by Riley Pine
She sniffs. Who’d imagine this ice queen could melt into such a passionate, bright, fiery lover?
Interesting.
She limps but is able to hold her own now. I like to think it has something to do with my talent between her legs, that my skillful tongue has a healing effect. I guide her out of the maze. Grass stains mar her perfectly tailored ivory skirt, a visible reminder of what we just did, and just like that, I’m hard as a rock again.
“From the tabloids,” she says, “it sounds like you won’t suffer for long. Tell me, how long has it been since you were inside a woman?”
I shrug with studied nonchalance. “Mouth or pussy?”
She gasps as my words sink in.
I pretend to count my fingers. “Six hours for pussy. Seven for her mouth. Give or take fifteen minutes. And if her brother hadn’t barged in on us this morning, I’m guessing those numbers would be significantly smaller.”
“You’re a pig.” Her brows slam together. “A rutting, depraved boar.”
“No. I’m a prince.” I draw myself to full height. “Your prince.”
“And I’m here in service to my king.” She juts out her jaw, gaze unbowed, refusing to cave at my power play. “Sire, you are my client. It’s been royally commanded by your father and my liege lord, which means we need to get to work. I will return tomorrow to do your personality profile.”
“My what?”
“It’s protocol for all our clients.” There is a note of finality in her clipped tone. She means business.
I click my tongue, half annoyed and half impressed. “You’ll never marry me off, sweetheart.”
“Tell that to my matchmaking success rate of 100%.” She offers a smug smile. “See you tomorrow, Highness.”
Once out of the maze, she releases my arm and continues alone. But she’s still injured, so her haughty exit falls flat, even as she takes off her other shoe. I bite back a laugh before realizing the joke is on me. Because guess who still has a hard-on the size of the Matterhorn?
Still, I should follow her to the castle lest she goes to the tabloids with some trumped-up story about how poorly she was treated on palace property.
“I am fine to proceed alone,” she says, reading my thoughts. An unsettling experience.
“I’m afraid I must insist,” I say, taking the few steps needed to catch up to her.
“Please.” Her composure slips a notch. The mask not fully secure. “I—I need a moment alone.” A sign this unexpected dalliance affected her, as well.
She turns and makes her way toward the palace gates, clutching her heels, only the slightest limp still evident. Miss Winter has spunk. I’ll give her that.
A woman like this could bring a less controlled man to his knees. Good thing that I’m no such man. This angel is more dangerous than any devil.
Kate
I don’t care if it hurts to walk. Nothing is more important than distance. And by distance I mean space between me and Nikolai Lorentz.
The only problem? When I slip through the gates onto the main grounds, I can’t get to the front of the castle without swimming the moat.
Good Lord. He lives in a palace. With a moat. And I almost slept with him in a freaking maze. I begged the prince of our realm to fuck me as I lay in the grass with my skirt hiked up over my hips. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t fuck anybody. I have lovely, meaningful sex with men who love and care for me—and who put a ring on it. At least, I did have that once.
As I contemplate my next move, an older man—probably in his late thirties—approaches me from a nearby garden.
“Pardon me, Miss Winter, but I have been instructed to take you home.”
I shake my head. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. If you could point me toward the most direct route to the main road, I’m sure I can get a taxi.”
I look behind me, expecting to see Nikolai approaching, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Miss, there is no direct route to the main road other than through the palace.” He looks me up and down. “And I am assuming you’d like to make a discreet exit?”
I sigh and cling to the last shred of my dignity, holding my head high even as my just-been-finger-fucked hair falls into my face.
“I’m quite content walking through the palace...” But I trail off as I note myself gesturing with my shoes in my hands—as threads from my torn skirt tickle my thigh—and I immediately deflate.
“So...you were instructed to take me home?”
