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

by Angel Payne

  “Of course, dear.” Xaria’s face was full of compassion but her voice rang strangely hollow. On the other hand, I was so tired, everything sounded hollow.

  “Miss Fava.”

  Except for him.

  The fullness of his baritone. The sensual pull of his accent. Most of all, the command underlying it all, compelling me to stop. All but ordering me to lift my head and look back at him. Dammit, whether I wanted to or not. Because I definitely did not.

  No matter how much my racing heart, sizzling blood, and tight throat said otherwise.

  None of it would negate what my soul already knew—and my heart tried to forget.

  I could no longer write off our connection as first meeting chemistry, or one instance rubbing out the hot-and-hornies. This wasn’t just a case of insta-fangirl over a prince who rearranged the air as if that were his kingdom too.

  This was one of those bonds. A click of utterly right, happening at the completely wrong time. The guy who met me, saw me, just knew me—and wanted me anyway. He was the Ron to my Hermione. The Mr. Big who knew how to smirk at my Carrie. The Navarre doomed as the wolf to my Isabeau.

  Hell.

  One more second down this fucking path, and I’d be borrowing his dagger to stab myself in the tomb with him.

  Sometimes, shit timing was just shit timing.

  This was one of those times.

  Next.

  I pulled in a deep breath. Pushed out a brave smile at all of them once more. “I’m sure they’ll find Crista soon. Can someone send an update to my room?”

  “Of course,” Evrest supplied, as his little brother moved forward—setting my nerves on alert all over again.

  “I will escort you back to your suite.”

  I glared at the elbow Shiraz offered as if it were a tree branch on fire. Hell if it didn’t already have the texture of an oak—not that I was visiting those damn memories anymore.

  “I know the way,” I added in a mutter, letting him see my pointed glance in Ambyr’s direction. “But thank you anyway.”

  “I can escort her.”

  For some reason, Ardent’s offer clanged even more inner alarms. Xaria’s indifference about it provided weird validation for the feeling. “No,” I all but snapped. “Really, Your Majesty Ardent, I do know the way. Merderim and bon sonar.”

  With everyone in the room handled, especially the prince who studied every inch of movement I dared, I spun on my heel.

  First goal, only goal: the sanctuary of my suite.

  There was only one problem with that plan.

  I really didn’t know the way.

  Shit.

  It was on the fourth level of the guest wing, right? Or was that the fifth? And wasn’t it just past the bend in the hall, after the first atrium? Had there been an atrium?

  Double shit.

  Every wrong turn and misstep took me deeper into a labyrinth starting to feel like a cosmic joke with me as the punchline. I imagined some room full of Arcadian internet geeks, training their hidden cameras on the cute American rat in their maze, laughing their asses off while downing Doritos and Triple Jolt cola.

  Just when I debated making their day by pulling out my more colorful profanity, I finally plodded up to the entrance arch of my suite.

  And how, exactly, did I know that Fate had at last beamed down its favor? There’d been no time to tie a ribbon on the door, or even memorize the damn number cascading down the entrance arch. To be honest, I might have even walked past here already…

  Which meant I should’ve been damn grateful for the dark, dirt-encrusted demigod who leaned against the portal—

  From his stance inside the room.

  Who danced his sleek eyebrows as I trudged forward, unfiltered about the intent of my steady glare.

  Who lifted just one side of his elegant mouth in a new, knowing look—ensuring my glower wouldn’t be put away anytime soon.

  “Knew your way back, hmm?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‡

  I pushed past him, into the room. Made my way straight to the bar, where I grabbed a bottle of water then the whole bottle of tequila. I’d so kill for a plate of chili nachos and a Gervase triple special with a wedge of pineapple. The Patrón would have to do for now. At least it was the good stuff.

  I poured myself a generous shot and downed the thing—watching with narrowed eyes as Shiraz approached on quiet steps. Let my gaze widen as he scooped up the bottle and downed as much as I just had.

