by Aven Ellis
Heat spreads through my body from the mere thought of intimately touching him. I shake the thought from my head before I do something stupid.
Like grab him by the jumper and draw his mouth towards mine.
“I’ll take that,” I say, grateful for the momentary distraction of hanging up his coat.
I feel Roman’s eyes on me as I put his coat in the cupboard. I shut the door and turn around, and his eyes haven’t left me.
“I can’t believe I’m with you again,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “If it hadn’t already happened at my place, I wouldn’t dare believe it.”
He reaches for my hand and links it with his, drawing it to his chest in an intimate manner. The second I feel the warmth of his wool jumper, the caress of his huge hand over mine, all I want is to be in his arms.
And discover what his kiss is like.
“Believe it,” I say softly. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
The gold flecks in his eyes shine brightly. “Me, too.”
“Would you like a glass of wine? I have canapés, too, in the kitchen.”
“That sounds good. As I’m drinking, I’ll call Darcy to come get me. I can get my bike tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”
I love how responsible Roman is. He has no idea that this is a huge turn-on for me, a man who takes care of himself. “It would be a reason to see you tomorrow for breakfast, wouldn’t it?” I ask.
His lips turn upwards. My heart flutters.
“You’d have to get up early. I need to be at work by seven,” he says.
“I’m always up early. You know I’m a morning person. I’ll have already gone for a run through the garden by that point.”
A crease of concern forms in Roman’s brow. “With no protection officer?”
“None, and I’m fine. See? I’m right here, holding your hand.”
His chest rises and falls against my hand. How is it I feel so connected to him at this point? Without even kissing him?
Because he’s exceptional, that’s why.
“Roman. Remember I can throat punch. And scratch eyes out.”
“Lizzie. Remind me not to cross you,” he teases.
I grin wickedly. “You’re the one who wanted to see Angry Liz, remember?”
“If that’s how you are feeling, then yes, I do.”
I stare up at him, grateful once again that he wants to see me as I truly am. “I like that you want to see all sides of me and don’t expect me to be perfect.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be any other way. Especially for me.”
A silence falls between us. I’m falling for this man. I have no doubt that is what all these new feelings inside of me are.
I only hope he can handle my story once he hears it.
“It feels festive in here,” Roman says, shifting his focus to the living room. “Candles. Fireplace. Music.” He turns his attention back towards me. “Down to the red lipstick on your lips.”
His eyes land on my mouth. My throat goes dry.
Never have I wanted someone to kiss me like I do Roman.
“I think it’s as Christmassy as I can get without a tree,” I manage to say.
“That is something you need,” he concedes. “And a poinsettia. Luckily, I know the person to help you with that.”
“Hmm, but can this person help me keep it alive?”
Roman squeezes my hand affectionately. “I believe so.”
I clear my throat. “Good, because you know I have the blackest thumb of death.”
He smiles, and so do I.
“All right. Since Darcy is your Uber tonight, let me pour you a glass of wine and get dinner started.”
I take his hand and lead him towards the kitchen, but he stops walking after a few steps. “Wow,” he says.
I turn around to find him staring at the picture above my fireplace, his eyes large in wonder. He leads me over to the large oil painting of an arrangement of flowers. “This is stunning,” Roman says. He glances down at me. “Is this from the royal vault?”
An uncomfortable, anxious feeling rises within my chest. I wanted to be Liz for a little longer before I started blurring the lines with Elizabeth of York.
“Yes. My uncle is awfully generous in allowing me to borrow some furniture and art from the family collection.”
Roman’s eyes hold steady on me. I swear I feel a flashing neon sign over my head that is blinking royal at him. “Uncle,” he repeats, and I can see the image of King Arthur in his head.
Silence follows that comment, and dread nearly swallows me whole. Roman is seeing my reality. It’s hitting him what my last name means, and my heart hurts, thinking this could snuff out what we are exploring tonight.
“This uncle must have some good connections,” he says. Then he gives me his beautiful grin.
My anxiety fades away, as if Roman flipped a switch with his smile to turn it off.
“He might know a person or two,” I say, leading him back towards the kitchen again.
He follows me inside the space, which I made improvements to over the summer. I had the cupboards re-done and new appliances put in, and now it’s fresh and white, with some personal touches, like my mug tree, full of mugs with funny sayings, and festive tea towels, edged in a red-and-green tartan fabric.
“So, this is what a good worktop is like,” Roman teases.
I laugh. “Yes,” I say, moving over to the wine bottle on the worktop and picking up the corkscrew. “I’m not exactly the world’s greatest cook, so I don’t use most of it.”
He takes a place next to the oven, leaning casually against the worktop. “Should I be afraid that you are cooking for me?”
I hand him a glass of wine. “Who says I’m cooking for you? That’s what takeaway is for.”
Roman chuckles, and goosebumps prickle my skin from that low, throaty sound. I pour a glass for myself and move closer to him. He lifts his glass.
“To getting to know each other better,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.
I tap my glass against his. “Cheers to that.”
