Tempting the Prince (Sexy Misadventures of Royals)

by Christi Barth

  “Conventional? Bite your tongue.” His violet eyes darkened as his lids dropped to a sexy-times smolder level. “Or let me do it for you. When it comes to what we do together, nothing less than exceptional will do.”

  “I assumed that goes without saying.”

  Mallory whipped off her overshirt and let it crumple on top of his without hesitation. Toed off her sneakers. With strong kicks, she let them fly down the endless presentational strip of purple carpet.

  Then she paused. Being on board with the idea of throne room sex was different from following through on it. The crown prince, the acting king, he kind of needed to give her an official green light for this possibly sacrilegious act.

  “Well, Your Highness? What do you say?”

  “I say we’re way past talking.” Christian crushed his mouth to hers. No warm-up. No slow seduction.

  They both wanted this.

  They both knew it.

  It was the cure for what ailed both of them. Mallory mentally flogged herself for not thinking of it sooner. Only for a second, though. Why waste time thinking when a gorgeous man had his hands all over her?

  Christian’s mouth never stopped moving. It was hard to keep track of his lips, tongue, both hands, and the leg rubbing up and down hers. So many sensations. So many chills and shivers and electricity.

  It was the most fun she’d had with her clothes on.

  She couldn’t wait to get them off.

  Mallory was running her hands all through his hair. Thick. Soft. Christian always purred when she scraped down the back of his neck. That sound made her feel powerful. On top of turning her on.

  “I can’t…front or back…” Christian gave up trying to get a hand down her pants. “Today’s cold snap is quite the cockblock.”

  “Nothing—not even tight jeans—is allowed to disobey you in the throne room. Command me what to do, Your Highness.”

  “Remove the blasted shirt. No, the jeans first. Then turn your back to me and remove the shirt.”

  Mallory sank her teeth into his earlobe before getting off his lap. Boogied a few dance steps away to give him the space to see all of her at once. Positioned dead center in line with the throne—because who knew when she’d ever have this chance again—she set her tongue between her teeth and smiled.

  Because he might be the one giving commands, but she was the one in control.

  The button on her gray jeans flicked right open. She took her time with the zipper, though, pulling so slowly that the snick of the tab unlocking each set of teeth was audible. Watching Christian watch her was almost as good as him touching her. She could all but feel his heated gaze wash over her skin.

  When Mallory hooked her thumbs just beneath the waistband and shimmied them down her thighs, inch by inch, his whole body pulled taut. A marionette on a string couldn’t have been any straighter than Christian. His knuckles whitened between the thick coils of gold fringe on the edge of the ottoman.

  Once they just cleared her ass, Mallory stopped and turned to face away from him. She held them there like an underscore to the black lace panties while she rolled and shook in some weird combo of the hula and a pole dancer. Whatever. Her moves didn’t need a name. They just needed to get Christian’s attention.

  Copying a move from Legally Blonde, she bent all the way over to push her jeans off in one fast whoosh. And snapped back up, with one more jiggle for good measure. Because Mallory knew she was a bigger, sturdier woman than most in the palace.

  Her Nordic genes gave her height and strong bones. But she also knew that her ass was exceptional. Every man she’d ever been with had mentioned its captivating roundness. So she worked her asset.

  Christian said…something in his language. Something deep and guttural and close to a choked moan at the end. Mallory didn’t need to know the exact translation. She was gratified enough by the sound of it.

  There wasn’t a sexy way to peel off her camisole. Mallory just did it fast. Tossed it with a nice arc to land on the pile of clothes. Then she just stood there and swayed to the music.

  It worked.

  She felt the heat pumping off of Christian a second before he encircled her, palming her breasts, rubbing them in circles over nipples so hard it felt like they could tear through the scant black lace.

  Hot, questing lips feasted on her neck. Teeth scraped across the tendon just on the other side of her rapidly firing pulse.

  “No hickeys,” she warned. “It isn’t cold enough for turtlenecks yet.”

  “No hickeys where they could be seen in public,” Christian agreed. “I reserve the right to give in to my need to mark you privately.”

  Okay. That was hot. And now she desperately wanted him to give her one, somewhere.

  The good news was that he’d shucked his clothes while she danced. That was why she felt his heat so strongly. They were skin to skin almost everywhere. His nipples grazed her shoulder blades. The coarser hairs covering his legs scraped against her with delicious roughness.

  They both still wore socks. It should look ridiculous, his dark-brown socks and her novelty socks covered in fat pumpkins lined up on the plush purple carpet.

  It didn’t make Mallory laugh, though. It truly did make her feel like they were two normal people dancing in their living room on a Saturday night, mostly naked, grooving to the music.

  It gave her…hope. Hope that they truly could hang on to the core of an average couple, despite the glitz, wealth, and the freaking specter of an impending kingship that surrounded them.

  One arm banded around her waist, while the other hand kept squeezing her boob. He picked her up like she weighed less than the plate of cookies. Mallory giggled at the awkward fun of their position. Her giggles stopped, though, as Christian strode relentlessly toward the steps up to the throne.

  “Whoa. Wait. Hang on.”