  “You trying to be impressive?” I quipped it as he took his second swig. Tried, and failed, to disregard the warmth of the alcohol through my muscles and the heat of him through my veins. He’d shucked the search and rescue jacket, so a lot more of his body was on display in just his black, skintight T-shirt and those alpha-guy cargo pants. Gone as well were his shit kicker boots, replaced by a pair of back slip-ons closely resembling the comfortable Vans preferred by surfers back home.

  Sheez. We could almost be just chilling at Ez’s place in Venice Beach, the waves of the Pacific pounding the shore beyond the balcony. He could almost just be some hottie surfer-slash-model I’d met at The Whaler, and wanted to know better…

  Almost.

  But not really.

  “Maybe,” he answered me at last, adding such a graceful shrug, I went back to the hottie surfer image. “Probably.” His gaze roamed everywhere but finally settled back over me.

  Ohhhh, sheez.

  He simply wasn’t going to give me quarter from this, was he? The clutched breath. The sizzling bloodstream. The altered atmosphere that happened each time he was near. Everything so much sharper. Hotter. Needier. Pushing back to that edge between lust and craving, fantasy and reality, wanting and doing…

  So painful.

  So perfect.

  So not happening.

  There was too much to lose now, even with the bid for the wedding stricken from the picture. In a way, this risk was even more dangerous. The valley of my psyche was on the line. The cliff dive after Ryan was bone-crushing enough—and I’d had a parachute of common sense to help brace the fall. Deep inside, I’d known Ryan and I were headed for the crash, but Shiraz Noir Cimarron was a ride I wanted to take into the stars themselves…

  A ride I wasn’t destined to take.

  As stupid as it sounded, his country needed him now more than ever. Fate owed Arcadia a fucking break, and his marriage to Ambyr would be the beacon to guide them there. With a true Arcadian bride in the mix, even the purists would be mollified, making it easier for everyone to accept Camellia and Brooke as well.

  So Ambyr got to take the ride.

  Which meant I was doomed to take the fall.

  Best to get off the rocket now, when the plummet wouldn’t hurt so damn much.

  “Why are you here, Shiraz?” I made the subtext clear. Why are you in here, putting us both in this goddamn position, when you should be with your family and fiancée?

  Not his fiancée. Not yet.

  Not a fact that should’ve given my bloodstream a drop of glory-glory-hallelujah—

  But did.

  Dammit.

  He leaned both elbows on the bar. Stroked the sides of the Patrón with his damnably long fingers, clearly contemplating another douse. With a heavy huff, denied himself. “They found Crista.”

  His lead tone fisted the middle of my chest. “Shit.” Made me struggle for air. “And she’s—”

  “Alive.”

  “Shit.” I clutched his forearm. Dug in tighter when nothing changed about the cloud over his composure. “That’s awesome, right?”

  He nodded. Sort of. “She is alive,” he clarified, “for now.”

  “For…now?”

  “The river carried her far.” His face darkened. “Very far.”

  “But they found her before the falls?” I knew he got my reference to Atlavoler Falls, one of the island’s most breathtaking natural sights. The waterfall, fifty feet across, had a drop three times that much down. If they’d fou
nd Crista south of the site, even “alive” might be a relative term.

  Shiraz pushed out another long breath and supplied, “Yes. Before the falls. She managed to swim her way into a small ravine before the drop.”

  “Oh.” It was as much exclamation as reaction. “Thank fuck. So what’s the problem?”

  There was a problem. It was still stamped in harsh lines all over his face. He confirmed it by wheeling away and pacing across the room, stabbing a hand through his hair. “Samsyn does not know what kind of condition she is in. He told me she waved at them, so they know she is alive, though she seems to be wedged between some rocks. She is trapped, injured or both.” With hands still locked at the back of his head, he pivoted back. “The whole situation is…” He grunted. “Fucked all to hell.”

