How to Catch a Queen

by Alyssa Cole

  She stopped talking.

  He reached up to brush his fingertips over the shell of her ear. It was hot to the touch. Anticipation slid through him, a feeling so rare that he sucked in a breath of surprise and delight. “If that is part of being husbandly, in our specific marriage, I would very much like to do some things with you. I’ll happily be your horniness helper.”

  They laughed at that silliness, both of them relaxing as they did. The lust didn’t leave, but their laughter added to it, like the perfect spice added to an already exceptional dish.

  “I’m not a virgin,” she said, her hands moving back and forth over his chest. “Are you?”

  It was the kind of question she might have asked on their wedding night or in the days after if he hadn’t been so bound by grief and anger that he’d left her alone. Alone in a strange country, with not even a true lady-in-waiting. Shanti had been treated worse than a visiting dignitary—despite what he’d just said, in trying to follow in his father’s footsteps, Sanyu had repeated one of the man’s worst mistakes.

  “I’m not a virgin,” he said. “But I’ve never been with someone who I . . .” Cared for seemed too revealing, especially since care didn’t seem to particularly matter to her—this wasn’t about feelings. “I don’t need general instruction in sex. I need to learn how my wife wants to be pleased.”

  She worked her lip with her teeth as she looked up at him through eyes that were shrewd even through the haze of desire.

  “Are you sure? I was told that the queen must never try to lead her king. I don’t know if I’m allowed to teach you that.”

  Sanyu chuckled. She was teasing him.

  “Fine. I command it of you, then,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Teach me, Wife.”

  One of her hands was still fisted in his robe and the other went up to cup the back of his neck. She gently tugged him down toward her with both hands. The folder dropped from under his arm as he stepped against her, his bare knee grazing her thigh and pulling a soft gasp from her.

  “I like to be kissed,” she said, her mouth a few centimeters from his. “Touched. And vice versa. I want to feel those big hands of yours all over me. Is that okay?” She was so close and smelled so good. His hands settled on her waist, and the thin strip of skin between shirt hem and shorts waistband might as well have seared grill marks into his palms. He hooked his thumb beneath her shirt and brushed it back and forth over her stomach, feeling the jerk of her abdominal muscles just before her breath hitched.

  “You don’t have to ask if things are okay. I want what you want,” he said, his need for her a throb in his belly and groin and, strangely, chest. He didn’t want questions, which required thinking and sorting those thoughts and—

  “No.” She shook her head. “That’s not how this works. I’ll tell you what I like, but you decide what’s okay and what isn’t. We ask and explore, not assume. Teamwork, remember?”

  “Teamwork,” he repeated. “Fine. I like to be kissed and touched, too, so that’s okay. By all means, kiss me. Immediately.”

  She tugged his robe harder—no, she was levering herself up closer to his mouth and using his weight as a counterbalance.

  She kissed him, finally.

  When their lips met, Sanyu was even more certain he was the weakest king Njaza had ever known because in that moment, he would have given anything for the sensation of his wife’s touch to never stop. Her silky lips sliding over his, so impossibly soft. Her tongue, warm and slick as it probed his mouth. The rough pull against his robe as she drew him even closer. Her toes stepping onto the tops of his sandals as she tried to boost herself up to meet him. His strong, reserved wife kissed him with a burning hunger that turned the excuses he’d made not to pull her into his arms before this into ashes.

  He wanted her; if that made him weak, strength be damned. His arms clamped around her, lifting her so she didn’t have to lever herself, but not so much that he did all the work for her—even overcome with lust, he knew his Shanti wouldn’t like that.

  His Shanti?

  He didn’t know how long they kissed, or when his hands moved to cup her breasts and thumb her nipples through her pajama top, or when he walked her back so that she ended up pressed against one of the ridiculously large ceramic vases scattered around the palace. All he knew was that at each escalation he checked with her, and each time she said yes.

  The curve of the vase arched her hips forward invitingly to rub against his erection, a sigh of a moan escaping her kiss-swollen lips.