The man nods, the hints of silver in his dark hair glinting in the sun, and it’s only now that I realize his impeccably tailored suit, his straightened spine and hands clasped in front of his hips. His jaw is chiseled and his brown eyes are dark and knowing. He is not royalty. I can tell that much. But he exudes an undisputable authority nonetheless.
“Yes, Miss. His Royal Highness the Prince texted me with the order to see you home safely. I can lead you through the kitchen and out the servants’ exit to avoid any unpleasant encounters upon your departure.”
I hold out my arms, shoes dangling from my index fingers. “I guess I’m not in any shape to run into the king and queen again, especially if I want to keep this job.”
The man doesn’t even crack a smile but instead offers me a single nod.
“This way, Miss.” He motions toward the garden from which he came.
I limp in his direction, trying not to read into the prince’s gesture of making sure I get home safely. There is no way Nikolai Lorentz cares what happens between us from here on out other than him opposing my very being here.
“You can call me Kate,” I say, once I reach his side and he holds out an arm. I grab both of my shoes with my right hand and take his arm with my left—not because I need to but because it would seem rude to decline.
I breathe in sharply as my hand grips muscle so tight and corded that I can feel it through his suit.
“As you wish, Miss Kate,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“Maybe you could drop the Miss altogether? Makes me sound like a prim-and-proper governess.” I let out a nervous laugh. What just transpired between me and the heir apparent was not behavior becoming of a governess. Or the me I thought I knew, for that matter.
“As you wish, Kate,” he says, his voice devoid of any hint of emotion.
“You got a name?” I ask as he pushes open a door hidden in the brick of the palace’s side wall.
“His Highness calls me X,” he says, ushering me inside a small corridor. The servants’ quarters, no doubt.
“What do your friends and family call you?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “I have neither, Miss—my apologies—Kate.”
My stomach sinks at the thought as he leads me through a white six-panel door. But I forget the heartbreaking answer just as quickly as we enter an enormous kitchen and my senses are assaulted in the best possible way. The aroma of garlic wafts in our direction, and my mouth immediately waters. I skipped breakfast this morning because—hello—I was ordered to the palace. Who can eat with that kind of pressure? And now that I’d been satiated in a whole other way entirely, I was famished. There’s also something sweet in the air, a richness I can almost taste.
“Would you like one for the road, Miss?” A woman covered in a white apron spins from where she’s plating macarons from a baking pan onto a three-tiered plate.
I swallow before I start to drool. “Please,” I say, and she grabs a small saucer from beneath the island where she works and serves me five of the delicious-looking confections.
“Our secret,” she says with a wink and a smile, handing my bounty to X. The man simply nods and continues piloting me toward the exit.
The next thing I know, I’m sitting in the luxury of a Rolls-Royce, a plate of macarons in my lap, and an ice pack on my ankle—also, according to X, ordered by the prin
ce. But the older man speaks no more as he pulls free of the palace gates, out onto the main thoroughfare and toward the apartment I share with my sister in the heart of town.
As I sit here, the breeze of the car’s open windows hits me right up the bottom of my skirt, and I’m reminded of the fact that not only am I going commando, but also my underwear is bunched in the Prince of Edenvale’s pocket.
Just swallow me up, world, because I am too much of a cliché to exist. I can see the tabloid headline now:
Royal Touch Wakes Celibate Woman’s Libido
It isn’t that I’ve ignored the whole libido thing. I have an active imagination and a pretty stellar showerhead. It’s not like I’ve gone completely without. But the first time I go with is not supposed to be with my future king, and it certainly isn’t supposed to unleash a torrent of pent-up emotion, not when a pint of chocolate gelato is nowhere in sight.
I close my eyes and try to erase the image of him grinning before he went down on me, but it turns out that eyes open, closed, crossed or whatever still draw the same picture—Nikolai Lorentz pleasuring me and taking pleasure in doing so.
And then when I’d called our little maze dalliance a mistake, he’d ordered his driver to take care of me—right down to a ride in his private car and the cool pack soothing the throb in my twisted ankle.