  I strolled out from behind the counter, hitching a hip to the small service counter surrounding it. Examined his chiseled profile—not a bad assignment—while attempting to connect the beginning of his statement to its ending conclusion, a considerably harder one.

  As a matter of fact, it was outright impossible.

  “Does not compute, hard drive,” I finally confessed. “It’s fucked all to hell…why?”

  “Because, dammit! Because—” He threw his hands akimbo, keeping them splayed as he stalked deeper into the room. “Never mind. Fuck it.”

  There. As his voice broke apart on a disgusted mutter, it let me see all the way into him. Shit. It was now so obvious. “Because…you want to be out there helping to rescue her.”

  “I need to be out there!” He spun back around. “I can help, dammit. I know that terrain, Lucina. I have trained parkour across every mile of it—”

  “And you’re the only one who has?” I managed to sift the snark from it. Making light of his frustration wasn’t my intention—but nor was making light of his life. Samsyn hadn’t told him to stay back to deny him a training session, or keep him “out of the fun” of things. Maybe he just needed to hear that. “What they’re doing out there isn’t going to be easy, Shiraz.”

  “Which is why Syn needs every pair of experienced hands he can get,” he snapped. “That ravine is tight as hell. It will take an army of many to get to her, perhaps assist with lifting the boulders—”

  “And maybe your brother already has that army in place.” An instant confirmation that I really was a glutton for punishment, considering the glare I received in return.

  “I am not his slobbering lap dog!” He stuck the glower in by sweeping a harsh finger. “I will not be commanded to just ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ here, when one of my people needs help! When I can be helping to rescue her!”

  His fury slammed through the room like a brand-new hurricane. But I knew a lot more about hurricanes now.

  And I knew a lot more about him now.

  “Rescue her,” I echoed, nearly under my breath. Yeah, because—note to self, duh—rescuing was what a prince did for his people. What a leader did for his followers. What a hero did for his team. What this man had grown up watching his brothers do, Evrest as king of the nation and Samsyn as commander of its army, and had yearned to do himself, likely countless of times before this—

  And how many of those times had he been sidelined, just like this? Burning to make a difference, to be the protector he was born to be, only to be held back?

  My gut confirmed it as truth—as my heart dealt with an odd mix of reaction. Why didn’t his family see this? Couldn’t they see he wasn’t still their kid brother, pestering to be in on the adventures? He was a man, as fit and formidable as the rest of them, with a spirit hungering to give back to his kingdom. To make a difference…

  But there was a flip side to the coin. While the Cimarrons weren’t ruling royals in the purest sense of the word, their word carried huge sway with the Arcadian High Council. They were also important symbols to the kingdom’s citizens. If even one of them was killed rescue-roping down a canyon, it’d gouge the national psyche. In this case, Samsyn was clearly that risk—and hopefully, the royal who made it back alive.

  It made sense on paper.

  Watching it tear this man up was another thing.

  Letting it stretch me apart too? There was a zinger I hadn’t prepared for—but what was one more on the list for this trip?—a deliberation that must’ve made its way to my face, for his accusing finger swept up once more.

  “Do not start the lecture,” Shiraz charged. “I can recite the talking points backward. The Cimarrons are ‘vital to the country’s morale and patriotism’. Our lives are not ‘just about us’. We must ‘look at the entire picture’ with every decision we make, and ‘put the people first’.” He dropped his hand, clenching it at his side as he crossed the room in three wide stomps. Without stopping, he mounted the two steps leading to the bedroom area. “Creator’s cock, is that not what I am fighting to do?”

  I took a step forward. Stopped to let him watch me take calming breath. “Look, I get it—”

  His bitter laugh cut me short. “You ‘get it’. Is that so?”

  My hands shot to my hips. “Yeah, prince of pricks, it is.”

  He stayed silent. Watching. Assessing. Perhaps finally acknowledging I’d meant what I said…and that I really did get it. That I saw him, felt him. That I recognized his frustration beyond just a weight on the air. It was a detonation inside me too, forming a full-on canyon in my chest, blown wider by the second, as more understanding set in.

