by Alyssa Cole
Nya realized something. “Why did you tell me? You could have said you were looking at social media.”
Those long lashes fluttered up as he met her gaze again. “Because you asked me. The alternative would have been lying, and I don’t do that with you.”
The way he said “with you” made it seem as if he was happy to lie to others, maybe even to everyone. Everyone but her.
This was probably not a good trait in a man, but Nya couldn’t help but feel pleased. He owed her nothing after all, because she wasn’t really his fiancée, but he would give her the truth, which was usually all she wanted in life.
“I knew you were nice.”
“Nice is not a compliment,” he said. “It’s what you say to people with no other redeeming qualities.”
He leaned back atop the overstuffed pillows, his hands folded behind his head. Nya’s gaze traced the shadows of his muscled biceps down to the dark auburn hair under his arms.
“Do you want compliments?” She assumed he got them all the time, but he had been so hesitant even when she’d wanted to give him a nickname. So sure she was going to insult him.
He glanced at her warily. “You’ve already complimented my eyelashes. That’s enough.”
“You’re very good with children,” she said. “You made them laugh today, and didn’t mind when they made fun of you.”
He nodded. “True. Though I didn’t appreciate the boy who said I looked like a yam.”
“You treat me as an equal,” she pressed on. “And I’m comfortable with you. I’ve never slept in a bed with a man before, and I should be nervous right now, but I know that you’re my friend and you won’t hurt me. I slept more soundly than I have in a very long time.”
The wariness didn’t leave his gaze, but he made a flustered exhalation that shifted the locks that had fallen over his eyes.
“I told you I wouldn’t debauch you unless you wanted me to. That’s baseline normal behavior, Nya. Honestly.”
Nya understood that his words weren’t meant to be seductive, weren’t a declaration of anything more than his role as a playboy prince, but she’d decided that in this dating simulation, she was a brave and adventurous girl. One who asked questions that might lead to more, and one who wondered—
“What would you do? If I was interested in being debauched?”
Just like that the wary amusement fled his eyes, burnt away by blue flash fire. It seemed he was thinking of schnitzel again.
“That depends,” he said, and he must have wanted schnitzel very badly because there was hunger in his tone, making his voice deep and sexy. “Have you ever been debauched before?”
“No,” she whispered, shifting under the duvet. “A man kissed me on one of my dates in New York, but I didn’t like it very much. It was . . . slimy. Like badly cooked okra.”
He shuddered. “You have quite a way with words.”
She laughed, though she hadn’t laughed after that kiss. She’d gone home, brushed her teeth for a very long time, and then deleted the dating app from her phone, freeing up more storage room for her games.
He looked down at her hand, and then at her face.
“Hmm,” he said. “In that case, I might . . .” He pierced her with his hungry look again as his hand hovered over hers on the bed between them. “May I?”
She nodded. She most certainly couldn’t speak. She hadn’t thought he would really—
“In that case, I might start with light debauchery.” Johan ran his fingertips over the back of her hand, a light caress that sent shivers racing up her arm, to her breasts, to her belly. He caressed again, this time tracing to the tips of her fingers before lacing his own through hers and lifting so their palms pressed together.
His heavy-lidded gaze was fixed on her as he softly kissed the pad of her pinky, and then her ring finger, his full lips warm and gentle. It should have been an innocent gesture, but paired with his cobalt stare, each touch of his mouth was like an electric shock. She was warm, so warm, and her breaths came slow and cautious, like one sudden gasp might distract him from the amazing things he was doing to her with his mouth.
He kissed his way to the whorl on her thumb, his mouth lingering there, then parting as he sucked gently—just enough to send a wave of scandalized pleasure through her body.
Oh goddess.
The next kiss landed on the palm of her hand, his breath hot and ticklish, and when his lips grazed her wrist she gasped, unable to contain it. He didn’t startle; he grinned. His stubble rasped against her skin as he did, and she pressed her thighs together against the sudden throb at their juncture.
