by Iris Morland
Yeah, that made me even harder.
I pulled away. We were both panting now. Her lip gloss was smeared across her mouth, and I licked my own lips, tasting the cherry sweetness.
“Are you wet?” My words were a growl.
She whispered, “Yes.”
I tugged her head back by her hair. Latching onto her throat, I sucked at the tender skin there. Niamh let out a mewl, reminding me of those damned kittens she’d rescued.
“Olivier, Olivier—” Niamh pushed against me. “Enough. We can’t keep going.”
“Why?” My jaw was clenched so hard it was about to shatter. “We’re fucking married. You’re my wife. If that isn’t a good enough reason, I don’t know what is.”
“Because I won’t survive it if we do.” She said the words in a rush. Based on her expression, she was entirely serious.
Well, that was enough to bank the fires of my lust, at least. Sighing, I pulled off my t-shirt and shorts, toeing off my sandals. Then I jumped into the deep end of the pool, the cool water a welcome shock to the system.
I emerged and slicked water away from my face. “Come on,” I said, beckoning. “You should at least go for a swim.”
“You’re naked.”
I just laughed at her. “Sweetheart, you’re wearing three scraps of fabric. You could be wearing full body armor and I’d still find a way to fuck you.” But I held up my hands. “I’ll behave myself. Promise.”
She narrowed her eyes at me which, honestly, was wise. She shouldn’t trust me. When it came to my wife, my self-control had been obliterated weeks ago.
She eventually sat down at the edge of the pool, her feet dangling in the water. I came to stand in between her legs, and she placed her hands on my shoulders.
“You look like a merman,” she said. She gently pushed my wet hair from my forehead. “All golden and gorgeous.”
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Was that a compliment?”
“Like you don’t know you’re ridiculously handsome.”
“I know that. Doesn’t mean that you do.” I gave her my biggest, most obnoxious smile.
“Now you’re just fishing for compliments, Your Highness. It’s not a good look. Pretty sure you could go anywhere in town and get as many compliments as you’d like from the locals.”
“But I only want compliments from you.”
Her mouth parted, surprise in her eyes. I didn’t know why she was surprised. Hadn’t I already shown her that I found her attractive? Was my constant erection and inability to keep my hands off her not a big enough clue?
She leaned down, and I waited for our lips to touch. But instead of a kiss, she fell forward and pushed me backward into the water. She squealed as we both went underwater. As I swam to the surface, I grabbed her, wrapping an arm around her waist. She was laughing and trying her hardest to squirm away, but I had her pinned.
“That wasn’t very ladylike,” I admonished. I let my hand wander to her breast. Her nipple was tight under my palm. “I think I’m going to have to get you back for that.”
Niamh just grinned. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
Before I could react, she’d somehow slithered out of my grasp and had swum away. I dove after her. She was as fast as a minnow, and I was half-expecting to see her sprout a mermaid tail as we swam about. Each time I got close to catching her, she would escape and then splash water in my face.
My wife played dirty. Well, two could play at that.
We swam toward the deep end again. I kicked my legs, and reaching out, I tugged on the string of her bikini top tied near the nape of her neck. The scrap of fabric dropped right as Niamh surfaced.
She squealed and was trying to cover herself when I was able to grab her again. This time, her breasts were pressed against my chest, and I watched as a pink flush crawled from her tits up to her face.
“You really don’t need to cover those up,” I said. I trailed my hand down her spine until it reached the edge of her bikini bottom. “Surrender or you lose the bottoms, too.”
Her eyes widened. “Don’t you dare.”
I began to tug on one of the ties, but not enough to untie the bow. “Surrender, Niamh.”
“Never.”
I tugged a tiny bit harder. “You’re sure about that?”
Her eyes were glassy, her nostrils flared. Despite the coolness of the water, my cock had turned as hard as iron again. I was liable to shoot off like a rocket if she so much as glanced down.
She didn’t answer. I untied the bow, and she didn’t protest. She just licked her bottom lip.
I had to bite back a groan. Quickly untying the other side, I felt her bikini bottom fall off. We both watched it bob and drift toward the other side of the pool.
It took all of three seconds for me to push her up against the wall of the pool. Although here I could touch the bottom of the pool, Niamh wasn’t tall enough. I brought her leg up, resting it on my hip. I wished I could see her pussy, flush and open. When I stroked a finger through her folds, I could tell she was dripping—and not from the pool, either.
Her pupils were dilated. “Olivier.” She tipped her head back when I lightly pinched her clit.
“You act like you don’t want this, but you do. I can feel how tight you are, how close you are already.”
She let out a mewl of desperation. I was all too aware of our nudity, how easy it would be to slide my naked cock inside of her. I wanted to fill her to the brim and mark her like some wild animal.
But instead, I lifted her out of the pool and buried my face between her legs. She gasped, and I could feel her thighs gripping my head. I began to lick her clit with delicate strokes all the while I teased her tight opening. She was soon digging her fingers into my hair. When I pushed a finger inside of her, she bucked against me.
I lapped at her juices, loving the way she’d finally let down her guard for me. She urged me on, her voice raspy, her back arched toward the sky. I yanked her legs up so they rested on my shoulders.
