The Prince's Nine-Month Scandal

by Caitlin Crews

  And then Rodolfo dropped his arms from the wall, leaning closer to her as he did. He took her jaw in his hand and guided her mouth to his. The kiss changed, deepened, losing any semblance of laziness or control. Natalie welcomed the crush of his chest against her, the contrast between all his heat and the cool metal at her back. She wound her arms around his neck and held on to all that corded strength as he claimed her mouth over and over, as if he was as starved for her as she was for him.

  She hardly dared admit how very much she wanted that to be true.

  With his other hand, he reached down and began pulling up the long skirt of her dress. He took his time, plundering her mouth as he drew the hem higher and higher. She felt the faintest draft against her calf. Her knee. Then her thigh, and then his hand was on her flesh again, the way it had been that day in the palace.

  Except this time, he didn’t leave it one place.

  He continued to kiss her, again and again, as he smoothed his way up her thigh, urging her legs apart. And Natalie felt torn in two. Ripped straight down the center by the intensity of the hunger that poured through her, then. A tumult of need and hunger and the wild flame within her that Rodolfo kept burning at a fever pitch.

  When his seeking fingers reached the edge of the satiny panties she wore, he lifted his head just slightly, taking his mouth away from her. It felt like a blow. Like a loss almost too extreme to survive.

  It hurts to breathe, Natalie thought dimly, still lost in the mad commotion happening everywhere in her body. Still wanting him—needing him—almost more than she could bear.

  “I will make it stop,” Rodolfo said, and she realized with a start that she’d spoken out loud. His mouth crooked slightly in one corner. “Eventually.”

  And then he dipped his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties and found the heat of her.

  Natalie gasped as he stroked his way through her folds, bold and sure, directly into her softness. His other hand was at her neck, his thumb moving against her skin there the way his clever fingers played with her sex below. He traced his way around the center of her need, watching her face as she clutched at his broad wrist—but only to maintain that connection with him, not to stop him. Never that. Not now.

  And then, without warning, he twisted his wrist and drove two fingers into her, that hard curve of his mouth deepening when she moaned.

  “Like that, princess,” he murmured approvingly. “Sing for me just like that.”

  And Natalie lost track of what he was doing, and how. He dropped his head to her neck again, teasing his way down to toy with the top of her bodice. He dragged his free hand over her nipples, poking hard against the fabric of the dress, and it was like lightning storming straight down the center of her body to where she was already little more than a flame. And he was stoking that fire with every thrust of his long, blunt fingers deep into her, as if he knew. As if he knew everything. Her pounding heart, that slick, impossible pleasure crashing over her, and that delicious tightening that was making her breath come too fast and too loud.

  She lost herself in the slide, the heat. His wicked, talented hands and what they were doing to her. Her hips lifted of their own accord, meeting each stroke, and then the storm took her over. She let her head fall back against the elevator doors. She let herself go, delivering herself completely into his hands, as if there was nothing but this slick, insistent rhythm. As if there was nothing but the sensation he was building in her, higher and higher.

  As if there was nothing left in all the world but him.

  And then Rodolfo did something new, twisting his wrist and thrusting in a little bit deeper, and everything seemed to shudder to a dangerous halt. Then he did it again, and threw her straight over the edge into bliss.

  Sheer, exultant bliss.

  Natalie tumbled there, lost to herself and consumed by all that wondrous fire, for what seemed like a very long time.

  When the world stopped spinning he was shifting her, lifting her up and into his arms. She had the vague thought that she should protest as he held her high against his chest so her head fell to his wide shoulder when she couldn’t hold it up, but his gaze was dark and hungry—still so very hungry—and she couldn’t seem to find her tongue to speak.

  Rodolfo carried her to the long couch that stretched out before the great wall of windows with all of Rome winking and sparkling there on the other side, like some kind of dream. He laid her down carefully, as if she were infinitely precious to him, and it caught at her. It made the leftover fire still roaring inside of her bleed into...something else. Something that ached more than it should.

  And that was the trouble, wasn’t it?

  Natalie wanted this to be real. She wanted all of this to be real. She wanted to stay Valentina forever, so it wouldn’t matter what she did here because she would live the consequences of it. She could marry Rodolfo herself. She could—

  You could lose yourself in him, a voice that sounded too much like her mother’s, harsh and cold, snapped at her. It felt like a face full of cold water. And then you could be one more thing he throws away when he gets bored. This is a man who has toys, not relationships. How can you be so foolish as to imagine otherwise—no matter how good he is with his hands?

  “I should have done this a long time ago,” he was saying, in a contemplative sort of way that suggested he was talking to himself more than her. But his gaze was so hot, so hungry. It made her shiver, deep inside, kindling the same fire she would have sworn was already burned out. “I think it would have made for a far better proposal of marriage, don’t you?”