Johan dragged his mouth down her forearm, so slowly that she thought he might stop at any moment, and her body teetered on the edge of panic that the pleasure might end.
He didn’t stop, though.
He edged closer to her on the bed, the better to debauch her, and when his lips landed on the bend of her elbow, he licked. It was a strong, sure motion, that lick. It told her many things at once, reminded her that he wasn’t a man who hesitated once he acted on his impulses.
“Oh my,” she breathed. Now she knew what that seemingly useless patch of skin had been made for—Johan’s mouth.
He was at her biceps now, tongue lightly tracing over her trembling muscles.
My whole body is trembling, she thought. He might lick me everywhere.
Her breath caught, and it seemed that he heard it because his torturously slow motions sped up a bit, intensified, as he charted a course for her throat. When he reached the curve of her shoulder, she felt the light graze of his teeth there, and then the sharp drag of enamel against her collarbone and up, deepening when he reached the notch where her neck and shoulder met and oh goddess she hadn’t known what she was asking for. If this was light debauchery, then she would surely die at mild.
He made a sound that was almost a groan as he lingered there. “You smell good, Sugar Bubble. Like dessert.”
She was trying to keep still despite the riot of sensation charging through her, but her hand flexed in his at those words that sounded so, so naughty when spoken against her skin, and Johan’s motion up her body stopped. He kissed her neck where his teeth had been, then exhaled, his breath cool against the heat left by his mouth.
“Do you want me to stop? Remember, I want to do what you wish, and if your wish is for me to stop, I will.”
Something occurred to her then.
“Do you want to? Do this? You don’t have to just because I asked.” She suddenly felt ashamed, wondering if she’d forced him with her silly question. Just because debauching was his thing didn’t mean he wanted to do it to her.
He squeezed her hand, which was still entwined with his, and ran his nose up the column of her neck, and Nya was almost offended that even that part of his body could make her skin prick with need.
“Thank you for asking, but I wasn’t clear if you think I don’t want to touch you. Or taste you. I’m not a demigod seeking to grant you your every desire—I’m a man who wants to.”
His eyes were still dark and hot, and she realized in that moment that there was no schnitzel. Or rather, she was the schnitzel. He wanted her, not for forever, but that was fine. He was her friend, and for right now, he would be her lover. It felt natural, like in her games when one response in the multiple choice was so obvious that you’d be a fool not to select it.
“Don’t stop,” she said, and if there had been any doubt in her mind that he was doing this out of pity, it was dispelled by the wicked grin that spread across his face. She expected him to say something witty then, like he always did, but instead his other hand came up to cup her face, and he kissed her.
Nya’s okra kiss had been bumbling and messy, a sneak attack when she’d politely leaned in for a hug after meeting a date for coffee. She now realized that what’d happened before hadn’t been a kiss, it had been a travesty, and one that Johan was doing his best to thoroughly erase from her memory.
His mouth was warm,
and his lips soft as they caught hers—that was the only way to describe the motion, like she’d been in free fall until his lips pressed hungrily against hers, holding her in place with the sheer force of his want.
He wants me. That thrilled her as much as his touch, the realization sending gossamer threads of desire through her body.
His fingers flexed, against her face and her hand, and his tongue sought out hers, the movement sleek and innate.
She pressed closer to him, her other hand grasping at the neckline of his tank top as she pulled him forward, pulled him until he rolled on top of her, their lips and tongues still seeking each other out.
His weight drove her into the mattress and she slid her arms around his neck. His weird shoulder-neck muscles flexed beneath her forearms as he rested his elbows on either side of her face and dipped his head to hers. And his hips . . . they’d briefly moved against her before, during their dramatic escape from the wedding reception, but now she could feel the hard length of him through his sweatpants, so close to the need between her thighs. His motions were slowly pushing her sleeping gown up, and she knew what she wanted from him. She wasn’t sure enough of herself to go too far, and didn’t want to just yet, but she could do this over the clothing exploration.