  He stopped halfway on the dais. “What? Change your mind?”

  “Not entirely. Here and now, yes. Just not there,” she said, pointing at the massive, ornate throne.

  Gold scrollwork and curlicues outlined what had to be a six-foot-tall back. Not to mention the enormous portrait of Queen Serena hanging behind it. The dead queen who looked like a near clone to Genevieve and Kelsey. It’d be like his family were watching.

  “After being poked and prodded into making the throne my own, I thought this would be a way to do it. But perhaps you’re right.” He turned around so fast that her legs swung to one side like a pendulum. “Hold this.” Christian pulled a condom from the waist of his boxer briefs. Then he jogged halfway down the room to a marble table butted up against one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

  He set her down. Lifted the golden candelabra with twenty curved arms off of it and placed it on the parquet floor in front of the french doors out to the garden. Shucked his briefs, then ripped her panties in half with both hands.

  “Christian! Lingerie doesn’t grow on trees.”

  “Maybe not in Michigan. But it does here. You haven’t gotten the tour of the lingerie orchard yet?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Brace yourself,” he ordered. Mallory crossed her forearms on the cool marble after returning the condom. “Now watch us. See what a difference you make to me.”

  Christian slid inside halfway. Nudged her feet wider, then pushed in the rest of the way.

  Mallory shuddered out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. He stretched her, filled her. Yet she ground back against him, still seeking more. Knowing that he’d give her what she craved.

  He collared her throat with his hand. Held its weight there for a moment. Then he slowly, excruciatingly slowly, dragged it down the center of her body. Christian kept his eyes locked on hers in the mirror the whole time. When his hand landed between her legs, he drew his fingertips together.

  And he strummed her. Back and forth, up and d
own, right over that bundle of nerves at the top of her slit.

  “Holy… Oh, God… Christian? Do you play the guitar?”

  His lips opened, tongue coming out to lick at them before giving her a smug, knowing smile. “I play you, Mallory.”

  It was hard to keep her head up to look at him in the mirror. But nothing in this world could make her look away, either. Because he’d picked up the pace.

  Every stroke was so fast and hard that it swung her hair forward. And now a vein stood out on his temple, right at the edge of his golden crown of hair. His jaw jutted forward slightly, and all his neck and shoulder muscles corded. Her prince was close.

  So was she.

  Christian ground the heel of his hand against her, while his other hand squeezed her nipple. It pushed her over the edge, every inch of her body going impossibly tight before dissolving into quivers of pulsating bliss.

  Christian pumped fast, once more, before his jaw dropped all the way open to release a long groan.

  And still they stared into each other’s eyes in that mirror.

  Watching him fall apart was one of the most intimate things she’d ever seen.

  Mallory wondered just how much her eyes had betrayed to him of how she felt.

  “You make me happy, Mallory. I can—and will—wax on at length, much more poetically. But do you see this smile?” He took her hand in his and patted his cheek. “You put it there. All the time. All day and all night, even when I’m knee-deep in a shitstorm. The simple truth is often the most powerful. You. Make. Me. Happy.”

  Mallory believed him. Here. Now.

  She didn’t believe it could last once the entire kingdom knew about them. Or that it would be allowed to last.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Christian crouched down to be at the same height as the young girl in front of him. Bit back a wince as the leather of his boots bit into the back of his knees. Hopefully the leatherworkers of the seventeenth century had been more skilled than whoever created this “authentic traditional dress” get-up. He was ready to rip everything off after only two hours at the Harvest Festival. How had people tromped for miles, swung swords, plowed fields in above-the-knee boots and a vest and a tie?

  “Congratulations, Your Highness. Your trophy is beautiful,” said the girl as she dropped three fast curtsies in a row.

  “Thank you. What’s your name?”

  “Ana.” She started to curtsy again, but Christian shot a hand to her arm to stop her. The tip of the bow slung over her back hit the dirt every time she dipped down. Ana was adorable. Probably not more than nine, with long braids wound around her head like a crown with berries and leaves decorating it.

  “The judges tell me that you missed qualifying for the competition by one point. And that you were very sad and asked for a do-over.”

  Her lower lip quivered. “I did! They wouldn’t let me. But I’ve done better before. If I’d tried again, I know I would’ve qualified.”

  Everyone had days like that. One judge had told him that Ana had trained diligently, and often bested the boy who had beaten her for a spot. “You know how you learned the proper stance, and how to draw the bow?”

  “Yes.” She beamed at him and swished the bright-red skirt and its layers of petticoats. “I’m very good at lessons. I always listen.”

  He got a kick out of her confidence. Hoped it never wavered. “Today you learned that you don’t always get a second chance. It’s a hard lesson. Believe me, nobody likes it. But now that you know, you’ll try even harder the first time at things, won’t you?”

  “I will, Your Highness. I promise.”

  Christian handed over the carved wooden cup he’d been bestowed after winning the adult archery competition. “Take this. Let it remind you to keep trying, keep working. Bring it back to the festival next year and give it to the judges. They’ll find me. Then you can show me how much you’ve improved.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You and I have a date in exactly one year, Ana.” He stood and bowed formally to her.