We each take a sip.
“That’s nice,” Roman says. “Although, I can’t tell you why. I merely go by whether I like the taste or not.”
“Me, too,” I reply. “Although, we should be tasting black cherry and vanilla. According to the label, that is.”
He takes another sip, and I wonder if I’ll be tasting the wine on his lips later tonight.
“Hmm,” he says slowly. Then he glances at me. “Still tastes like good wine.”
“I agree.”
Roman moves towards the kitchen table, where I have set up a cheeseboard of cheeses, figs, grapes, prosciutto, and some baguette slices. “This looks fantastic. Do you mind if I tuck in?” he asks.
“Please. Perhaps while you dive into that, you won’t notice I’m putting takeaway food into the oven,” I say.
I’m rewarded with a full smile. Electricity sweeps through me as a natural response to it.
“No need to pretend. You don’t cook. I should know this about you.”
I open the fridge and remove the tin with the food. I lift off the lid that has the directions on top and find the steaks on one side, the risotto on the other.
“Whilst I can’t cook, I’m superb at following reheating directions,” I declare as I read. “For dinner tonight, I’m warming the steak in the oven and bringing the risotto back to life with stock in a pan on the hob.”
“Then I’m in good hands,” Roman says gamely. He moves back towards me and leans against the worktop again, watching me work. “May I help?”
“No, you may not,” I say. “This is my turn to treat you to dinner.”
He studies me as I slide the steak into the oven. “I don’t consider it a burden to stir risotto.”
“This is my burden to bear, and mine alone,” I say dramatically.
Roman chuckles. The sound wraps around me and warms every inch of my soul.
As I heat t
he stock in a small saucepan on the hob, he studies me. “How was your event today?” he asks.
“Oh, Roman, it was incredible. These girls are so bright, so full of passion for what they do. I love how the programme encourages them to expand their minds and gives them the confidence to go for anything. I’m so glad to be involved. My goal is to help them expand across the UK and bring this programme to any girl who wants to be a part of it.”
“Those girls sound like you,” he says. “I knew from the first day I met you that you had that kind of passion inside of you.”
I frown as I turn the heat up on the saucepan. “The press infuriated me that day. They went below the belt with what they did to Clementine. That’s why I had to write that letter from the palace, to express my disappointment with it.”
An image of that tabloid headline flashes through my head, the one dragging up her medical history for everyone to see and pointing out the paralysis on her face as a result of her brain tumour surgery.
Roman is quiet as I add the risotto to another pan. Then he asks, “How do you handle that? The press recording everything you do?”
My mood shifts. We’ve come to the moment faster than I wanted to this evening.
“Lizzie. You can tell me the truth,” he says gently. “I want you to know that.”
I feel exposed now, vulnerable to the reality that Roman is a good man, who might not want the crap that would come into his life if we were to start dating.
I slowly lift my gaze to meet his. “I’m going to be painfully honest with you, Roman. If you change your mind about seeing me after you hear everything, I will understand.”
I reach for my wine and take a sip, to delay the inevitable, even if for a second.
“I am Liz. But I’m also Princess Elizabeth of York,” I say. “I’m proud of who I am, and of the family I’ve come from. I have expectations to bear, but I not only understand that challenge, I embrace it.”
To my surprise, Roman moves closer to me. We’re inches apart. He reaches up and brushes his fingers against the side of my face, gliding his calloused fingertips across the top of my cheekbones. Heat flares within me from his masculine skin making contact with mine. My heart beats faster as I try to find the courage to say more.
“I know Christian struggled to accept his role in the monarchy, a fate he was born into and has no choice about, being a prince. However, I relish mine. I always knew I could make a difference. I can represent my father and uncle in a positive way. I was—and am—honoured to have that opportunity.
“I know the world is changing and the monarchy has to embrace that,” I continue. “I believe in that, too, and I want to do everything I can to make our role an important one in the modern world. I know there is a part of society that thinks we are irrelevant and outdated, but I want to prove them wrong. We have a purpose. The monarchy performed two thousand engagements last year. We support more than three thousand charities. We entertained more than seventy thousand guests. We travelled the globe to promote relationships with the United Kingdom. We brought tourism to the UK. Did you know that Clementine and Christian’s wedding is expected to generate three hundred million pounds for the British economy?”
I pause for a moment. Roman’s fingertips are still gliding across my cheekbone in a comforting manner.
“I admit,” he says, a flush climbing up his neck, “that I didn’t understand all that you did. I saw it as an outdated part of history that should be that—history. But that’s changed. Because of you.”
I hold my breath as I wait for him to go on.
“After I met you, I went online and read about you. I went to the monarchy website and saw how you are one of the hardest working royals, with a diary that is always full. You’ve travelled abroad, no doubt to do things that don’t interest you, but you did it with enthusiasm and a smile on your face to represent the United Kingdom. You throw your passion into your causes, and I saw that at the conference you had with Christian, Clementine, and Xander, where you announced the launch of your foundation. All of this makes us a better country. I’m sorry I never saw it before. I once saw the monarchy as a financial drain and woefully outdated. But now I see the truth,” Roman says, reaching up and trailing his fingers along my hairline. “I was wrong. I owe you an apology.”
