Royal Marriage Market (32 page)

God, no.

He chuckles quietly at the look on my face. “Glad to see you agree. But before we go any further, you ought to know that I plan on taking my time tonight. I need to learn every little thing there is to know about your body or I’ll go insane.”

Amusement pierces the hazy lust surrounding me. “Need?”

A kiss is pressed at the base of the sheer silk, sending another jolt of intensity straight through my core. “Yes.
Need.”

I gasp with each subsequent kiss. “Seems . . . awfully . . .” The silk dips lower, allowing a kiss to land upon bare skin. “Dramatic.”

“Honest is more like it. Damn, Els. You smell like heaven.”

I am not embarrassed at this, either. I’m feeling rather dramatic myself at the moment.

Finally, he slides my knickers off, tossing them over his shoulder. For long seconds, he’s quiet as he studies my nude body. And then my head hits the door when his slickened fingers find my pleasure point. Silent, fervent prayers are answered because his lips follow his finger, and I am now more than gasping. I am yelling his name. I’m yelling his name and I have not orgasmed yet, although I am perilously close for just a first touch.

He stands, raising my arms above my head. “Trust me,” he whispers. I taste myself when he kisses me, an experience I have always refused before, certain it would be disgusting. But I was wrong, because right now, with him? It is an incredible turn-on.

      
Before I can suck another breath in, he is back on his knees, spreading my legs once more. My hips buck forward against his mouth; I am rewarded with one, then two fingers slipping deftly into me.

I do not know how I am going to keep standing. My knees are perilously close to giving out right now. I will catch fire like a human candle and then melt until there is nothing left of me because surely no person could feel so much and not literally, physically combust.

A noise sounds on the other side of the door, of wheels and plates rattling, and of footsteps. And still, Christian sucks and licks and teases. Not caring if anyone hears me, I cry and yell and do all of those things he wanted to hear—not because he asked for them, but because he knows precisely how to coax them out of me. And when I honestly don’t know if I can take it anymore, he gifts me with one, last intense lick.

I shatter into hundreds—no thousands—of little pieces, all carved with his name, and mine, together.

chapter 49

Christian

I give Elsa no time to recover from what I hope is the first of several orgasms tonight. She’s in my arms and I’m carrying her through the suite, kicking open the bedroom door. And then we’re on the bed, which is where she really deserved to be in the first place, and I’m kissing her—not soothingly, like I really ought to, but hotly, reverently, like I don’t really have a choice.

In a lot of ways, I suppose I don’t. Since the moment I ran into her in a narrow hallway in California, she’s possessed my heart and it really only feels like I have it back when she’s with me. It’s terrifying, this lack of control that threatens to wash me away from my responsibilities every time I even think of her. Responsibilities I was born with, ones that stem from more than family, but from an entire country’s worth of people who expect me to assume the throne. Christian, to Aiboland, represents the present and the future. The newspapers often talk about how the country desperately needs to climb headfirst into the twenty-first century. I think about the people I met in grocery stores. Or charity events. Or on the streets. Or anywhere, really.

Nobody ever asks what I need. Not that I expect them to; that’s pure hubris. My life is one of service. Aiboland comes before Christian, right? It always comes before my own wants and needs.

But then I met this woman and she made me, for the first time in my life, want something more than I have. So I’m kissing her like I mean it, like I have to because she’s my air, my sunlight, my warmth, the very blood in my veins. Like she is the reason the muscle in my chest beats so hard and fast, because she
is
. She makes me feel like I could be more than just what everyone else needs, and that is more intoxicating than any drug or drink in the world. Being here with Elsa, having just tasted her and listened to my name come from between her lips as she fell apart in my hands . . . It’s the best goddamn feeling ever.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I promised to take my time tonight.

I reluctantly break away, staring down at her in the pale lamplight, at how dark hair spreads around her head like chaotic waves across the white, foamy sea of bedspread. At how glazed her eyes are, all liquid desire mixed in her irises. At how swollen her lips are. She truly is a Valkyrie, or at the very least something mercurial and temporary, because surely this can’t be real.
She
can’t be real. This is just another one of the many fantasies I’ve built around this woman over the last few weeks, isn’t it?

Her hand cups my cheek; her lips brush my own. “Are you okay?”

It’s a fist around my heart. Yes, I want to tell her.
Yes
. But, the words are stuck—not because I fear saying them, but because it’s just too hard to offer anything coherent right now. So I kiss her instead. Long, and hot, and meaningful. And then I slowly begin to memorize the map of Elsa’s body with my hands and mouth. Before I even know what’s happening, she slides down over me until I’m deep inside her, so deep all I can do is gasp and then moan. She’s tight, so warm, and it’s like I’ve died right here and now and went to heaven, as utterly saccharine as that sounds, because no other time I’ve been with a woman has ever been so intense.

I had hoped this would happen tonight. It’d been the best of wishful thinking, the blowing of candles on a birthday cake. All I’d expected, though, if I were lucky, was to see her. If the fates aligned, I hoped for a shot to tell her my feelings, as fucking terrifying as that was. But it’d been practically a wet dream wish that I’d ever find myself in her.

But here we are, and it’s better than I ever hoped.