When I thrust a second finger inside of her, fucking her as I sucked her clit, Niamh didn’t last long.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she was saying, over and over again, and I smiled as I felt her pussy clench around my fingers.
“Come for me.” I reveled in the sounds her pussy made, lewd and glorious. “Come with my fingers in your pussy, love.”
She detonated. Her orgasm hit her hard, and she let out a loud, keening cry. I kept licking at her clit as she orgasmed. I also knew that there was no way she hadn’t been heard by at least one person, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her that.
She collapsed against me, and I gathered her into my arms. Kissing the top of her head, I let myself enjoy just holding her close for a few minutes. Soon enough, she’d remember reality, and she’d stutter out some excuse to go clean up.
“Where’s my bikini?” She nearly slurred the words. She sounded drunk.
“Probably stuck in the filter. Somebody will fish it out later.”
She groaned. “They’ll know what we’ve been doing.”
“There are worse things for them to think, believe me.”
Right then, we heard what sounded like footsteps. Niamh grabbed a nearby towel and wrapped it around herself a moment before Laurent slid open the glass door. I stayed in the water and just prayed Laurent didn’t look down.
“Your Highness, tea is ready in the sun room.” Laurent was studiously not looking at us.
“Thank you.” I had to chew on the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “We’ll be there shortly.”
“Very good, sir.”
Niamh glared at me from where she was sitting. “He heard us,” she hissed.
“We are married, dearest.”
“That doesn’t mean I want people to hear us!”
“I’m sure it was the highlight of Laurent’s day.”
Niamh’s mouth twitched. “Are you saying your servant has been going through a dry spell?”
“I think he’s been in a d
ry spell for thirty years.”
She giggled. But then something crossed over her features, and her giggles dissolved.
By the time I joined her for tea, she was all business. I had the uneasy feeling that she was ashamed of her giving into our mutual attraction for each other, and it gnawed at my gut for the rest of the day.
Chapter Seven
Niamh was quiet the majority of our trip back to the palace. By the time we arrived, she’d only said maybe a dozen words to me. She also kept avoiding my gaze.
Either she was upset or she was keeping something from me.
It took all of an hour before I discovered, exactly, what she was hiding from me.
“Kittens,” I said, staring at the three balls of fur playing on the floor. “You brought the kittens.”
Niamh tried to look guilty. “I couldn’t leave them there, could I?”
The black kitten was now chewing on the tie of my left shoe. “How did my saying ‘leave them be’ translate to ‘bring them to the palace and let them roam the kitchens’?”
“You know I don’t speak French.”
I growled deep in my throat, but apparently it was such a terrifying sound that the kittens immediately puffed up and one even hissed. The mother cat, who was sitting in a window a few meters away, merely gave me a look that seemed to say, Please don’t rile the children.
“Your argument falls apart when you remember I never speak to you in French,” I said wryly.
Niamh had apparently managed to smuggle the cat family from the villa without my knowing about it. I had a feeling it involved bribery, perhaps bribing Celia to keep her mouth shut. Then again, Celia seemed the type to go along with such a plan without a thought to practicalities.
“They can’t stay in the kitchen. It wouldn’t be sanitary.” I toed the gray kitten away from my ankle. It’d already tried to climb up my trousers. “You’ll need to find them another place to stay.”
Niamh’s expression fell. “Oh, duh. I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it, though. They won’t be any trouble.”
The trio of kittens started running at full speed, and when one climbed on top of a cardboard box, another followed, quickly toppling the box. Its contents, full of various metal pots and pans, clattered to the floor so loudly that all four of the cats immediately scattered.
A pot rolled to rest near my feet. “Yes, not any trouble at all,” I repeated skeptically.
There was little time to quibble over the cats. Niamh and I had an engagement that evening for a scholarship program for emerging young artists. The royal family had been patrons of the program since it had begun thirty years ago. Normally, my parents would attend, but it had been decided that it would better if Niamh and I attended this year.
When I slid into the car next to Niamh, I took in her appearance: dark blue dress, off the shoulder, with small diamonds in her ears. Her hair was looped around her head in some complicated coiffure.
“You look lovely,” I said. I brought her hand up to kiss it.
She took her hair. “There are so many bobby pins in my hair that I’m pretty sure I’d set off a metal detector.”
“As long as you aren’t hiding any explosives in there.”
“It’s possible,” she muttered darkly.
The engagement was always held at the University of Salasia. Built in the eighteenth century, the university, although small, was renowned for its own arts program. In particular, it had produced a number of talented musicians and singers.
Niamh and I arrived and waved at the crowd before we began to climb the steps to the ballroom. Flashbulbs went off in all directions. Niamh smiled the entire time and, to my immense relief, didn’t look as though she’d rather swallow nails than be there.
As the guests of honor, we were given seats near the stage that was constructed for the event. A handful of speakers, including former recipients of the scholarship, would present, and then the latest recipients would be honored. I would say a few words to open the event, and then we’d mingle and eventually go home.
Before dinner, however, there was cocktail hour. Niamh ordered a martini from a nearby waiter.
I said in her ear, “Are you sure about drinking already?”
