CHAPTER THREE
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. That’s when I’m slammed by a vision of a woman naked in my bed, long legs spread wide, hiding nothing, each pink honeyed fold exposed for my pleasure. Her delicate wrists and ankles bound by thick ropes of pearl.
I blink. My shoulders go rigid. I’ve never invited a woman into my royal bed. The west wing of the palace is my personal sanctuary. No one is welcome there save for my brother Benedict. Not my dalliances. And not my father or stepmother. It’s the only place that is just for me. Where I can be—me.
The world gets my dick. No one has a right to my soul.
“This was obviously a mistake,” she murmurs to herself before rising unsteadily. “We got off on the wrong foot.”
“You got off on the wrong foot.” I nod at her bare right foot, the one on which she can barely place any weight, and I offer her my arm. She takes it, but not before rolling her eyes. “We got off on more than that,” I add. My cock jumps like a dog hungry for a treat. “At least you did.”
She sniffs. Who’d imagine this ice queen could melt into such a passionate, bright, fiery lover?
Interesting.
She limps but is able to hold her own now. I like to think it has something to do with my talent between her legs, that my skillful tongue has a healing effect. I guide her out of the maze. Grass stains mar her perfectly tailored ivory skirt, a visible reminder of what we just did, and just like that, I’m hard as a rock again.
“From the tabloids,” she says, “it sounds like you won’t suffer for long. Tell me, how long has it been since you were inside a woman?”
I shrug with studied nonchalance. “Mouth or pussy?”
She gasps as my words sink in.
I pretend to count my fingers. “Six hours for pussy. Seven for her mouth. Give or take fifteen minutes. And if her brother hadn’t barged in on us this morning, I’m guessing those numbers would be significantly smaller.”
“You’re a pig.” Her brows slam together. “A rutting, depraved boar.”
“No. I’m a prince.” I draw myself to full height. “Your prince.”
“And I’m here in service to my king.” She juts out her jaw, gaze unbowed, refusing to cave at my power play. “Sire, you are my client. It’s been royally commanded by your father and my liege lord, which means we need to get to work. I will return tomorrow to do your personality profile.”
“My what?”
“It’s protocol for all our clients.” There is a note of finality in her clipped tone. She means business.
I click my tongue, half annoyed and half impressed. “You’ll never marry me off, sweetheart.”
“Tell that to my matchmaking success rate of 100%.” She offers a smug smile. “See you tomorrow, Highness.”
Once out of the maze, she releases my arm and continues alone. But she’s still injured, so her haughty exit falls flat, even as she takes off her other shoe. I bite back a laugh before realizing the joke is on me. Because guess who still has a hard-on the size of the Matterhorn?
Still, I should follow her to the castle lest she goes to the tabloids with some trumped-up story about how poorly she was treated on palace property.
“I am fine to proceed alone,” she says, reading my thoughts. An unsettling experience.
“I’m afraid I must insist,” I say, taking the few steps needed to catch up to her.
“Please.” Her composure slips a notch. The mask not fully secure. “I—I need a moment alone.” A sign this unexpected dalliance affected her, as well.
She turns and makes her way toward the palace gates, clutching her heels, only the slightest limp still evident. Miss Winter has spunk. I’ll give her that.
A woman like this could bring a less controlled man to his knees. Good thing that I’m no such man. This angel is more dangerous than any devil.
Kate
I don’t care if it hurts to walk. Nothing is more important than distance. And by distance I mean space between me and Nikolai Lorentz.
The only problem? When I slip through the gates onto the main grounds, I can’t get to the front of the castle without swimming the moat.
Good Lord. He lives in a palace. With a moat. And I almost slept with him in a freaking maze. I begged the prince of our realm to fuck me as I lay in the grass with my skirt hiked up over my hips. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t fuck anybody. I have lovely, meaningful sex with men who love and care for me—and who put a ring on it. At least, I did have that once.
As I contemplate my next move, an older man—probably in his late thirties—approaches me from a nearby garden.
“Pardon me, Miss Winter, but I have been instructed to take you home.”
I shake my head. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. If you could point me toward the most direct route to the main road, I’m sure I can get a taxi.”
I look behind me, expecting to see Nikolai approaching, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Miss, there is no direct route to the main road other than through the palace.” He looks me up and down. “And I am assuming you’d like to make a discreet exit?”
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.