Prince of my Panties (Royal Package)

by Lili Valente

  I grunt in response.

  If I know my brother, he’s going to send Sabrina packing the second she confesses—our father’s lies left Andrew with very little tolerance for anyone else’s—but I don’t want to be the one to deliver the death blow to Lizzy’s hope. Not when she seems inclined to let me take her home.

  “Why don’t we go back to the cabin?” I ask. “You shouldn’t be running around barefoot in the forest when you’re recovering from a serious illness.”

  “I’m not barefoot.” She extends a leg, bringing my attention to the trainers she’s wearing.

  When on earth did she have time to put those on?

  Before I can ask, she adds, “And I wasn’t in the forest. I hid under the sink until you left, then came out, packed, and got in my car. I was driving home when I saw you and Rafe. Though I didn’t realize it was Rafe at first.” She glances at the restaurant’s door. “It’s so strange. I never thought I’d be able to look at him and not know him like my own reflection in the mirror. No matter how far away he was or how long it had been since I’d seen him.”

  “His wife looks like you,” I say, regretting the words immediately. It might make her feel better, yes, but it could as easily make her feel worse.

  Or, least desirous of all, it might lead her to believe Rafe isn’t as over her as he seems. I have no idea what the man feels for Elizabeth. I only know that I would prefer to be the only man in her thoughts.

  She turns back to me with a shrug. “Rindish girls all look alike.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “They do,” she insists. “You’ve heard the joke. What’s the difference between a Rindish girl and a straw broom? The broom has bigger boobs and better hair.”

  My forehead furrows. “No, I haven’t heard that. And you look nothing like a broom.”

  “A bit like a broom,” she says. “From the front anyway.”

  “No. Not from the front or any other angle. You’re…very beautiful.”

  She bites her bottom lip, and her eyes begin to shine a little, but she doesn’t look away. “You’re very beautiful, too, and very kind. Most of the time.” She points a warning finger at my chest. “But if you do anything else to make it harder for Sabrina and Andrew to build a life together, I will hate you forever. I’m not joking.”

  I nod. “I won’t contact home again. Not until you give me the go-ahead.”

  She frowns again, deeply suspicious. “Really? You’d do that?”

  I nod again. “I would. And I will.” I step in, brushing her hair from her forehead, just barely resisting the urge to kiss her there. “Now, can I follow you home? After running all over the woods searching for a missing princess, I could use a shower.”

  “I wasn’t missing,” she whispers, tilting her head back to catch my eye. “Just because you can’t find something doesn’t mean it’s missing, Jeffrey.”

  “What are you missing, Elizabeth?” I murmur, running my fingers along the stubborn curve of her jaw.

  “A happy ending for my sister,” she says with a shiver that I hope is more about my touch and less about the cool mountain breeze.

  “And what about you? Don’t you think you deserve one of those, too?”

  She sighs, but she doesn’t look away. She holds my gaze, silently challenging me to keep pushing, to keep doubting, to keep thinking I know better than she does simply because my beliefs are more logical.

  But I’m not going to push any more tonight. I want her safe far more than I want to prove I’m right.

  I’ll take her home, get some food in her stomach and another good night’s sleep under her belt. And then we’ll see where we stand and how far I’m willing to go to convince Elizabeth it’s time to hope for things for herself, and not only for her sisters.

  I step back, my hand falling to my side. “I’ll follow you.”

  “Why don’t I follow you? That way you won’t have to fret about my poor driving all the way up the mountain.”

  “I’m always going to fret about your driving, whether you’re in front of me, behind me, or halfway across the world.”

  Her lips quirk. “Oh, come on, I’m not that bad. I’ve never even gotten a ticket. Not even a warning.”

  “Then I suppose there is reason to believe in miracles, after all.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny.” She rolls her eyes. “Fine. You can follow me, then, since you’re such a glutton for punishment.”

