Into Her Fantasies -- A Contemporary Romance: The Cimarrons: Royals of Arcadia Island (The Cimarron Series Book 3)

by Angel Payne

  Double hell.

  Especially that rug…

  Blasting insanity into my mind. Beautiful, incredible insanity.

  A vision of me, sinking to my knees in that plushness. In front of him. Leaning close to his sinewy thighs as I unbuckled his belt. Unzipped his expensive slacks. Sighed against the flesh beneath as he gave me illicit commands in that decadent accent, then fed his hard flesh into my eager mouth…

  Was there such a thing as triple hell?

  There was now.

  “Well.” The voice from my little fantasy, now just inches behind me, nearly plummeted me to my ass. Yes, even in Mom’s basic flats. “Shall we get to it?”

  Gulp.

  Hard.

  Again.

  Was he trying to drive me crazy? That had to be it. Mind fucker. Fantasy maker. I hated him for both and wanted him for both.

  He made nothing easier by pressing his big hand into the sweet spot at the small of my back. Yeah, that sweet spot. The halfway point between innocent and illicit. Of course he knew exactly where to find it, then push hard enough to make me yearn for him to travel lower. Much lower.

  I persevered until he guided me toward a huge, plush leather couch, then my thoughts exploded. My mind filled with a vision of us making out on those cushions. How would he taste? How would he taste me in return? Slow and sensual? Hot and dirty? Maybe both. God, I could only pray.

  Holy shit.

  It was time to pray, all right.

  For the thoughts of a nun.

  I perched at the edge of the cushion, grateful the leather was as firm as it appeared. The hard surface helped me pretend my thoughts hadn’t turned into a horny hothouse. I even went for the virginal-hands-in-lap thing, though closing my knees only made a lot of things much worse—very fast. Do not think about your throbbing clit. Do not think about anything else throbbing either.

  I whipped my laptop out of my satchel. It was never the action I liked opening with, especially during a first-time meeting with a client. A wedding was one of the most intimate acts of a person’s life, whether they were an academic, an acrobat, or an Academy award winner. The journey toward making those dreams come true began with conversation and eye contact, not tapping on a keyboard.

  But there was nothing normal about this client.

  This client.

  The only way I’d save myself—and Expectation’s chance for this gig—would be remembering that.

  As in, tattooing it on my brain.

  I closed my eyes for two seconds, mentally inking the words across my forehead. Yes. Perfect. Hard-dialing Shiraz Cimarron into the client zone was like the friend zone only better. Number one, that was exactly where he belonged. Number two—

  Screw number two. Whatever the hell it had been.

  The moment I reopened my gaze, he wiped it away. The client zone tattoo? Yeah, that too—along with virginal hands, clamped knees, and attempting to ha-ha-ha my way out of this, all obliterated as he consumed my sights again, his big body lowering to the couch too.

  His mien was the polar opposite of mine. Not completely opposite. He was on a high alert of his own. I felt that attention like pinpricks on the air, despite his outward air of smooth indolence, hooded eyes, and lazy leisure. And getting an accurate read on him through the contradiction? Might as well toss that notion out the window. Funny, because jumping through the panes behind his desk seemed a fantastic option right now. Though the dark wood shutters were only half-cracked, they exposed enough ocean, cliffs, and palm fronds for me to crave a chaise, a book, a cocktail, and several hours of peace.

  He was nowhere on that list.

  Nor would he be.

  I pulled in a deep breath. Forced the calm down my limbs, ordering it to loosen my nerves. The man—the client—across the couch remained the same. He was a giant body of relaxation armed with a thousand darts of attention. He hadn’t even brought his phone over. His suit jacket was gone, slung across one of the chairs by the desk. When had he shirked his tie too?