She bends over and kisses me, all languid tongue, and I have to will myself not to instantly explode before I even move. But then she lifts up and slides back down and I’m certain my eyes roll right into the back of my head. I grab her arse, hold her tight, and roll us over so I’m the one on top. Her mouth, her wonderfully, tempting mouth opens to—argue, maybe?—about the change in position, but as much as I adore sparring with this woman, I kiss her instead. Kiss her once more like I must, because the need to do so is felt all the way down in my bones and then beyond, straight into the atoms and molecules within. There will be plenty of time to let her ride me later. I’ll happily be putty in her hands. But now, for this first time, I want it to last longer than a singular minute.

I pull slowly out of her until I’m nearly out; she cries softly in frustration. I push myself back in, over and over in a steady pace that has her squirming and panting and whispering my name in a voice I pray no man other than myself will ever hear again. It’s one of the most brilliant sounds I’ve ever had the pleasure of listening to, this husky vocalization of two syllables I’ve resented for so long. But now that they come from her, it’s different. As our bodies come together in the best dance I’ve ever danced, I’ve never been gladder to bear such a moniker.

I have no idea how long it takes her to come a second time. Too soon, I blurrily think, when her body tightens and then spasms around mine, but then I’m gratefully free falling into what I can only understand to be the most fucking amazing
le petit mort
ever and all of the CinemaScope of my life focuses tightly into just this one woman and what she makes me feel.
      

chapter 50

Elsa

Bright sunlight filters through the hotel bedroom, disorienting me. A phone is ringing, and I think somebody is knocking on the door, too. I am achy and still oh-so-tired, but then a warm, naked body next to me reminds me of all of the hours I spent having the most mind-blowing sex of my entire life.

Christian is really here.

Silence reclaims the suite, and I spend these soft, hazy moments simply studying him. He is adorable when he sleeps, so boyish, in a way: dark lashes feathering against his cheeks, messy hair dipping across his forehead, and soft, long breaths sighing from his chest.

My own chest tightens in response. For the first time in a long time, I feel not so much free, because such a concept is merely a pipedream to a royal beholden to their duty and country, but relaxed. Happy. No—it’s more than that.
Content
.

I brush chocolaty strands away from his eyes, and he stirs—not enough to wake, but enough to shift even closer. His bare chest rising and falling spellbinds me.

Somewhere nearby, a cell phone rings anew; fresh pounding sounds against a door, shattering the blurred stillness of the moment. “Your Highness?” The knocking turns frenzied. “Your Highness!”

Christian jolts awake, groping about as if he overslept and should have already been somewhere, and I fail miserably at not noticing how low the sheets dip against his pelvis.

Yum
. And also:
More, please.

His voice is husky. “What time is it?”

Time to have more sex
. “I haven’t the slightest.”

“Who the hell is pounding at your door so early?”

“Chances are,” I tell him wryly, “my mother’s spy.”

He groans and rolls over so an arm wraps around me. I slide back into the warmth of the bed we share, grinning like an idiot.

“Hi.”

He’s grinning, too. “Hi.”

Our lips come together, soft and quiet, and while most everything falls away, one seductive, glorious thought rises to the surface:
this is real
.

Bam-bam, bam-bam-bam
. “Your Highness!”

Christian pulls back, his nose brushing mine. “You should probably answer that.” I would never have imagined it possible, but his morning voice is ten times sexier than normal, his accent far more discernible in this sleep-scratched state.

A disgruntled sigh heaves up and out of me. I do not want to deal with any reality other than this.

He kisses my shoulder. “Go find out what this spy wants. The sooner you do, the sooner we can get rid of her.”

      
I hate that he is right. And I hate that I must get out of a warm, cozy bed with a yummy, naked man so I can assure a sixty-year-old woman I haven’t fled. I reluctantly slip out of bed and into a robe, all the while keenly aware of Christian’s hot eyes upon me. I flip my hair back and say, “If you keep
looking
at me like that, I shan’t be able to answer the door.”

His smile is deliciously naughty.

It is then the jangle and scrape of keys against metal sounds, forcing me to sprint to the door. It swings open just as I reach for the knob, prompting me to jump back and tighten my robe. Standing in the threshold is not only the hotel concierge and Greta, but Mat with his cell phone glued to his ear.

My mental calendar
ding-dings
with:
brunch with Mat
. And also:
reason why I am in Paris.

“Are you alright?” he exclaims at the same time the concierge stammers, “Your Highness, please forgive my hasty entry, but when nobody could reach you for some time now, it was advised we check on your welfare,” and Greta wrings her hands as she wails, “I was so worried this morning, Your Highness! You weren’t answering your phone!”

Brunch was scheduled at eleven. Just how late did we sleep in?

I clutch the robe tighter and offer up an understanding smile to the flustered group. “I thank you for your concern. I simply overslept.”

The concierge bows and quickly excuses himself. Neither Mat nor Greta sees fit to follow suit, though. My mother’s personal secretary continues wringing her hands, as if she worries I will vanish right before her and Mat is more piqued than I have ever seen him. Stress lines crease his forehead, and a darkish purple color smudges the delicate skin beneath his eyes. He steps forward, past the threshold, shoving his phone into a pocket.