  “Show me, Wife,” he said, barely recognizing the deep rumble of his own voice. She reached for his hand, her fingers trembling as she guided his palm, and then slipped it between them so that he cupped her mound through the thin fabric of her shorts.

  “When I imagined you showing up at my door, I imagined this,” she said, circling her hips against his fingers. Sanyu’s dick jumped so hard it startled him.

  “Me touching you?” he asked, undulating his fingers to catch her rhythm.

  She reached her hand out and lifted the edge of his royal garment. “Us touching each other.”

  As her fingers grazed up his thigh, tugged down his boxers, and closed around his penis, Sanyu finally appreciated the brilliance of the robe’s design—easy access.

  “Oh goddess,” she said as her fingers mapped his width and girth, rubbed over the smoothness of his head and traced the veins that strained beneath her caress. “Hello, Husband.”

  Sanyu slipped his fingers along the outline of her folds and pressed his thick finger against the firm nub of her clit, rubbing gently as her eyes widened and her hips lifted toward him. “Hello, Wife.”

  Her hand worked the length of him, and he briefly cupped his free hand around hers, guiding her so that she knew what felt best to him. She matched his stroke and he groaned, strumming her clit more deeply in return.

  Her breath came fast and her hips jerked; Sanyu curved his thick fingers over the length of her mound, pressed into the damp fabric of her shorts, and rubbed deep circles against the hooded nub between her folds.

  Shanti’s response was something like a sob, and the expression of pleasure that scrunched her features made him fuck into her fist more quickly.

  He cupped the back of her neck with his free hand, slipping his fingers into the thick mass of her hair to support her head as he kissed her. There was nothing simple about pleasure, especially in his world where it was so often snatched from him, but this?

  He’d never experienced this before. It was like they formed a circuit joined by desperate mouths and questing hands that magnified every tiny stroke and caress. Sanyu was unsure if the divine truly existed since the only gods he’d been taught to worship were of war and wisdom, but whatever was passing between him and his wife made him consider that it did.

  “Sanyu,” she breathed into his mouth. She cried out and there was a sound of his robe ripping free from its pins; her other hand squeezed his shaft harder, stroked more quickly. He rubbed tighter, deeper circles in response, so focused on their pleasure that he didn’t realize the loud moans were coming from him as well.

  One of her hands clasped the back of his head as she shuddered her release—quiet, controlled undulations of her belly that pulsed against his fingers between her legs. He pumped into her fist as stars exploded low in his groin and behind his eyes, and mindless pleasure blotted everything out.

  They sagged into one another, breathing heavily, and when she tilted her head back to meet his gaze, the desire in her eyes wasn’t gone.

  “That was unexpected,” she said, her voice husky. “That was . . .”

  He twitched his finger between her legs and another tremor moved through her as she rocked against him, then her hand went to his wrist to still him.

  Sanyu kissed her as he moved his hand away from her warmth. He wanted more, to replace his fingers with his mouth and tongue until he was ready again and could push into her.

  He leaned away from her and she moved from the
giant vase, holding on to the mouth of it as if to steady herself. She glanced down at the splatter along the side of it.

  “I hope this isn’t a religious artifact,” she said. “Surely that would unlock some ancient evil, or bring a curse down on us.”

  Sanyu laughed, surprising himself. “I believe they are reproductions acquired from the mansion of a colonizer, so we haven’t disrespected Omakuumi or Amageez.”

  “I hope not, but I’d be willing to risk it again even if we did.” She took a couple of steps on shaky legs, then paused as she passed him. When she looked up into his face, she was as composed as ever—making her come hadn’t turned her into some docile creature—but some of the formality between them had fallen away.

  “I’m guessing you were outside my door for some other reason?” she asked, her voice even and composed, even though her lids were still heavy with passion.

  “Yes. I received some data from a finance minister who wants to change the Njazan economic model, and I wanted to go over it with you.” He looked back over his shoulder at the papers scattered near the door.