Maybe I am a cliché, something I never thought I’d be. But then again, maybe Prince Nikolai, Duke of Westcraven, isn’t what I’d had in mind, either.
I pop a golden lemon macaron into my mouth and moan with pleasure.
Nope. Not what I had in mind at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nikolai
NOTHING LIKE A scalding hot shower after a night of rough sex with your former best friend’s little sister, followed by impromptu cunnilingus in the palace maze with the matchmaker bankrolled by your father to find your future queen.
It’s been a strange twenty-four hours.
I rock my head back. Forget a standard showerhead. I custom designed my own personal waterfall. My groan bounces off the slate tiles as my tense muscles relax in the spray. Shit yeah. This feels good. Almost as good as it did to be on my knees between Miss Winter’s sweet thighs. I chuckle to myself. Me. On my knees before a woman. Can’t remember the last time that happened.
A visceral memory flies in from the outer reaches of my subconscious and slams my gut with the intensity of an earth-ending meteor.
There once had been a woman who brought me to my knees. But I wasn’t much past a boy then. Now I’m all man with a kingdom that’s mine for the taking.
I grab a bottle of my favorite Tom Ford body wash and pour a generous dollop in my palm. There’s one thing that will relax me. Using the wash as lube, I thrust my cock into my hand in slow, lazy strokes before upgrading to my tried-and-true fist-over-fist technique, my length enough that one hand can never do the job. My ass clenches as I give over to the build.
Here’s a fact. No woman, no matter how expert a lover, can touch a guy better than he touches himself. I’m captain of my own fucking ship. Yet here I am, imagining innocent, angel-faced Kate and her beautiful hands—small, delicate, manicured. I picture her grabbing me at the root, and I let out a guttural groan. What is it about this stranger that drives me crazy enough for her to invade my thoughts like this? Every nerve ending in my shaft is ready to burst into flames.
That’s when I remember.
I still have her panties in my pocket. I step out of the shower, not giving two shits about getting the floor wet, and yank them from my tuxedo pants. The delicate ivory is pale in my tanned hand. On instinct, I lift them to my face and inhale the elegant French lace. My eyes roll. Beguiling. I’m a goddam pussy connoisseur, and this is the equivalent to uncorking a bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild 1945. I keep a case in my wine cellar, each bottle valued at twenty-five thousand euros.
I clutch the matchmaker’s panties in one hand and step back in the shower, working over my cock with increased urgency as her scent overpowers my senses. Sweat breaks out across my chest and is washed away in a torrent of steamy water.
There are those who get intimidated by winery tasting rooms, but it’s simple. A good vintage is composed of four things: fruits, acids, tannins and sugars. Young tannins can make the mouth pucker, leave your tongue dry. Left over time it increases in complexity, covering your palate with a signature silkiness. My palate is exceptional, able to identify a vintage by the subtle yet complex notes of coffee, chocolate, blackberry and spice.
Women are much the same. Each with her own nuances. And Kate Winter is in a class all her own. Fruity, with a hint of cherry, but also darker, more intriguing notes, such as to be found in a rich forest floor. She is the fruit of the earth, and I’m starving for the harvest.
A few more strokes and I’m poised on the edge, and then I pitch over, shattering into the most mind-numbing orgasm in a decade. For a moment, I wonder if I’m struck blind. Then the world returns, and I wash my hands, turn off the spray and grab a towel for my waist.
It takes me five minutes to regain my breath. After an intense, almost holy, experience like that, there is only one place to go—my brother, the saint.
* * *
Benedict will enter the priesthood. As a virgin.
Fucking crazy, right? My father bursts with pride at the fact he has a son destined for the priesthood and St. Egbert Abbey. To me, it’s a fate worse than hell, and besides, it’s more pressure. Benedict’s put our bloodline at risk given that I’m the heir and he’s the spare. My youngest brother, Damien, doesn’t factor into the equation as he is banished and thereby removed from the line of succession. If I screw up here, the kingdom could pass from my family to my cousin Ingrid. She is a nice enough girl, and I don’t mean that dismissively. She is ten years old.