  Shiraz Cimarron didn’t do anything halfway.

  And he was definitely all-in on this shit.

  In his heart, “reign” was the same word as “service”. The birds on his chest weren’t just for the cool patriotism factor. His birthright had made him a prince but his heart had made him a leader, and neither role was ever far from his psyche—leading to the electricity everyone felt the moment he entered a room. What I’d felt, and still did. Most people wrote off that buzz to the power of his beauty, but when one looked beneath that surface, and saw the deeper truths about him…

  That the resplendence on the outside was only the beginning.

  That the magic of him…was him.

  It changed things.

  It made people yearn for more.

  It made me crave more.

  Much more.

  So much that without thinking, I’d crossed the room. Stepped up so I was only a foot from him. Reached out, fitting my hand into his. Lifted my gaze, waiting on the verdict of his.

  It was only the clasp of our hands. That was all it had to be.

  At least that was what I told myself. Over and over and over and—

  “Lucina.”

  Not a question, though implying one. Underlining it in the new focus of his eyes, the responding pressure of his hold.

  “Shiraz.” I pivoted enough to face him in full. Slid my fingers against the palm of his other hand. “I really do get it.”

  Rough inhalation. So damn sexy. “I know.”

  “And I just want to help.”

  “I know.”

  I lifted a heartened smile. He meant that. I felt it in the warmth of his grasp, despite the tightness still governing his face. The bruise on his cheek had darkened, making me feel maternal and primal at the same time, wanting to simultaneously soothe him and fuck him. On the other hand, yearning to fuck him wasn’t new. Not by a longshot. Just the other part was new.

  Though no less dangerous.

  Which had probably made this move a very dumb-ass choice.

  I let my gaze dash to the side. Not an easy task. “Sometimes, all you need is a friend to listen.” Leave it there. Leave. It. There. “But if this isn’t helping…”

  Dumb. Ass. Dumb. Ass.

  He let my hands fall. “It is not.”

  Stupid embarrassment, as his definite tone sank in.

  But then shocked wonderment—as he filled his grip with my ass instead.

  Racing arousal, as he yanked me in, molded me close, and kissed a whole layer of skin off my lips. Sucked every molecule of air out of
my lungs. Stole every logical thought straight from my mind. Steamed every sensual, dewy drop in my pussy.

  Finally, dragged his head up enough to look at me—though his eyes, full of blue lava lust, stayed riveted on my parted, panting lips.

  “This is helping.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‡

  Three seconds.

  It was all he gave me before bending his head deeper, then taking my lips again.

  Three seconds…to decide.

  For both of us.

  Restraint, brakes, and an easy but aching coast toward goodbye—or full speed, turbo jets, and a hell of a fireball before the ending credits of this thing?

  Fireballs always made the credits so pretty.

  At least it was what I told myself, as I let him crash all the way down on me. A conviction I let consume me, exactly as his taste and scent and heat did. A thought that even brought weird comfort, as he hitched my thighs around his waist then turned, carrying me toward the bed.

  He needed this.

  I was helping him.

  Diverting his rage toward something that wouldn’t get him killed—though it was sure as hell going to feel like self-impalement to walk away from him now.

  But the skewering would be worth it. The pain, so damn sweet.

  Who the fuck was I kidding? I wasn’t made for sweet. And this time, the pain was going to suck ass—a punishment I’d take like a big girl, once the time came.

  Now was not that time.

  Right now, slammed to my back then crushed beneath his body, it was only time to welcome the good pain. The best kind.

  The grind of his teeth against mine, as he plunged his mouth back down. The bite of his cargo pants zipper as he made room for himself between my thighs, parting them with his own. The rough slide of his hands up my thighs then my waist, pushing up my shirt, palming my bare skin with his passion-driven hands.