I...
marveled
at him, the way you do with a painting or a sculpture. At how his heavy brow made those forest green eyes even more intense, narrowed in deep thought or, as now, in that blistering gaze. At the high cheekbones that stopped his face being too brutal and hard: made it artistic and almost vulnerable. My hands came up and I traced along his shoulders, thrilling at the breadth of them, the sheer
size
of him compared to me. My fingertips skimmed down his muscled arms, down to his narrow, trim waist. I reached down and curled my fingers around his length; at the same time, I felt him cup my sex again. This time his fingers were more insistent: I could feel my lips parting under his touch. I could feel his gaze on my body and I watched as his cock stiffened and lifted. The thought that I was doing that to him was a whole turn on of its own.

I barely gave him time to get the condom on. I grabbed his ass, the muscles firm under my palms, pulling him to me so that his cock pressed hard and hot against my naked thigh. He fell back across the bed, lifting me atop him and guiding himself into me....

God
, the feel of him as he spread me open, the divine rushing thrill as he speared up into me, his body arching off the bed. I settled lower, legs folding under me, kneeling atop him. We hadn’t done it like this before: first him being equally naked and now me on top. The change in power wasn’t lost on me.

I gasped and leaned forward as he moved deeper. His hands captured my breasts, kneading them softly as he slid up into me and I bit my lip at how good it felt.

“Do you like it like this?” I asked him as I started to move.

“I love it every way with you.” His hands were delightfully firm at my breasts, squeezing and stroking, tremors going down to my legs.

“So slaves are allowed to go on top?” I twisted my hips as I teased him, and he gasped.

“Slaves are
allowed
to go on top,” he said. “That’s the point.”

I hadn’t thought of it like that. In control of him, but still under his control. I started to move faster, running my hands over his chest, relishing the feel of every curve of him. Something glinted as I moved my hand: the diamond. I still wasn’t used to it.

“You have to call me Exkella.” I was starting to pant now.

He shook his head. “Commoners have to call you that. I can call you whatever I want.” His fingers were suddenly on my clit, drawing a surprised squeal from me that turned into a long, low moan.

“What do you want to call me?”

He grinned. “I can think of a few things. Another time. Lucy, for now.” He was circling my clit now, in time with me grinding my hips against him. I put my palms on his chest, pressing myself upward before slamming back down onto him. God, the hot, delicious friction of him as he stroked in and out of me, his groin pressing up to meet me.

He was starting to pant too, and even as I ran my hands back and forth over his chest, my vision seemed to narrow down to focus on just his face: his eyes gleaming as they stared into mine, his lips slowly drawing back until he was almost snarling with the effort of restraining himself. His thumb was stroking at my throbbing bud, my hips grinding and thrashing and….