  Thank God he hadn’t done the rolled-up shirtsleeves thing on top of it. I bet his forearms were dusted by hair that’d turn my composure inside out. It would probably match the thick, luxurious waves on his head. The umber-onyx mess was another subject of fascination for the press—at least the female members of it—and now I understood why. In person, it literally caused sweaty palms and itchy fingers from just the thought of tangling in the strands. It was that perfect length too: somewhere between a corporate lawyer crop and a guitar god mane, tickling the curve between his neck and shoulder, catching the light so some of it turned a deep cinnamon hue…

  “Miss Fava?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Are you ready to discuss the proposal?”

  “Cinnamon.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Mortification, party of one.

  “Sorry,” I stammered—a word I’d be repeating over and over to Ez in a few hours, if I didn’t get my shit together. “Jet lag. It’s the middle of the night for New York right now.” And thank God for that. If I blew this, there were still a few hours before Ezra rolled out of bed. Surely that would be enough time to form an excuse other than I was so fixated on his hair, I blew the presentation.

  “Of course.” His tone soothed but his gaze narrowed. Just like that, I was back in what-the-hell-does-he-mean mode. I didn’t feel judged or scrutinized, not in the traditional sense of the words, but he was definitely…

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Searching.

  For what?

  And in the end, did the answer matter?

  Because all I could anticipate “answering” for Shiraz Cimarron was the logistical hassle of this wedding.

  With an efficient tap, I woke up my smart pad. “Well, then. Shall we—” Get to it? No. Not there again. “Shall we begin?”

  “I am all yours.”

  Not in half the ways I could dream, buddy.

  I only had myself to be pissed at for that one—so it was up to me to rectify. I cleared my throat. Stated serenely, “Ezra told me you viewed the preliminary proposal video we sent, along with the virtual color boards, the load-in and breakdown schedules, and our client list. I’m happy to address any questions you might have about any of it.”

  Extended pause—long enough to fray my nerves. If Cimarron had questions, they weren’t likely going to be the standard. Stay sharp. Focus. You’ve got this. You know this, inside and out.

  “The video was well-done and thorough.” He hitched an elbow over the back of the couch, accenting the breadth of his shoulders. “I understand that since then, Expectation has been honored with an industry honor, as well.”

  “Yes. The Crystal Award.” I smiled and meant it. “For creativity and excellence in planning a specific event.”

  “Mr. Lowe told me that event was your brainchild.”

  I shook my head. “We work as a team, Your Highness. No idea belongs fully to either of us.”

  He leaned forward. “But many of the ideas in this proposal are yours too.”

  Funny squirm. And jolting comprehension. Why had Ez disclosed that to Cimarron? Never mind that it was the truth; Ezra rarely cared about that when presenting our joint ideas to clients…

  Unless taking a different path would secure the business.

  You schmooze with these royals better than I do…

  He hadn’t been blowing sunshine up my ass. He actually believed I could do this.

  But did Shiraz Cimarron?

  I had to look up, to learn for myself. To force our gazes into alignment then pry without hesitation, “Why are you even interested in that?”

  No pause this time. Only his answer, with the same resolve, like silk-covered steel. “Because I am interested in you.”

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I was so getting that T-shirt.

  My senses backed the decision. My lungs hung onto another shaky breath, hoarding air until my pulse ached at the bottom of my throat. I needed to l
ook away. I could have stared at him another hour. Maybe I did.

  “Why?” I finally got out.

  He glanced across the room, considering that. Thank God. A moment of recovery time. Being the focus of his attention was like standing in a shaft of sunlight piercing that same thick forest. It was intense and wonderful—and blinding.

  At last he explained, “Because all the ideas in the proposal do not add up to the woman who just walked in here.”

  I shifted a little. Back into the sun. “Oh? And what kind of a woman were you anticipating?”

  His breath left him in a careful measure. His features darkened by a new degree, though certainly not in anger—but not undressing me with his eyes, either. This was different. In many ways, scarier. His regard stripped off more than my clothes. He was going deeper. Into my head, my thoughts…my sex.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  That T-shirt better come in the cute, boob-enhancing style.

  “Not a woman who took the time to research the history of our family and our kingdom, then weave them into romantic symbolism for a wedding ceremony.”