“No, you don’t,” I say.
“I do. Because I learnt not only what you do but that there is a deep personal price you pay to do it. Yes, you have castles and luxury, but you have your privacy taken away and horrible things written about you. You’re judged, every day, yet you are more than willing to pay this price.”
My heart throbs in pain. I have to lay everything out for him. Now.
This moment may be the last I have with him after I speak.
“Roman, you know the price Clementine has paid for being involved with Christian. I’m not an easy person to date. Your life—your wonderful, quiet life with the land—will be exploited and turned upside down. The world will know you. And they will never know enough about you. Ever since Christian proposed to Clem, the world is hungrier than ever for our stories, of the young royals. You won’t be able to avoid this.”
Roman doesn’t say anything. His eyes grow darker, and I know I’ve lost him.
“I understand if you can’t do this. It’s too much to ask anyone,” I say, desperately trying to keep the shake out of my voice. “You don’t even know about my family and the skeletons that are buried over in St. James’s Palace, Roman. It’s messy and complicated, and I’m afraid t—”
Suddenly, Roman’s massive hands are framing my face.
“I’m not afraid of any of that,” he says, his voice commanding.
“But you don’t know,” I implore.
“I don’t need to,” he says, his eyes bearing down into mine. “I only have one fear. One.”
“What is that?” I whisper over my pounding heart.
“I’m afraid that if I kiss you, I’ll never want to kiss anyone else.”
I part my lips in a gasp, floored by this confession. A kiss, to Roman, means no turning back. He would be risking his heart and opening himself up to be vulnerable if our lips meet.
And now I’m desperate for him to kiss me.
He begins caressing my face. My hair. Roman lowers his forehead to mine. I close my eyes and breathe him in, the scent of sandalwood soap on his skin, trembling from his touch the entire time.
“I have my own skeletons. I’m terrified I’ll disappoint you,” he whispers, his breath warm against my mouth.
His mouth hovers near mine, and my body screams inside for his kiss.
“I’m not afraid of that,” I whisper back.
His fingers trail down to the nape of my neck, stroking it and sending desire through me. Then his hand finds its way to the side of my face.
“You’re a fear I’m determined to face, Lizzie,” he murmurs. “I have to. I’ll die if I don’t.”
And then his mouth touches mine.
Chapter 11
A Kiss is but a Kiss…
Roman’s lips are like velvet against mine, delivering the softest, sweetest kisses over and over as his calloused fingertips stroke my face in a reverent manner. My emotions swirl in growing intensity. I’m shocked that he kissed me. Ecstatic from his lips on mine. Eager for him to part the seam of my lips with his tongue and taste me.
His slowness now, however, makes me feel cherished by this man. This first kiss is more than a kiss—it’s a connection between us that will change everything.
I instinctively move my hands to his chest and find his heart is beating furiously under his jumper. Roman slips his hands underneath my hair while sliding his tongue between my lips. Heat erupts in me as he demands more. I’ve never had desire ignite in me from a first kiss, but now it has. My tongue eagerly explores his mouth, wanting to take everything I can from him, to feel all the currents running through my body from this shared intimacy.
His tongue is lush, and I curl mine with his, elic
iting a low grown from his throat, which heightens my excitement. His mouth is warm and inviting, and he tastes of the wine we drank.
All I want to do is get drunk on him.
Roman moves one hand down my back, drawing me closer to him as the other hand caresses the hair at the back of my head. His lips grow more demanding with each kiss. My heart pounds fiercely, in the same rhythm as his. I move one hand against the side of his face, sending a shudder through me as his freshly-shaven skin glides under my fingertips, and I make my own assault on his mouth, feeling my lips grow more swollen with each needy kiss.
“Lizzie,” Roman whispers between kisses. “I can’t… stop… kissing… you.”
“Then don’t,” I murmur against his lips. “Kiss me. Again.”
He kisses me harder. I’m on fire. Every single inch of me is responding to this man like I’ve never responded to any other man in my life.
They say a kiss is but a kiss.
But not this time. Not with this man.
And definitely not this kiss.
Roman finally breaks the kiss, and I allow myself to come up for air. He is breathing hard as he slides his hands up underneath my hair again, caressing it gently and sending shivers down my spine.
“The butterflies are going like mad,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my forehead.
Zing! He has butterflies for me?
A loud hiss from the hob gets both our attention.
A light bulb goes off in my head.
“Oh, no, the stock!” I say, untangling myself from his arms and hurrying over to the saucepan.
The stock has boiled away, leaving a brown burnt crust in the bottom of the pan. I quickly take it off the flame and dash to the sink, turning on the water. The pan hisses in response, and I know it’s going to have to soak before I can scrub it out. I squeeze in a bit of washing up liquid and let it sit.
