His to Princess

by Theodora Taylor

  Talia doesn't watch as he removes his shorts. It’s crazy enough that this is happening, and seeing him without his daily uniform of outdated cutoffs will make things too unreal, or maybe too real, for her to deal with. Instead, her eyes drift to the room’s high ceiling, lined with gold paint from another century.

  Thunder crashes again, and she can feel the electricity crackle through the air. An army of goosebumps stand at attention all over her. And Al’s there again, his solid chest warming hers, one hand on her breast, the other clutching her ass. Her legs wrap around him, and as they open, the wind kisses the heat and wetness she’s been holding inside.

  Al aligns himself, hard and wide, at her core. The storm calms, pulling the wind from the room and leaving them in a void. Talia looks into his eyes, wonders once again at the mystery she senses behind them.

  But then he cups her neck and enters her slowly, going deep. She whimpers as he fills her, and then he bows his back to reach the hilt…

  She gasps out. It’s a perfect fit. They’re a perfect fit.

  “Mon dieu,” he says with a shudder.

  Any misgivings Talia might have had about doing this with the mysterious squatter living in Mamy’s castle have completely disappeared. Like poof! In a blast of I want this, I need this, Oh God, yes, please…make me feel good.

  Seeming to hear her unspoken pleas, he begins a rhythmic pumping. The wind and rain pick up again, as if they hadn’t wanted to intrude but now feel comfortable rejoining the party. Droplets hit her legs and his back, cooling the sweaty heat between them. The thunder knocks. It rumbles through them, then bangs. A rattling sheet of tin, pounding out wild rhythms in concert with the noises they make as they start to lose their minds.

  “Al,” she says, wanting to tell him, wanting him to know how close she is. Wanting him to know so many things.

  “Shh, shh, I know.” He stops her lips with his own, his tongue pressing her words into moans.

  Talia’s eyes flutter as lightning flashes. His mouth moves to her nipple, fingers pinch the other, and his long thrusts become shorter, faster and faster, adding a new chorus to the raging joy inside her. Talia thrashes on the pile of blankets until the wave of electricity crests and she freezes. She cries out as it crackles, conducting tiny explosions inside every cell in her body.

  With a final thrust, he groans and stiffens. Then he floods her.

  It takes Talia a while to come back to herself afterwards. To realize what they’ve done.

  And what they’ve done it without.

  She should be cursing. Unprotected sex with a squatter isn’t exactly what she’d been thinking of when she decided to stay on in the islands.

  But as she floats down from Cloud Nine, Talia finds it hard to care.

  Like washing the dishes after the most fantastic party. She’ll put it off until morning. No point worrying right now, she decides with a dreamy smile.

  “Attends,” Al says, shifting away from her.

  She watches him get out of bed. To clean up? No, because…no running water. Duh.

  She catches a glimpse of the storm, tearing up the blackened sea beyond the windows as he shuts the balcony doors. After that, he disappears again into the hallway, but he’s back soon after with a pack strung over one arm.

  “You are cold,” he says. Kneeling before the fireplace, he builds a small pyramid of kindling with deft fingers. He strikes one of the storm matches from his pack. And as the small flame crackles to life, Talia shifts on the bed covers, thinking...

  He knows his way around a fireplace, too…

  Once more, she’s struck by how little she knows about the guy she just slept with. But at the same time, she feels completely cared for.

  Chapter 7

  “Where’d you learn how to do that, Al? In the navy?” his half-American, half-Vickee girl asks when he returns to the blanket pile.

  God, he loves the sound of his nickname in her husky voice. Even if she pronounces it with a short “a” rather than the long one as intended. He couldn’t bring himself to correct her when she’d mispronounced it at their first meeting, and he doubts he’ll ever try after what they just shared. Even if she has started asking uncomfortable questions again.

  “No, not in the navy” he answers carefully, slipping beneath the one blanket she’s designated as the pile’s main cover. “My father and I learned these skills together when I was a boy. At a sort of…training.”