I shove on a pair of sweatpants, lace up my running shoes and catch my reflection in the window. I look like a debauched lord of the underworld.
Reflections on my banished brother Damien spiral me into a brooding darkness. The latest rumors claim that he resides half-time in London and the rest over in America. He could build a hermetically sealed tower in Madagascar for all I care, and it would still be too goddamn close. My family is like the setup to a bad joke: a commitment-phobic heir to the throne, a virgin almost-priest, and a black sheep all walk into a bar...
I jog through the quiet palace, past row after row of ancient ancestors appraising me from gilded frames. Do they wonder if I’ll ever measure up? If I’ll fulfill my legacy? Damn these black thoughts to hell. I get outside and run until my lungs are near bursting. On the edge of the grounds, near the Royal River, is the tower where my brother lives. He calls it his sanctuary, and he’s not wrong. Poor bastard might not use his cock, but he has peace. And he deserves it because I don’t say bastard lightly.
There isn’t conclusive proof, but there are many rumors that my mother took a brief liking to the head of her secret-service detail while my father was at a UN summit. The only evidence? My brother’s piercing green eyes—neither my mother’s nor my father’s.
I try the door.
“It’s locked, Sir,” a formal male voice calls out.
I turn to find X there, watching me with his usual impenetrable expression. One would think that after years of him appearing by my side without setting off so much as a floorboard creak, I would be used to his stealth. But it still unnerves me every time.
“I’m afraid Mr. Benedict was called away on urgent business.”
“Where to?” I ask.
“Vatican City.”
I laugh without humor. “Of course.”
Benedict is the only person that I count a true friend, one I can trust without question unlike recent experiences with Christian. And as far as I’m concerned, Benedict is my only brother. If I ever were to cross paths with Damien again, I know Benedict would pass me the knife t
o gut him.
One happy family.
Looks like I’m not going to be able to get any advice tonight. The only thing I can do is pop an Ambien and hope for a dreamless sleep.
Because tomorrow morning, I’ll be facing Kate Winter again. And this time she won’t be spreading her legs and offering me a sample of her nectar. She’ll be presenting me with a dossier of potential wives.
Kate
It’s déjà vu the next morning when I look out my apartment window to find X and the Rolls-Royce waiting against the curb. Maddie peers over my shoulder.
“I still don’t get it,” she says, and I can hear the disappointment lacing her tone. “Why did they specifically ask for you rather than me? It’s my agency, after all.”
Now that the contract has been signed, I can tell my sister everything. Which is good because that whole secrecy thing won’t fly when I’m getting picked up by a Rolls with a license plate that reads Royal. Besides, I’d accepted the job—after the king and queen agreed to double my fee for working with such a reluctant client. Well, it was the queen’s suggestion. Turns out that despite the business being Maddie’s baby, my recent success at facilitating what I thought had been a few discreet celebrity matches had not flown under the radar of the royal family.
“Come on, Mads,” I say. “It’s a gold star for the business regardless of whether it’s you or me facilitating the matches. Plus, you’re my partner in crime, so it’s not like we can’t work on Nikolai’s profile together.” In fact, the only thing I cannot disclose to anyone other than Maddie is the list of potential candidates.
She is obviously still pouting, but as much as I love my big sister and her flair for business, I am the one with the perfect match record—fifteen happy couples in just the past six months alone. It’s all in the interviews. One face-to-face conversation with each potential partner—separately, of course—and I can either feel their chemistry...or not. That, coupled with my limited celebrity experience, I’m sure is why they asked for me, but I don’t rub it in. While I’m proud I’ve taken so well to the business these past two years, what does it say that I can find happy endings for everyone—except myself?