  He thought she might get upset, feel used, but she smiled. “You showed up at my door with orgasms and economics? You don’t need as much instruction in how to please me as you think, Husband.”

  She went to the larger bathroom after showing Sanyu to the sink in the small water closet so he could clean himself and, afterward, the vase.

  He felt loose . . . good. When was the last time he’d felt good?

  After putting on a teakettle in the kitchenette, he sat and marveled at how life in the queen’s wing was calmer and more comfortable. He could almost imagine it was their own private apartment, their own quiet life.

  No.

  She wasn’t a woman who’d want a quiet life—she’d married him solely to gain a crown so she could do all the kinds of things he hated. They could have their fun, but she would be leaving soon. All queens did, and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to hold his country together, let alone a marriage.

  Chapter 7

  Shanti’s eyes drooped with fatigue and her nose itched from the dust wafting up from her work. She was hiding behind a stack of papers in the library, sorting them before scanning. When she’d been given something to do besides wander aimlessly around the palace, she’d been thrilled. However, it’d immediately become clear that what Lumu had called a “critical” archival position in the Royal Library was busywork where she scanned the trash left behind after the actual archivists were done. Sure, she was learning about Njaza in bits and pieces, but nothing so far had been new or critical, or interesting. It was like they purposely gave her the most boring things possible.

  Josiane, the head librarian who seemed to delight in snapping at her, was working today, and Shanti was doing her best not to be seen. She tried to choose her battles wisely; discretion was as important to good leadership as taking no shit.

  Besides, the woman was scary.

  Her phone buzzed beside her on the table, and she dove for it, sending a few of the boring papers she’d been scanning flying.

  Nya: Johan made me dinner using your recipe! Thank you so much, it made me very happy!

  Shanti ignored the strange tight feeling in her chest. It certainly wasn’t envy over the fact that Nya’d spent her night being wined and dined. Shanti didn’t want that kind of romance, and besides, she’d had her toes curled quick and dirty against a possibly cursed vase, which was better than any meal.

  Shanti: I’m so glad it made you happy!

  And she was. She didn’t need a king who made stew for her. Things were fine as they were, and Sanyu was at least starting to see her as a partner. She couldn’t compare her marriage—a strategic step toward her goals—with Nya and Johan’s love match. The pictures they occasionally allowed to run in the tabloids spoke for themselves. She wasn’t sure she and Sanyu even had a photograph together.

  Nya: What are you up to, friend? I’m doing some job hunting, though Johan has told me to wait until I can benefit from nepotism at the nonprofit he’s setting up here.

  Shanti: Bootstraps are for suckers; get in at the nonprofit!

  Shanti: I’m scanning documents in the Royal Library. It’s not the most glamorous job, but it’s important to preserve the history of a kingdom.

  Nya: You like history? Hold on!

  ~Ms. Portia Hobbs, Basically Duchess of E If Ya Nasty~ has entered the chat.

  Portia: Did someone say history?

  Nya: Shanti, this is my friend Portia! She’s a history fanatic and she’s engaged to the Duke of Edinburgh!

  Portia: The Duke of Edinburgh is engaged to ME.

  Nya:

  Yes, Shanti had followed Portia Hobbs’s exploits in the newspapers, in part because the woman was best friends with Princess Naledi of Thesolo. She’d also wondered how Portia had been lucky enough to accidentally land herself a duke and hadn’t yet married him. But Portia was rich and seemed to have plenty of power on her own; she didn’t need a title to make people listen to her. Also, dating someone for a few years before marrying them was probably more common than marrying them sight unseen.

  Shanti: Hello, Portia. It’s a pleasure to virtually meet you.

  Portia: Hi! Okay, first, I loved the dress you wore to your wedding ceremony. Second, who is doing your PR because I haven’t seen any other photos of you and I’d love to know how you stay out of the papers.

  Shanti: Thank you! And I’ll ask the palace press secretary about who does PR.

  Shanti had no idea who the palace press secretary was. No one had ever even asked her to do an interview.

  Portia: Great! So you’re archiving Njazan history?