  “Like Outward Bound? Some kids at my high school did that,” Talia says. “It’s kind of like summer camp, but for real and in the wild, right?”

  No, nothing like that. But he nods anyway and says, “Yes, something like that.”

  “So your dad was looking for ways to bond with you, is that it?”

  “Oui,” he answers, face set hard at the mention of his father. “It did not work. If we’d fought a lion together, it still would not have made us any closer. It was never enough. I was never enough.”

  “Hey…” She traces the edge of his jaw with her finger, and turns his stony face towards her sympathetic one. “Just so you know, I think you’re amazing. You’re kind and strong and brave. And you’ve been through so much.”

  She’s so beautiful with the flickering firelight dancing across her dark eyes. He takes her hand.

  “How can you think that? You cannot know these things about me,” he says.

  “No, I guess you’re right about that. It’s just…well, I feel it in my gut, I guess.” She gives him a sheepish smile that makes his stomach drop.

  Should he tell her? It’s wrong to lead her on…but he finds he can’t. Not yet. He doesn’t want to sour this moment. Doesn’t want to ruin this amazing night with something as ugly as the truth.

  “But seriously, maybe it’s not too late with your father,” she says. Ever the optimist, his half-American girl.

  “Unfortunately it is,” he tells her, squeezing her hand. “He has passed. A couple of months ago actually.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry,” she responds, squeezing back. “Is that why you came here? To grieve?”

  “Yes and no,” he answers, as close to the truth as he’s gotten with her. Al turns to the fire, letting his eyes get lost in the amber flames, before confessing, “The more I think about the things I didn’t say, the more I wonder if it really would have made a difference in our relationship.”

  “I understand. Some parents just can’t accept who you really are,” she says after a quiet moment. “If I don’t go back to law school and become a clone of my mom, I’m pretty sure my parents will disown me.”

  “You’re an adult,” he says with a chuckle. “They cannot disown you.”

  “Stop loving me then, I guess,” she says. “Though maybe they already have. I’ve tried to be what they want, but it seems like they’re never happy. The only parts of me they paid attention to were the parts they wanted to see. It’s like the rest of me, the me who’s happier here than in law school, doesn’t even exist in their eyes.”

  “Maybe your parents are not happy people,” he says, thinking of his own parents. Dinners with them were always cold, silent affairs, like they could not stand to be in one another’s presence. Yet this was the life, the kind of marriage, everyone on Victoire expected him to have.

  At the thought of what awaits him when he returns to the mainland, he says, “Enough of this.” Cupping her chin, he tells her. “Your parents are fools to ignore even a piece of you. I see it all, and I know you are special.”

  She surprises him with a rather unladylike snort of laughter. “You think I’m special, huh?”

  With lazy cruelness, her hand drifts down between his legs. She begins to stroke, making him suck in a breath. To which she responds, “How special?”

  “Very special,” he assures her.

  Talia rewards him with a dip of her head. “Good answer…”

  Obviously, this isn’t his first pipe. What do the Americans call it? Blow job. Usually he lets his head fall back, enjoying the sensatio
n of whatever glossy thing has decided to wet his knob. But tonight, he realizes he wants to watch Talia with his half-hooded eyes. He reaches his hand out not so much to guide her, but to feel the bobbing of her head as her still smiling lips travel up and down his length.

  Nom de Dieu, she’s lovely. Beautiful in a way he can barely describe, even to himself. In those moments of watching, he wishes they could go on like this forever. That he could keep her, even though he knows better.

  The thought of what will happen after the storm passes makes him less interested in her ministrations.

  “Come, ma belle…”

  He pulls her up, adjusting her position so her legs are straddling his, then lowers her onto his lap.

  When she feels how hard he is now against her mons, she smiles, lifting up on her knees. “That special, huh?”