She leaned up to meet his kiss, and her hands slid down to his hips, gripping them as she positioned the V between her legs against his erection. There was the fabric of her underwear and his sweatpants between her mound and the thick, shocking outline of him.
Johan groaned a lascivious sound into her mouth, and it was as satisfying as a purloined sweet.
“Oh là là, Nya.” His voice was low, so low that it vibrated through her body, like he could give her pleasure with that, too. “That’s not light debauchery. Are you sure?”
“I’m requesting the upgrade,” she whispered. “Mild debauchery, please.”
“Comme tu willst,” he growled. One of his hands slipped behind her head, lifting and tilting it back before his lips skimmed her neck. His hips coiled and released as he ground into her, slowly but not at all sweetly. They were both fully clothed, but she felt deliciously exposed as pleasure cocooned her body.
She’d seen as much porn as the next woman, had touched herself before, and knew what her body liked. She’d never seen much need for any help with this particular aspect of life, and none of the men she’d dated before had inspired her to think otherwise. Dating had always felt like something to do just because she was free to do it once she’d left Thesolo—because she was supposed to. Nya had never really been attracted to the men she matched with on the apps, and without that attraction, no pressing need for more than a polite goodnight hug had ever developed.
Sexual touching had seemed like a mildly interesting activity she might enjoy but was probably better in fantasy, like hiking in the Catskills. This was different from how she’d imagined it would be—the weight of Johan, his lemon-and-lavender-tinged-with-sweat scent, the way he looked into her eyes, slowing down or increasing the pressure as he read what she needed from him.
There, with her body feeling both light and heavy with desire, her hips twisting to press her clit harder against Johan’s erection, she realized she wanted more than friendship from him. More than touch.
She pushed the thought away, focused only on the pleasure spiraling through her body and Johan’s labored breathing, his flushed cheeks and the way he stared so hard that she might combust from the magnifying glass heat of his gaze alone.
“Is this good for you?” he asked, his voice rough. His hips were moving slower now, but more emphatically, and she changed her tempo to match his. The new simmering pleasure forced her head back into the pillow.
“Yes. You feel so good.”
Johan made an ungainly sound and he somehow grew harder against her. She opened her eyes to see that his eyes were closed, his expression almost one of pain. She remembered him teasing her about talking dirty as he’d guided her out of the reception; maybe he hadn’t been entirely joking.
Maybe that was what he liked. What he wanted for himself.
“Do you like when I tell you how it feels, Phoko? Do you want me to, um”—her voice trembled on the next whispered two words—“talk dirty?”
He dragged in a breath. “Ouay.”
She felt it all through her body, the power in that word and how he was handing it to her. She felt his need, too, and surprisingly, she felt her own. She wanted to give him pleasure. She wanted to make him groan like that, again and again.
The only problem was she had never spoken dirty before.
“I like the sensation of you on top of me. You are heavy and strong and your weight feels good. Your muscles are very firm.”
Oh god, what kind of dirty talk is this?
She expected him to burst out laughing, but he kissed her temples, her ears, her hair as he allowed a bit more of his weight to press down on her. As he ground against her, sending a shock of pleasure through her that made her toes splay.
She slid one of her hands down his muscled back, then up into his disheveled hair, and tugged lightly. His eyes squeezed shut more tightly as he growled and thrust harder against her, then they opened, storm dark and hot and pleading.
“Your thing . . .” It seemed she could still feel embarrassment even as pleasure tingled through her and her heart hammered in her chest. She couldn’t say the word she wanted to, but she kept talking. “You feel so good moving against me. Your . . . eggplant emoji is hot and hard and long.”
He released a muffled mixture of laughter and pleasure.
“Nya. Are you trying to kill me?” His grip on her tightened, and his grinding sped up. A thin sheen of sweat covered her body, and his hair was damp and curling beneath her palm.
“Yes.” She moaned as he rubbed against her with just the right pressure. “Johan, I’ve imagined you touching me, and the reality is so much better. Goddess.”