  Portia: Where are you uploading the info? Is there a website?

  Portia: I don’t know much about Njaza and I’d love to learn more!

  Shanti stared in disbelief as more text bubbles popped up, one after another, sharing resources about the best scanning techniques, exercises to keep your back and wrists from aching, questions about Njazan monarchy, and then facts she’d clearly started to pull up on the internet herself before Shanti could answer.

  Shanti laughed out loud—not at Portia, but with a surprised delight. She’d imagined Portia Hobbs as some stuck-up socialite from how she was portrayed in the tabloids, but the woman was clearly just a huge nerd. People always thought Shanti was stuck-up, too, so she should have known better than to pass judgment.

  Portia: They worship a warrior god there? And a wisdom god? Interesting.

  Nya: I knew she’d be excited. She’s already down the rabbit hole like Alison.

  Nya: *Alice

  Shanti: Here is an example of what I’m scanning.

  She sent through a picture of a reenactment of Omakuumi’s Rebellion, which was when the ancient king had ascended to godlike status with Amageez at his side. The photo showed spear-toting reenactors of warriors clad in traditional robes, their chests glistening with sweat.

  Portia: First of all, I think it’s fascinating that their traditional outfits look and are worn similarly to the Scottish plaid? And aren’t Njazans technically Highlanders, too? I wonder if anyone has researched that sartorial connection. Second of all, !! Do all the men there look like that? Because I have airline miles.

  Nya: And what about the duke who’s engaged to you?

  Portia: Hey, he can come too. I could be the filling in a bicontinental Highlander sandwich.

  Nya: Omg! And pardon me, but isn’t that impossible since . . . there can be only one?!

  Shanti giggled, feeling oddly light. A week ago, she’d been friendless, and now she had one confirmed friend and one potential one making her laugh even though they were thousands of miles away.

  “Is that what you’ve been doing all this time? Playing on your phone?”

  Shanti looked up to see Josiane and Gertinj staring down at her, a scowl on the old woman’s face and no expression at all on the slightly younger woman’s.

  “No. I just received an importa
nt email,” she said politely as she put the phone down with the screen toward the table.

  “Humph. What should I expect from a Thesoloian? Think you’re too good to work, I imagine. Or even to go line up for the king’s speech today?”

  Shanti stiffened in her seat. The words didn’t hurt her but the disrespect infuriated her. She wasn’t allowed at the king’s speech; it was yet another one of the bizarre traditions that bound a queen. If she were to go, she’d have to sneak in, and she was doing enough sneaking around as it was.

  “Our queen asked for more work this morning,” Gertinj said in a light but quelling tone. “Which is why you had me carry this heavy box of documents over to her as if my old bones don’t creak, too.”

  She moved between Josiane and Shanti, dropping the box on the table and then waving away the cloud of dust. “Sorry.”

  “Humph,” Josiane said, and stalked away.

  Gertinj waited until she’d left and then turned to Shanti with a soft smile. “Josiane is treating you unfairly.”

  Shanti kept the barbed reply on the tip of her tongue to herself and smiled up at Gertinj. “I noticed.”

  The older women reached out as if to touch Shanti, then looked at her dusty gloves and gave her a warm smile instead. “Try not to take it personally.”

  Shanti didn’t know how else she was supposed to take it, but she smiled and nodded.

  Gertinj sighed.

  “Here we have a saying because of the land mines. ‘Her feet are gone, but she still searches for her socks when it’s cold.’” Gertinj pressed her lips together ruefully. “Sometimes memories of the past make people behave strangely today. Josiane is old enough to have many memories, my queen.”

  Gertinj left with a wave, returning to the group who had worked together for years and mostly politely avoided Shanti. It seemed that everyone had received the memo that she would fail and be gone soon, and no one wanted to get attached.

  She picked up her phone, tapped out a message to Nya and Portia saying she had an important royal matter to attend to but would be back later, and then queued up her favorite comprehensive world news podcast and popped in her earbuds. She was getting ready to dig into the box when a shadow fell over her.