  “Very, very special.” Al cups his hands between her legs, two sets of fingers reaching out. The top hand works at the front of her, massaging her clit in tender circles, while the other hand explores her opening. His long middle and ring fingers slip inside.

  “Oh my god, Al, you’re driving me crazy,” she says, bending her neck to kiss him. As their tongues meet, she lowers, groaning as he fills her. He latches onto one nipple while she starts a slow movement, like a piston, up and down, up and down. Talia moans, and grabs his head. He sucks harder and she cries out, but doesn’t tell him to stop. “Al…” she moans.

  Her moan is his undoing. Letting go of her breast, he supports himself with one hand behind him to grind deeper into her, while stroking her sweet spot with the other. Her eyes are closed, her breathing thin. She’s so close. He can’t believe how lucky he is that this amazing woman would give herself to him. So generous, so free and honest and kind. He already knows he’ll never experience anything like this again for the rest of his life.

  Something bittersweet cracks inside his chest at the thought.

  Talia opens her eyes and pulls him upright.

  “Al, I’m—” she says, through gasping breaths.

  “Wait for me,” he says, but doesn’t relent. He grabs her hips and takes over. She wraps her legs behind him, putting him in full control. So sweet…so hot…

  French floods out of him as he pulls her down again and again. Hands working her hips up and down on his manhood until her breaths are reduced to high pitched rasps. Until they both cry out, unable to resist any longer.

  She shudders, forehead collapsing into the side of his neck. She’s his undoing. Without thought to consequences, Al bites her shoulder, jetting his royal seed into her in unbearable spasm after spasm.

  An error he’s never made before. But has now committed twice.

  He doesn’t care.

  Can’t care.

  Can only wait out the storm, holding her close. His heart beating with an emotion he dares not name, he refuses to think about their doomed future.

  They ride out the storm behind shuttered hearts and windows. But when he wakes, Al feels only cool blankets beside him. The blustering wind and lashing rain have given way to the chirrup of songbirds and raspy cry of seagulls putting their nests back together. The room is now bright with sunlight.

  Talia, he sees after a moment of searching, is on the balcony. Wrapped in a blanket with her elbows on the marble railing.

  The storm is over. But still he goes to her. How can he not? And thank goodness the naval yacht is no longer sitting on the horizon, awaiting him like a harbinger of death.

  Relief flooding his heart, he wraps his arms around her waist from behind. And when she turns inside the blanket to give him a long, slow kiss, it washes away the chill of the early morning castle.

  “It is beautiful, non?” he asks when they turn back to the sea: framed by a clear, blue sky, the lush, green island of Terre d’Or sits in the short distance.

  “Yes, it truly is,” she answers, but then stiffens inside his arms. “I sure hope they’re alright over there, after the storm. My Papy has a vanilla farm. Those winds could have really damaged his crop.”

  “It is not the first storm to come to the islands,” he answers, hoping to reassure her. “The Vickees are well-versed in preparing for cyclones.”

  But instead of washing away her worry, his words seem to send her into a sad silence.

  “What is it Talia?” he asks, turning her toward him.

  “I—” she starts, blinking quickly. “I didn’t know coming here to help after my mamy’s death would have such an impact on me. It feels like I’ve fallen in love…with the grandfather I barely knew before this. And with that island over there. Everyone is so…so genuine. So kind, and big hearted. They don’t have much of their own, but they’ll give anything to help someone in need. It’s nothing like the world I came from, where they’d step over a dying man if it means getting to work on time, but here… “

  Her face saddens. “I just…I just hate to think of none of this being here the next time I visit. It kills me that the royals have the power to pave over this beautiful place, to dislocate all these people from their homes, just to make a few individuals richer than they already are. It’s so wrong.”

  It’s all he can do not to apologize. It’s his fault she feels this way. And he doesn’t want her to feel sad, but the plans are already in motion. He releases her from his hold, and comes to stand beside her with a sad look of his own as he leans over the railing and looks out to Terre d’Or.