  “Thank you, Your Highness!” One last bob of a curtsy before she hurtled away toward her family, waving the trophy above her head.

  Elias handed back the hat he’d tossed in the air when he won. Christian took it with a grimace. He wasn’t a fan of the wide-brimmed black hat, either. Basically, he was damn content with living in the twenty-first century with zippers. Sneakers. Baseball caps.

  He was particularly partial to the sight of Mallory jogging around the palace grounds with her long red hair bobbing out the back of a baseball cap. In a sports bra and those lycra pants that were a gift from the gods to the male species.

  “That was classy. And sweet,” said Sir Theo Holst, Genevieve’s boyfriend. He’d been out of town for the past few weeks. Christian was glad to have him along today for solidarity. And because he genuinely—thank God—liked the man.

  Even finding out that Theo had a stick up his ass about the royal family for most of his life only made him like the man more. It was a refreshing change to have someone new in his circle who didn’t give a rat’s ass about his title.

  “Thanks, but I can’t take the credit. King Julian started the tradition, years ago. I’m only carrying it on.”

  “A royal wins every year?” Theo—ever skeptical of the privileges accorded to the House of Villani—shot him some seriously shitty side-eye. “You expect me to believe that’s for real? It’s got to be rigged, right? So everyone maintains their awe?”

  “No.” Even though it still stung, he waved an arm to reveal the truth. “I’ve won eight times. But Elias here has won twice.”

  Eli also passed Christian a stein of beer. God forbid he be caught on video carrying a beer all day at the Harvest Festival and be labeled a lush. Sir Kai had given him that warning every year, like clockwork, since he’d turned eighteen. “When I did, you bet I rubbed Christian’s face in it. But then I maintained the tradition set by the king. Handed over the trophy to a deserving child.”

  Theo gave a dismissive wave side to side with his oversize soft pretzel. “So, aside from Elias, you and the king have walked away with the trophy for decades? What—I’m supposed to believe there’s elven blood in your veins, giving you special archery skills?”

  Christian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after taking two long gulps of the ale. “That’d be sweet. Aren’t elves the ones who live for thousands of years?”

  “Yes. But then you’d have to rule for thousands of years,” Elias pointed out.

  His best friend often killed the fun with the voice of reason. “Then I’m relieved to report that the House of Villani is purely human.” Because that would suck. “Look, there are expectations laid out for us from birth that are slightly different from the rest of the citizens of Moncriano. We learn a bunch of languages. We aren’t given any choice about joining the family business. And we have to excel at archery. Not just excel. Be the best.”

  Christian made a grab for Theo’s pretzel. Because carrying food around was against the rules, too. And he’d worked up an appetite staying ahead of Elias in the point count.

  Theo handed it over without so much as blinking. In fact, his eyes were popped wide, his jaw slack. “We? You mean my beautiful Genevieve can do the bow and arrow thing, too?”

  “Indeed. What the hell, Theo? Who eats a pretzel without painting it with mustard?” Yeah, he still took half of it, but it didn’t make him happy.

  Elias looked over the rim of the stein and smirked. “The princess would kick your ass, Holst. Blindfolded.”

  Theo just shook his head. “Then why didn’t she compete today?”

  “Because of Kelsey. What with her being brand new to the whole princess thing. Doesn’t know one end of a bow from the other.”

  Christian finished off the explanation. “Genny didn’t want to put any pressure on her by partici
pating and having people expect to see both sisters competing.”

  Theo sucked in a long breath. His chest puffed out so much that the white scarf came untucked from the top of his vest. “She’s the best. I adore that woman. So much so that I’d be okay losing to her.”

  “To her?” A snorted laugh exploded from him. “Holst, you lost to everyone today, not just me. You came in dead last. If the king had been here to see it, he might’ve revoked that fancy-ass medal of honor we gave you this summer.”

  “So His Majesty won’t be showing up later?”

  “No.” Christian turned away, suddenly intensely aware of the oompah band that hadn’t stopped playing since the archery competition ended. It was loud. Strident. Annoying. Not to mention off-key. It grated on his nerves.

  Or maybe it was Theo’s question that rubbed him wrong.

  “I’m…surprised,” Theo said quietly, with a cautious pause in the middle.

  Christian plucked at his own damned blue-and-white striped scarf. “Me, too.”

  Theo’s head swiveled left to right, checking to see if anyone was within hearing distance. There were thousands of people crowded into the closed-off streets of the festival today. But the three men had hung back at the trampled grass of the park that everyone else had left once the competition ended. The wooden fence around it kept out everyone except their protection detail.

  Christian appreciated that he’d taken a beat to ascertain the level of privacy for this conversation.

  In a low voice, Theo said, “Genevieve told me that your trip with him went quite well. That he was his old self.”

  “He was,” Elias confirmed. “Until we returned to Alcarsa Palace. The king went right back to his rooms and hasn’t come out in the week since.”

  Christian didn’t know how to explain it. Or what to make of his father’s reclusive behavior. “He’s never missed the festival before. Not once in his whole life. He loves it—mingling with the people, playing the games, eating pretzels…with mustard,” he emphasized, frowning at Theo.