CHAPTER FOUR
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 of Château Mouton Rothschild 1945. I keep a case in my wine cellar, each bottle valued at twenty-five thousand euros.
I clutch the matchmaker’s panties in one hand and step back in the shower, working over my cock with increased urgency as her scent overpowers my senses. Sweat breaks out across my chest and is washed away in a torrent of steamy water.
There are those who get intimidated by winery tasting rooms, but it’s simple. A good vintage is composed of four things: fruits, acids, tannins and sugars. Young tannins can make the mouth pucker, leave your tongue dry. Left over time it increases in complexity, covering your palate with a signature silkiness. My palate is exceptional, able to identify a vintage by the subtle yet complex notes of coffee, chocolate, blackberry and spice.
Women are much the same. Each with her own nuances. And Kate Winter is in a class all her own. Fruity, with a hint of cherry, but also darker, more intriguing notes, such as to be found in a rich forest floor. She is the fruit of the earth, and I’m starving for the harvest.
A few more strokes and I’m poised on the edge, and then I pitch over, shattering into the most mind-numbing orgasm in a decade. For a moment, I wonder if I’m struck blind. Then the world returns, and I wash my hands, turn off the spray and grab a towel for my waist.
It takes me five minutes to regain my breath. After an intense, almost holy, experience like that, there is only one place to go—my brother, the saint.
* * *
Benedict will enter the priesthood. As a virgin.
Fucking crazy, right? My father bursts with pride at the fact he has a son destined for the priesthood and St. Egbert Abbey. To me, it’s a fate worse than hell, and besides, it’s more pressure. Benedict’s put our bloodline at risk given that I’m the heir and he’s the spare. My youngest brother, Damien, doesn’t factor into the equation as he is banished and thereby removed from the line of succession. If I screw up here, the kingdom could pass from my family to my cousin Ingrid. She is a nice enough girl, and I don’t mean that dismissively. She is ten years old.
I shove on a pair of sweatpants, lace up my running shoes and catch my reflection in the window. I look like a debauched lord of the underworld.
Reflections on my banished brother Damien spiral me into a brooding darkness. The latest rumors claim that he resides half-time in London and the rest over in America. He could build a hermetically sealed tower in Madagascar for all I care, and it would still be too goddamn close. My family is like the setup to a bad joke: a commitment-phobic heir to the throne, a virgin almost-priest, and a black sheep all walk into a bar...
I jog through the quiet palace, past row after row of ancient ancestors appraising me from gilded frames. Do they wonder if I’ll ever measure up? If I’ll fulfill my legacy? Damn these black thoughts to hell. I get outside and run until my lungs are near bursting. On the edge of the grounds, near the Royal River, is the tower where my brother lives. He calls it his sanctuary, and he’s not wrong. Poor bastard might not use his cock, but he has peace. And he deserves it because I don’t say bastard lightly.
There isn’t conclusive proof, but there are many rumors that my mother took a brief liking to the head of her secret-service detail while my father was at a UN summit. The only evidence? My brother’s piercing green eyes—neither my mother’s nor my father’s.
I try the door.
“It’s locked, Sir,” a formal male voice calls out.
I turn to find X there, watching me with his usual impenetrable expression. One would think that after years of him appearing by my side without setting off so much as a floorboard creak, I would be used to his stealth. But it still unnerves me every time.
“I’m afraid Mr. Benedict was called away on urgent business.”
“Where to?” I ask.
“Vatican City.”
I laugh without humor. “Of course.”
Benedict is the only person that I count a true friend, one I can trust without question unlike recent experiences with Christian. And as far as I’m concerned, Benedict is my only brother. If I ever were to cross paths with Damien again, I know Benedict would pass me the knife to gut him.
One happy family.
Looks like I’m not going to be able to get any advice tonight. The only thing I can do is pop an Ambien and hope for a dreamless sleep.
Because tomorrow morning, I’ll be facing Kate Winter again. And this time she won’t be spreading her legs and offering me a sample of her nectar. She’ll be presenting me with a dossier of potential wives.
Kate
It’s déjà vu the next morning when I look out my apartment window to find X and the Rolls-Royce waiting against the curb. Maddie peers over my shoulder.
“I still don’t get it,” she says, and I can hear the disappointment lacing her tone. “Why did they specifically ask for you rather than me? It’s my agency, after all.”
Now that the contract has been signed, I can tell my sister everything. Which is good because that whole secrecy thing won’t fly when I’m getting picked up by a Rolls with a license plate that reads Royal. Besides, I’d accepted the job—after the king and queen agreed to double my fee for working with such a reluctant client. Well, it was the queen’s suggestion. Turns out that despite the business being Maddie’s baby, my recent success at facilitating what I thought had been a few discreet celebrity matches had not flown under the radar of the royal family.
“Come on, Mads,” I say. “It’s a gold star for the business regardless of whether it’s you or me facilitating the matches. Plus, you’re my partner in crime, so it’s not like we can’t work on Nikolai’s profile together.” In fact, the only thing I cannot disclose to anyone other than Maddie is the list of potential candidates.
She is obviously still pouting, but as much as I love my big sister and her flair for business, I am the one with the perfect match record—fifteen happy couples in just the past six months alone. It’s all in the interviews. One face-to-face conversation with each potential partner—separately, of course—and I can either feel their chemistry...or not. That, coupled with my limited celebrity experience, I’m sure is why they asked for me, but I don’t rub it in. While I’m proud I’ve taken so well to the business these past two years, what does it say that I can find happy endings for everyone—except myself?
Then I’m reminded that I risked my heart once, and the payoff was total devastation. No, thank you. I’m good with focusing on everything and anything other than that.