“I’m about to puke from nerves. I need something.”
“You’re doing amazingly.”
She shot me a grateful smile. “I’m going to snack, too. Don’t worry. I won’t get drunk and puke on your shoes again.”
“How could I forget that?” Niamh had, in fact, vomited on my shoes when we’d been in Paris. When I’d returned to Salasia and had handed the soiled pair of footwear to Laurent, he’d looked so distraught that I’d been afraid he’d have a stroke.
The crowd flowed around us. I introduced Niamh to a number of important personages: the president of the university and his wife. The dean of the College of Arts, along with other faculty in the music, fine art, and dance departments. Even the arts minister, a member of the prime minister’s counsel, was in attendance.
“Niamh, I’d like you to meet Monsieur LeFevre.”
He bowed over Niamh’s hand and spoke in stilted English, “It is an honor, Your Highnesses. I have so longed to meet your wife, and how enchanting she is.”
Niamh dipped her chin. “Thank you so much.”
The minister was probably in his sixties, his cheeks florid from most likely too much love for good wine and a belly from too much good cheese. A trombonist, he’d traded in his musical career for politics. Although he loved his wine and cheese, nothing compared to LeFevre’s love of beautiful women.
“Quite a rose, she is!” LeFevre continued. “When I heard you were American, I thought, Oh dear! She will be as round as me!” He guffawed. “But no, you would never attract someone like His Highness looking like me.”
Niamh shot me a wry look before replying to LeFevre, “My husband tells me that you are the best person to recommend a wine and cheese pairing. What would you suggest for an uncultured American such as me?”
LeFevre gave a litany of suggestions, to the point that I found my mind wandering elsewhere. After we returned to our seats, I said to Niamh, “Excellent job with LeFevre.”
“You realize we’ll have to try all of the things he suggested.” She held up her phone. “I made a list. He even gave suggestions on where to buy the cheeses and wine.”
“You’re going to end up ordering entire barrelfuls of both.”
“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
The evening went as expected: speeches, applause, speeches, applause. I had to stifle a few yawns. Niamh cocked an eyebrow at me when I finally had to cover my mouth, the yawn no longer to be kept at bay.
“From a scale of one to ten,” she whispered as we clapped, “how bored are you?”
“Eleven. I’m so bored that I’d rather listen to LeFevre drone on again about his favorite brie.”
By the time the event was over, we were both exhausted. Niamh had taken off her heels under the table and had surreptitiously rubbed her feet, grimacing. Despite her discomfort, she’d practically floated around the room on my arm without a word of complaint.
Right as we were about to enter the car, a photographer stepped perilously close to us both.
“Your Highness, have you spoken with your father recently?” he asked in English.
He’d clearly meant the question for Niamh. She started, and I could tell she was struggling how to respond. Connor Gallagher wasn’t exactly a favorite of either of us. As far as I knew, Niamh had had no contact with him since we’d left him in Dublin to rot.
“He didn’t attend your wedding, correct? Was he unable to attend or was he simply not invited?”
Niamh had received those questions previously. Like on other occasions, she replied, “My father has been ill and was unable to make the journey to be at our wedding. I’m very grateful my brother, though, was there to walk me down the aisle.” She smiled tightly.
“So you haven’
t spoken to your father since before the wedding?”
I looked at Niamh. I was tempted to bustle her into the car without answering the question. It was no one’s damn business, and the photographer was close to overstepping.
“It’s been a long night,” said Niamh. Her gaze moved to me. “Yes?”
Before we could finally get into the car, though, the photographer said in a snide voice, “Then you must be unaware what your father has been saying to the press, if you haven’t been in contact with him.”
A trickle of ice dripped down my spine. Niamh paled, and I quickly ushered her inside the vehicle. I gave a terse goodbye to the photographer, which only seemed to make his smile wider.
Niamh didn’t say a word the entire ride back to the palace. When I reached over to squeeze her hand, she gently pulled her own hand away. Her fingers were icy cold.
“The photographer most likely was baiting you,” I said eventually. “Hoping you would say something that would sell more stories for his paper.”
A crease formed between Niamh’s brows. “Do you really believe that?”
Did I lie to console her? But Niamh was too stubborn, too capable, to want to hear lies from my mouth.
“I think we should be cautious before jumping to conclusions,” I said finally.
“Oh, I agree.” Her tone was dry. “We definitely shouldn’t expect my dad to do the right thing.”
Chapter Eight
At breakfast three days after the artist scholarship event, I nearly choked on a bite of egg when Niamh said to me, “I need to talk to my dad first.”
We’d discovered through our own contacts that Connor Gallagher was, in fact, sniffing around the press. He’d hinted that he possessed information worth its weight in gold and that he was willing to sell that information for a tidy sum.
I hadn’t been surprised that Niamh’s father continued to be a conniving bastard. He wasn’t about to keep the secret that I was a bastard to himself, not when he could profit off of it.
I’d informed Laurent and the palace press office immediately that Connor Gallagher claimed to have information that could damage the royal family. I’d been tempted to disclose what that information was, but I’d decided it was better that the fewer people who knew the truth, the better.