  I am a glutton for punishment, I think, as I start toward my car, parked on the street. If I weren’t, I would listen to my saner self—do not follow Lizzy back to the cabin, do not vow to restore her faith in the future, do not fall any more in love with this mercurial woman than I am already.

  But in my experience, the heart doesn’t mind a little punishment now and then.

  Not when it’s for the one it adores.

  10

  Elizabeth

  I emerge from the bathroom in fresh pajamas—grown-up pajamas this time, hand made from flowing blue silk. They whisper around my legs as I head for the kitchen, seeking the source of the heavenly smells wafting through the cabin. I reach the top of the stairs to find Jeffrey busy at the stove.

  And not wearing a shirt.

  Holy Moses…

  Mouth going dry, I stop dead, leaning against the stair railing, unable to keep my greedy gaze from tracking up and down, up and down, soaking in the sight of him in black cotton pajama pants and…nothing else.

  He’s not even wearing socks, a fact I would usually find repulsive. In general, I’m not a fan of man feet—they’re too large, knobby, and hairy—but Jeffrey’s are…nice.

  Elegant. Maybe even a little sexy.

  Wrinkling my nose, I stick out my tongue at the thought.

  Gross. Feet aren’t sexy. I don’t like feet. But that doesn’t stop me from imagining what it would be like to cross to Jeffrey, balance my toes on top of his larger ones, and use that extra inch or two to fit my lips to his without getting a crick in my neck.

  I want to kiss him.

  Really kiss him. A hot, hungry kiss that demands satisfaction.

  But I can’t afford to lower my guard with him again. Not yet, not until I’m sure he can be trusted.

  “Hungry?” he asks without turning to look at me.

  “Starving,” I murmur, but I’m not thinking about the delicious smells that tempted me up the stairs. I’m thinking about all the delicious muscles rippling over his shoulders and down his back and how much I want to trace the path of each one with my tongue.

  “Then head over here,” he says. “The curry’s almost ready.”

  “Oh, I love curry.” My mouth instantly starts to water. “I’ve only had it twice, but I daydream about it all the time.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He glances over his shoulder, his gaze flicking down to take in my pajamas with an appreciative sound. “Those are nice.”

  “Thank you. I made them.”

  “They’re beautiful.” He turns back to the food, adding casually, “I’d like to see you in more of your designs.”

  “Oh, well…thanks.” I finger the hem of my shirt, flattered but also strangely nervous. “I don’t have many things here. Just these and a couple of dresses. And the lingerie collection, but I don’t wear those pieces.”

  “Why not?” He reaches for one of the lime slices resting on the cutting board beside the stove.

  “Yes, lots of lime,” I say with a groan. “Lime makes it so good. Drench it, Jeffrey. Squeeze out every last drop.”

  He turns, narrowing his eyes on mine. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

  “Doing what?” I ask, his gaze making my throat feel tight.

  “Talking dirty to my curry.”

  “Oh. What? No.” I laugh, my cheeks heating as the eye contact between us gets next-level intense. “That didn’t sound dirty.”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “No, it didn’t.” I wave a hand as I cross the room.

  He grunts, but lets it drop. “So,
two limes? Three?”

  “Three,” I say, licking my lips and fighting the urge to moan in anticipation, not wanting to be accused of being a curry pervert again. “Or four.”

  “You,” he says in a mock-scandalized tone. “You’re wild.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m very boring.” The familiar words come easily, though I don’t feel boring tonight. Tonight, I stopped a fight, refrained from bursting into tears in front of my ex-boyfriend, and I’m eating dinner with a gorgeous, half-naked man.

  Tonight, I might actually be one of the more interesting people I know, which is…exciting.

  Or maybe it’s just the way Jeffrey looks at me as he squeezes each slice of lime over the steaming pan that makes me feel like I’m being lightly, deliciously electrocuted.

  “Do you always cook with your shirt off?” I ask, leaning against the counter by the two plates he’s laid out to receive our curried bounty.