He didn’t say anything, but his hand tightened on the back of her head, repositioning her face so that his greedy mouth found hers easily. Now he moved with a bucking, thrusting motion that mirrored what they could have been doing if they were naked and she was ready.
This is what he wants to do to you.
The thought sent her over the edge. She moaned into his mouth, once quick and low, then longer, then a yip that broke sharply into a surprised shout as an orgasm surged through her, sending tingling pleasure from her head to her toes.
Johan went rigid above her, all but his hips, which thrust a few more times before a tremor ran through his body and he collapsed on top of her, his face nestled into her braids.
His breathing was harsh when, after a long moment, he rasped out, “Why do I feel like I’m the one who’s been debauched? Thank you, Sugar Bubble.”
Nya didn’t know what she was supposed to do at this point, so she did what she wanted.
“You’re welcome. I think we both did well.” She lightly punched his arm. “Way to go.”
He laughed into her neck and kissed her there, sending a fresh spark of pleasure through her. She ran her hand through his hair.
Friends, she reminded herself. With benefits.
Eventually they broke apart to visit their respective bathrooms, and she arrived back to the bed before he did. She picked up her phone.
ONE TRUE PRINCE, TEXT MESSAGE FROM: HANJO
What does the ache in my chest mean? Love, Nya. I think it means love.
She put the phone down on the bedside table.
Johan walked in, shirtless, hair tousled and damp, and came over to her side of the giant bed. His gaze skipped to her phone just before the screen went dark, then back to her, before he slid under the duvet beside her.
“You never answered my question on the jet,” he said, voice almost hesitant. She was confused, and then she smiled and pushed him to his side, throwing an arm over his shoulder as she curled around him from behind.
“Big spoon,” she said, and then they fell asleep.
&nbs
p; Chapter 12
Although there has been no official confirmation from Castle von Braustein yet, Jo-Jo has indeed returned home in the lead-up to the historic vote for Liechtienbourg’s future with a woman on his arm. Not much is known about Nya Jerami, but former classmates and coworkers describe her as “shy,” “a good girl,” and “way too good for that kind of man.” What’s known about her father, who currently resides in Thesolo’s maximum security prison, is a different matter (click here for more). She arrived at Liechtienbourg Airport in Sommetstaad, the country’s capital, looking quite happy at Jo-Jo’s side.
—The Looking Glass Daily, Royal Beat
The country of Liechtienbourg was often described as a town masquerading as a kingdom, and the traditional response from Liechtienbourgers was e blade deguisee als bottermesser—“a blade disguised as a butter knife.” As they sat in the king’s royal parlor, Johan couldn’t help but think the same of Nya. Her deceptive softness could mask desire so sharp that he was still bleeding from just a graze of it. All he’d been able to think about on their flight from Njaza was making her cry out again, but there were no bedrooms on the commercial flight they’d taken, and they’d both slept most of the way there.
A fire crackled in the fireplace, the room filled with the familiar smoky scent of winter in the castle, and outside the large old windows, snow fluttered from the gray sky to melt on the cobblestones.
King Linus listened intently as Nya regaled him with tales of Ledi and Thabiso’s wedding, including a dramatic recounting of Johan passing out in the sauna.
Had he really thought she was shy before the wedding? Had she changed, or had his perception of her shifted? Maybe both, though he’d always known there was danger in the flutter of her lashes and bells chiming in her sweet laughter.
Scheisse, he was a mess. It was bad enough that he couldn’t stop thinking of her, but now his thoughts were florid enough to impress Likotsi.
Linus ate the last bit of his pastry and then clapped his hands to his knees. “I’d wondered why Jo-Jo never brought anyone home with him before,” he said in English, his accent smoother than Johan’s because he’d been taught the language alongside his mother tongue as a child, like most of the aristocracy. “Now I see he was just waiting for this marvelous woman seated across from me. You’re lucky I’m not a few years younger, Jo-Jo.”