  Scoffing laugh. “It’s not rocket science when the country’s seal is a dove with sunbeam wings.”

  He nodded deferentially. “True—but proposing a sunrise wedding, instead of sunset, was unique.”

  “But bright pink doves are also unique.”

  His stare flared. “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind.”

  Thankfully, he heeded. “How did you conceive the commencement of the ceremony? The hawk circling the room then taking the scroll from the high minister’s hand?”

  “Well, the hawk comes directly from your family’s crest. The animal’s natural majesty seemed a perfect way to symbolize the unions about to be forged. A herald of the past, grasping then taking flight with the hope of the future.” I leaned forward, excited about relaying the aspect we hadn’t included in the preliminary proposal. “If you really like the idea—”

  “I do.”

  That silk-on-steel tone again. He wasn’t making this easy but excitement was on my side now.

  “Well, we could have the hawk displayed on a perch in the reception hall. After your brother gives the king’s blessing to the meal, the hawk could return the scroll to him—before he turns and gives it to his new bride, symbolizing how he needs her as his partner and queen, with their love guiding the future of the kingdom.”

  The corners of his lips lifted. Not quite a smile. Something, I sensed, representing deeper emotions—but when he said nothing to elucidate it, I finally prompted, “What?”

  “You have just—how do you say it?—provided fuel for my fire.” The smile cracked free as he circled a finger in the direction of my head. “All those fairytale notions, from the picture of pragmatism before me.”

  It seemed like a compliment, but I didn’t want to take it as one. Not by a longshot. Of all the impressions I wished this man would walk away with, “pragmatic” did not top the damn list. But “idealistic” didn’t, either.

  What did I want from Shiraz Cimarron? And did that answer even get a vote?

  Adulting. In some dictionary, maybe a few, the description had to read: Not getting everything you want. Not even half.

  “Some people get their fairytales, Your Highness.” I hitched a dorky shrug. “People who are not me.”

  His gaze narrowed—again making me feel shoved under the emotional x-ray. “But you are not sad about it.”

  Again, a compliment-not-compliment. “Should I be?”

  “You are evading my question.”

  “You didn’t ask a question. Though once you get the question mark on it, perhaps you should ask yourself the same question.” I straightened a little, spearing him with a steady gaze. “Do you believe in fairytales, Your Highness?”

  His angular lips continued their quixotic smile, though the look vanished from every corner of his gaze. “I have no time or space for towers, dragons, and glass slippers.”

  “Which is why you asked about all the symbolism in my proposal?”

  Now I was fueling fires—and he showed me just how hot. With one push, he swung his elbow from the cushion to his knee, looming his whole torso forward. The result was a little surreal. Though his face was lower than mine, his stare was more consuming than before.

  “Fairytales are just fantasies,” he murmured. “Symbolism stands for reality.” He pushed in even closer. Oh hell, until I could smell him, expensive and European, bergamot crushed with blackberries. “And reality is where I must live.”

  Just a quiet murmur—but it felt like a fist to my chest. I tightened my grip on the smart pad, fighting the longing to reach for him…to comfort the loneliness in his voice and the resignation weighing his shoulders…

  No.

  I had to grab the opening he’d inadvertently given me.

  “Reality,” I echoed. “All right, then. Long as we’re going there, let’s do it.”

  His brows scrunched in. “Do…what?”

  Big girl time. Line up the shot. “Better question for you than me, Your Highness.”

  “I do not understand.”

  I stood. “It’s time to get real with me, Your Highness,” I clarified. “Am I proposing on a triple Cimarron wedding now, instead of a double?”

  Chapter Four

  ‡

  Direct is best.

  It was a favorite credo for Ez and me. In our business, subtleties and subtext often became exaggerations, especially if a bridezilla was on the loose. No stalking lizard here, but I assumed a “numbers guy” like the prince would appreciate the mode.

  I was so wrong.