  “What’s wrong, Al? Why are you sad, too?” she asks.

  “I would like to help, but I don’t know how.” The truth. But not really. Putain, how did this situation become so complicated?

  “You already have,” she says, a gentler smile replacing the sad one. “Don’t you see? Now that I’ve met you, I feel inspired. Inspired to stay and fight for Papy and the rest of the Vickees.” She seems to think about this proclamation, and nods as if deciding it as a fact. “No, I won’t go back after Christmas to finish law school. I’ll stay on Terre d’Or, and live the life I want, fighting for the people and causes I care about, instead of living out my parents’ vision board— “

  She stops when she sees the look on his face. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He stands up straight, not quite knowing what to do with his arms or all the alarm bells going off in his chest. “It’s just that is… a big decision to be made on a mere whim.”

  “A mere whim,” she repeats, tilting her head and squinting up at him. “This from the guy who decided to jump off a boat and swim here for a castle squat. I don’t understand…”

  But then she stops, her face darkening as she realizes out loud, “Oh I see. This was only supposed to be a one night stand. And now I’m making it weird. Hmm.”

  She’s obviously going for a cynical tone with this statement, but ruins it with a pained sound toward the end. Letting him know it’s a direct hit. He’s hurt her.

  “No, Talia,” he says, even though it was meant to be a one-time thing. It can’t be any other way.

  She pins him with a skeptical look as she asks, “So that terrified look on your face is because you do want me around?”

  He wants to deny it. Wishes he could deny it.

  “Okay, okay,” she says with a shaky sigh. “I obviously completely misunderstood the vibe. I got caught up in the island life and for whatever reason, I didn’t think you were like all the other douchebags I thought I left behind in New York. Sorry. I’m… I’m just going to go now.”

  “Talia…”

  But she’s already back inside the bedroom, picking up her clothes which he’d set to dry in front of the fire. The blanket she’s wrapped in trails behind her as she rushes to put them back on without exposing her naked body to his eyes. Somehow her hiding from him in this manner makes him feel completely shut out. Like she’s closed a door in his face, even if he can still see her.

  He should let her go. Heaven (and every French tabloid) knows she’s not the first one night stand to get pissy with him in the morning. But he can’t let it end like th
is. Can’t let her walk out believing last night meant nothing to him.

  He follows her back into the bedroom.

  “Talia, it is very complicated.”

  “How complicated can it be? You’re a hermit who hunts his own food and doesn’t even own a shirt. I’m a scullery maid, trying to figure out what she really wants out of life. Apparently that’s a little too much for you.”

  Now fully clothed, she drops the blanket, huffing and pushing wild curls out of her eyes.

  “Talia, please. Stay. We will talk—”

  “I’m such an idiot.” She turns and runs from the room.

  Let her go, his father’s sensible voice tells him from beyond. Haven’t you already made enough of a mess with this charade?

  I can’t! his thundering heart shouts back. He pulls on his shorts and chases after her. Through a dark hallway, down the main staircase to the front door.

  “Talia! Please, stop!” he calls after her.

  The main door of the castle flies open with a loud creak, silhouetting her figure in sunlight as she steps outside, ready to run down the steps…

  “Talia!” he yells again.

  And she freezes.

  But not because he called her name.

  When he catches up to her, he sees why she’s stopped cold at the top of the terrace steps. And it’s the worst possible reason imaginable.

  Chapter 8

  Mais putain de merde.

  La Reine des Mers is anchored at the castle’s dock, filling up the small bay in front of Vieux Victoire with its extravagant girth. Crew members in pale blue uniforms jump down from the deck and catch her lines to tie up to the long stone jetty. The crew Al slipped away from so many weeks before are now all here and accounted for.

  Not just the crew. Bernard runs down the gangplank, stops when he sees Al at the top of the steps, and then starts running even faster towards them, waving like a maniac.