  “Only when I’m feeling sexy,” he says seriously.

  I smile. “So that’s a yes?” He winks, and I roll my eyes with a sigh. “What’s it like? To be so confident and gorgeous? Do you just have sex all the time?” I ask, suddenly curious about his past conquests.

  “No, I don’t have sex all the time.”

  “Liar,” I tease. “I bet back home you’ve got a different woman for every night of the week. Three on Saturdays.”

  “I don’t,” he says, giving his concoction a stir. “I had a girlfriend for most of last year, and there hasn’t been anyone since that ended. I’ve been too busy helping Andrew prepare for the coronation.”

  I arch a brow. “So how long has it been? Sorry if that’s too personal. I’m just so curious. I’ve never talked to a man about his sex life before.”

  His gaze slides my way. “Should I be flattered or offended?”

  “Flattered,” I say, stomach flipping as our eyes lock again. Eye contact with Jeffrey is nearly as hot as second base with Rafe. Though it’s been so long since I’ve been to second base, I might not be remembering it correctly. “I feel safe with you.”

  Pleasure softens his features. “I’m glad. You’re always safe with me. I’m sorry about before. I was trying to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself, or me, but I should have found a better way to do that than pinning you to the bed.”

  Pinning me to the bed…

  Jesus, the words are enough to make my panties wet. I have to change the subject, fast, before I end up begging him to take my virginity on the dining table.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “So, where did you learn to cook curry?”

  “My first serious girlfriend was Indian. We were too young for her parents to trust us alone together. So, we hung out at her place a lot, helped her mother cook. It was nice.” He shrugs. “Until her dad found out I was part of the royal family and refused to let us see each other again.”

  My jaw drops. “What? Why would he do that?”

  “He was part of the Democratic Reform Party. They want elections, not more of the same.”

  I chew the inside of my lip. “Well, I understand the impulse toward self -government, and obviously that’s the direction the people chose here, but…”

  “But,” he prods.

  “Well, nothing against my grandparents or the rest of my crazy family, but they did have a reputation for being…crazy. And unpredictable.”

  “Was it your grandfather who built the giant slide through the capital?”

  I roll my eyes. “My great grandfather. Blew the entire annual budget for the war widows and orphans fund on the thing. And yes, the orphans loved sliding through the center of the city, but I’m sure they also would have enjoyed eating something other than porridge that winter. He was oblivious, and grandpa was even worse. So yes, I understand why the Rindish people wanted the chance to elect someone more stable. But Gallantia’s had a good run the past few hundred years. Peace, prosperity, increased tourism and national wealth that your family has funneled into programs that benefit the people. I don’t know any country that has two years of paid leave to share between the parents after they have a new baby. That’s incredible. My nanny from California says a lot of mothers in the United States only get a few weeks and the fathers often don’t get anything at all.”

  “Barbaric,” he mutters.

  I hum in agreement. “And exhausting, I imagine. I haven’t spent much time around infants, but the ones I have met seem like a full-time job.”

  “Agreed.” He turns off the stove and faces me, surprise writ on his features. “You’ve done your homework on my country.”

  I shrug. “I listen to a lot of political podcasts while I sew. The Gallantian ones are better than ours. Again, better funding for public radio. So, why is your reform party so eager to shake things up. Your family’s reign has left them better off than most countries in the world, democratically led or otherwise.”

  “I think people want to see power and influence earned by hard work, not bestowed by birth. They’re tired of people like my family cheating their way to the top.” He pulls the lid off the pot of rice on the back burner, releasing an aromatic puff of warm, jasmine-scented air. “One more minute, maybe two, and we’ll be ready to plate up.”

  “Thank God.” I press a hand to my grumbling stomach. “I’m so hungry. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

  “You haven’t,” he says, amusement in his eyes. “You were asleep for an entire day, remember? And you were too sick for more than juice and broth the day before.”