I wave to X and hold up a finger, letting him know I’ll be right there. Then I turn to face my sister, staring into icy blue eyes that mirror my own.
“Remember, Maddie, we need this fee. We are almost due for another quarterly payment at Silver Maples.” Gran’s been deteriorating, her Alzheimer’s getting worse almost by the week. We’re her sole financial support. Actually, we’re her sole everything. As much as it kills us not to have her at home, caring for her like she did raising us, her condition has declined too much. Silver Maples is a top-rated facility, one of the best in Europe. And it’s priced accordingly. It’s just out of our financial means at the moment, but I intend to change that.
I don’t mention the part about receiving no fee at all if I don’t get Nikolai down the aisle—if he is my first and only fail. I also may have omitted that despite my vow to find him a suitable queen, I already know what it feels like for his stubble to chafe my thighs, for his tongue to swirl around my swollen clit. Or to know that despite the matches that are perfect for Nikolai Lorentz on paper, the only chemistry I’m sure of at this point is whatever happened in that garden maze between myself and our future king.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath and slip past her. I need to stop thinking myself into climax before I’ve even had my first sip of espresso. “I’m late.” I grab my dossier off our small kitchen table and reach for the small cup that should have three shots of my morning wake-up medicine when I realize the espresso machine is unplugged. I never forget my morning shot. Ugh. I am way off my game, which is not an auspicious beginning to day one with my most important client. “Shit,” I say louder and then groan my acceptance at another morning with an empty belly. I kiss my sister on the cheek. “Love you!” And then I dart out the door before she has a chance to respond.
Not that I’m expecting a repeat performance of what happened yesterday, but I wear my auburn waves loose today—in case of any mishaps. Better to have my hair down and unfettered than to attempt the whole conservative look only to wind up disheveled and unkempt. Because I much prefer kempt.
X holds open the car door, and I enter to find a veritable feast waiting for me on a small table attached to the wall that separates the rear of the vehicle from the front. There’s a bowl of the reddest strawberries I’ve ever seen, a small basket of scones and a stainless-steel travel mug of what I assume is coffee.
My eyes widen as I lower myself into my seat, and I glance at X before he closes the door. He offers me a small bow, and I blush, embarrassed at the royal treatment when my upbringing is probably more common than he can imagine.
“Compliments of His Royal Highness, Prince Nikolai.”
While I’m sure my fresh breakfast probably cost him no more than a few seconds of his time, a quick royal order via text, I can’t fight the warmth spreading through my veins that he thought of me at all.
“Thank you, X,” I say with a smile I’m unable to suppress, and he nods before closing the door.
I settle into the plush leather of my seat, pulling a napkin that’s folded in the shape of a swan from the table before me. A pang of guilt rests in my chest for whoever created this small masterpiece only to have me stain it with berry juice or dripped coffee. Yet I shake it out, a swan no more, and lay it across my lap as X pulls smoothly from the curb.
I opted for pants today—a cropped black pair with a green silk blouse. And flats. I’d pretty much taken every precaution to avoid a repeat performance with the prince, and I smile smugly to myself at how easy it will be to keep my panties on today.
I unlock the lid to the mug and breathe in the rich aroma, biting back a moan as I do. Whatever brand of coffee is in there, it’s miles above the quality of the espresso I buy on sale at the corner market.
I knock on the window that separates me from X, and instead of him lowering it, his voice pipes through a speaker to my left.
“Can I help you, Miss Kate?”
I roll my eyes at his insistence on formality but decide not to give him a hard time.
“It’s kind of lonely here,” I tell him. “Can we talk without the intercom?”
I hear him clear his throat. “As you wish, Miss Kate.”
The window lowers, and I pop a strawberry into my mouth before leaning toward the open space between us. But the expanse is too wide for my torso, and I end up falling to my knees, a dribble of berry juice on my chin. I wipe it clean and scoot the rest of the way to the window frame, leaning through it so X’s strong profile is in view.
“Did you make the swan?” I ask.
His eyes remain on the road as he replies. “No, Miss.”
“Did you make the coffee?”
“No, Miss.”
“Would you like a strawberry?”
At this I see the faintest tug on the corner of his mouth, and I decide that along with making sure I send Nikolai Lorentz down the aisle, I’m going to make X smile.
“No, Miss,” he says, and my shoulders sag.
I follow his eyes to the road ahead and realize we’re not headed in the direction of the palace. For a second my heart stutters in my chest.
“Okay, you’re not going to ply me with strawberries and scones only to dump me in the river with a backpack full of stones, right?”
Again that twitch of his lip, but it doesn’t go beyond that.
“We are heading to the river,” he says. “But His Highness said nothing about a backpack.”
I narrow my eyes even though he won’t look in my direction. Despite heading toward the body of water I’ve avoided most of my living years, I decide to trust my life is not in danger and slide back to my seat, this time bringing a warm blueberry scone with me. Seriously? How is it still warm?
Just as I relax and bring the pastry to my lips, we roll to a stop. X, however, does not leave his seat. Before I can ask him if we’ve reached our destination, my door opens, and I see the prince—not in a rumpled dress shirt and tuxedo pants but in a fitted black T-shirt and dark washed jeans. I know what I said about not being a preteen fangirl, but holy hell. This man in the flesh is a vision to behold.
He extends his arms wide as if he’s brought the world to my doorstep, and based on the breakfast alone, it feels like he has.
“We can’t possibly be expected to work indoors on a day like today,” he says, his gray eyes shimmering silver in the sun.
He offers me a hand, and I take it, grabbing the dossier with my other as he pulls me into the fresh morning air.
“No,” I say, trying to convince myself that the smoldering heat in my core is from the coffee I leave behind in the car. “I guess we can’t.”