  I had time to glimpse the tension of his jaw and the fire in his eyes before he stalked across the room. Three seconds later, he halted at the window behind his desk.

  Clack.

  I jolted as he parted the shutters, slamming them to the window frame, then keeping his arms extended. His delts were lines of sculpted perfection beneath his white shirt. At the open end of his sleeves, his forearms were equally muscled—and dusted by dark hair worth fixating on. A lot. As in, the blowjob-on-the-rug scene was right there again, making me imagine what those hairs would feel like against my cheek, as he guided my mouth to the tip of his cock…

  Dear freaking God.

  Pull. Your. Shit. Together.

  And what shit was that, besides the normal? This is your norm, Luce. Remember?

  Right. Only my unique brand of naughty was usually for a guy returning my bedroom thoughts with bedroom eyes from across a crowded bar, not a client in perfectly-fitted Prada, making me this horny just from gazing at his forearms.

  “You proposed on a double wedding, Miss Fava.”

  And apparently, one able to instantly dunk his velvet voice into a gallon of stiff starch too.

  Perhaps a cue well worth taking.

  “So that’s all we’re discussing?” I returned—though instantly slapped myself for it. Sheez and crackers, why did I care whether the man had a ring in his pocket for Ambyr Stratiss? They were completely wrong for each other—even after thirty seconds with her and ten minutes with him, I could see that much—but the requirements of his station didn’t have a thing to do with what I thought or felt.

  “Yes.” Barely a beat went by before his retort. “No,” he muttered a second later, followed by something in guttural Arcadian as he pushed from the window with a fluid motion. But the supreme control of his body couldn’t mask the tension in his energy. If this was an old-school sci-fi flick and he had a perceptible aura, it’d be smoky red from all his frustration. “I—I do not know.” He tapped both sets of long fingers atop his desk.

  I wrestled for how to answer that. Part of me longed to lob a pillow from the couch at him. Time was money, and I’d crossed a major ocean and seven time zones getting my ass here. “I do not know” wasn’t an acceptable answer at this point.

  But there was another part of me here.

  The part that felt his conflict, right al
ong with him.

  Because nobody, not even a royal prince with wicked business acumen, wanted to marry a person they had no feelings for.

  But maybe jetlag had really fucked with my radar on this one. Maybe he was into her. Maybe he’d been relieved by Ambyr’s departure so he could focus on work instead of bonking her on the cool, curvy desk. Good explanation for her smug exit and his tousled hair.

  On just like that, I went inner voyeur on his ass. Envisioned the two of them going at it, on top of his neat file stacks, next to his gleaming pens…

  No.

  Just no, no, and no.

  “Gah,” I pushed through clenched teeth. Had to openly confront my envy, likely shared by half the women on this island, when thinking of that woman with Shiraz’s mane in her fingers, name on her lips, and body between her legs…

  “Gah?”

  “Just an expression,” I managed, throwing up a dismissive hand. The move was as much for my benefit as his. It was time to face several simple but shitty truths.

  One: something—all right, many things—about Shiraz Cimarron flipped my damn switches.

  Two: it was up to me to slam them back off.

  Three: yes, all of them.

  Wasn’t like it was going to be hard, right? The switches had been there a long damn time, and I was extremely used to powering down the “less acceptable” side of myself by now. Or so I liked to keep telling myself.

  “An expression meaning what?”

  “Many things,” I volleyed to his quiet question. “And nothing. Sometimes, things are just better said without real words.”

  “Things like what?”

  I bared teeth in teasing exasperation. The man hardly reacted. At last, he lifted both hands to the back of his cushy chair. Period. Not a blink, flinch, or twitch after that.

  “Anyone ever call you a dog with a bone?” I finally groused.

  “More than once.” Still no falter—though he did grip the chair tighter. Sweet God, he had breathtaking fingers. They’d even be creepy long, if they didn’t bely such latent strength. And sensuality. And the ability to use both quite well…

  Switches. Off.

  “So what did the ‘gah’ represent this time?”