  I blink. “You’re right. No wonder I’m having a hard time focusing. I want to talk more about earning power and influence, but I’m so starved I feel like a wolf in the old cartoons. The ones that follow the chickens around the barnyard, drooling and imagining them all roasted up and ready to eat.”

  Jeffrey laughs. “Can’t say I’ve seen any of those. I wasn’t allowed to watch television as a kid, only movies, and I’ve been too busy as an adult to catch up. I’ve still never seen a single episode of The Simpsons.”

  “Wow,” I say, crossing my arms over my continually growling stomach. “Even I’ve seen The Simpsons, and I’ve been mostly a radio-listener only since I was a teenager.”

  “Yeah, my brother Nick says I’m missing out on satiric brilliance.”

  “It can be really good,” I say. “But it’s just television. It’s not like you’re missing out on something important.”

  He pulls the rice from the heat and turns off the back burner, but he doesn’t reach for the serving spoon.

  When I look up at him, he’s watching me with an uncertain expression.

  “What?” I arch a brow. “You look constipated.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “I do not.”

  “How do you know? Do you look in the mirror when you’re constipated?” I ask, and he rolls his eyes. “Exactly. So you don’t know. I bet you look just like that.”

  “I was thinking about missing out on important things,” he says. “And about what you said.”

  “What I said about what?” I ask. “About only eating curry twice in my life?”

  “That,” he says. “And…about being a virgin. I’m curious, but I don’t want to step where I shouldn’t.”

  “I propositioned you while I was completely naked, Jeffrey,” I say, my cheeks getting hot again at the memory. “It’s silly to be shy at this point. I’m not shy about it,” I lie with bravado that sounds fairly convincing.

  But then, maybe it isn’t a lie. I’m a little embarrassed that he turned me down, yes, but I’m not shy or ashamed.

  I don’t feel ashamed when I’m with Jeffrey. I feel…accepted. Taken for who I am. Even when he disagrees with me or thinks I’m crazy or ridiculous.

  “So, which part are you curious about?” I ask, my stomach snarling so loudly I wince in apology. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, I should apologize for chatting while you’re starving to death.” He ladles rice onto two plates and then covers each with a generous helping of curry. “I
’m hungry, too. And I don’t like to talk about sex with my mouth full.”

  “Well, no matter what we talk about, I’m doing it with my mouth full.” I cross to the table and pull out a chair for him before settling into the one across from it. “Once I start in on this curry, I have a feeling I’m not going to be able to stop.”

  “What if it uses its safe word?” he says, setting a plate down in front of me.

  “I don’t believe in safe words. Or BDSM, really.”

  He frowns. “You can’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Decide you don’t believe in something that empirically exists. It’s like I said before, that’s not the way reality works. Whether you believe in safe words or not, they do exist.”

  “Ha.” I point my fork at him. “Exactly. Thank you for proving my point.”

  “Proving your point?” He grunts. “You mean about your curse?”

  “Yes.” I dig in, lifting a steaming piece of chicken to my mouth and taking my first bite, moaning as spice and citrus thrust against my tongue. “Oh my God. This is so good. So, so good. I don’t ever want to stop eating this meal. Never ever…”

  He makes a pained sound, but when I glance his way, his attention is fixed on his plate. “So, the curse… I’ve been thinking about it, and I might have a solution.”

  My brows shoot up. “Are you a wizard?” I ask, spearing a bite of perfectly tender cauliflower with curry sauce hiding in every delectable nook and cranny.

  Damn, this curry is doing really sexy things to my mouth. Even if I hadn’t been thinking about sex already, I would be now.

  I moan again, and Jeffrey scowls harder. “Of course not.”

  “A genie who can grant me three wishes?”

  He sighs. “I’m serious, Elizabeth. Can’t you at least allow the possibility that you’re wrong? That something that happened when you were too young to process a traumatic experience warped your view of the world in a way that’s destructive to your hopes for the future?”