  “Rodolfo...” she began, but he was coming down over her on the couch. He held himself up on his arms and gazed down at her as he settled himself between her legs, fitting his body to hers in a way that made them both breathe a little bit harder. Audibly. And there was no pretending that wasn’t real. It made her foolish. “You may imagine you know who I am, but you don’t. You really don’t.”

  “Quiet, princesita,” he said in a low sort of growl that made everything inside her, still reeling from what he’d done with his hands alone, bloom into a new, even more demanding sort of heat. He shifted so he could take her face between his hands, and that was better. Worse. Almost too intense. “I am going to taste you again. Then I will tell you who are, though I already know. You should know it, too.” He let his chest press against her, and dipped his chin so his mouth was less than a gasp away. Less than a breath. “Mine.”

  And then he set his mouth to hers and the flames devoured her.

  Again.

  This time, Natalie didn’t need to be told to beg for him. There was no space between them, only heat and the intense pressure of the hardest part of him, flush against her scalding heat. There was no finesse, no strategy, no teasing. Only need.

  And that hunger that rolled between them like so much summer thunder.

  She didn’t know who undressed whom and she didn’t—couldn’t—care. She only knew that his mouth was a torment and a gift, both at the same time. His hands were like fire. He pulled down her bodice and feasted on the nipples he’d played with before, until Natalie was nothing but a writhing mess beneath him. Begging. Pleading. Somehow his shirt was open, and she was finally able to touch all those hard muscles she’d only imagined until now. And he was so much better than the pictures she’d seen. Hot and extraordinarily male and perfect and here, right here, stretched out on top of her. It was her turn to use her mouth on him, tasting the heat and salt of him until his breath was as heavy as hers, and everything was part of the same shattering, impossible magic.

  At some point she wondered if it was possible to survive this much pleasure. If anyone could live through it. If she would recognize herself when this was done—but that was swept away when he took her mouth again.

  She loved his weight, crushing her down into the cushions. She loved it even more when he pulled her skirts out of the way and found her panties again. This time, he didn’t bother sneaking beneath them. This ti
me he simply tugged, hard and sure, until they tore away in his hand.

  And somehow that was so erotic it seemed to light her up inside. She could hardly breathe.

  Rodolfo reached down and tore at his trousers, and when he shifted back into place Natalie felt him, broad and hard, nudging against her entrance. His gaze traveled over her body from the place they were joined to the skirt of the dress rucked up and twisted around her hips. Then higher, to where her breasts were plumped up above the dress’s bodice, her nipples still tight and swollen from his mouth. Only then did his gaze touch her face.

  Suddenly, the world was nothing but that shuddering beat of her heart, so hard she thought he must surely feel it, and that stark, serious expression he wore. He dropped down to an elbow, bringing himself closer to her.

  This was happening. This was real.

  He was the kind of prince she’d never dared admit she dreamed about, so big and so beautiful it hurt to be this close to him. It hurt in a way dreams never did. It ached, low and deep, and everywhere else.

  “Are you ready, princess?” he asked, and his voice was another caress, rough and wild.

  Natalie wanted to say something arch. Witty. Something to cut through the intensity and make her feel in control again. Anything at all that might help make this less than it was. Anything that might contain or minimize all those howling, impossible things that flooded through her then.

  But she couldn’t seem to open her mouth. She couldn’t seem to find a single word that might help her.

  Her body knew what to do without her guidance or input. As if she’d been made for this, for him. She lifted her hips and pushed herself against him, impaling herself on his hardness, one slow and shuddering inch. Then another. He muttered something in what she thought was the Spanish he sometimes used, but Natalie was caught in his dark gaze, still fast on her face.

  “What are you doing to me?” he murmured. He’d asked it before.

  Like then, he didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t give her any warning. He wrapped an arm around her hips, then hauled them high against him. And in the next instant, slammed himself in deep.

  “Oh, my God,” Natalie whispered as he filled her, and everything in her shuddered again and again, nudging her so close to the edge once more that she caught her breath in anticipation.

  “‘Your Highness’ will do,” Rodolfo told her, a thread of amusement beneath the stark need in his voice.

  And then he began to move.

  It was a slick, devastating magic. Rodolfo built the flames in her into a wildfire, then fanned the blaze ever higher. He dropped his mouth to hers, then shifted to pull a nipple into the heat of his mouth.

  Natalie wrapped herself around him, and gave herself over to each glorious thrust. She dug her fingers into his back, she let her head fall back and then she let herself go. As if the woman she’d been when she’d walked into this room, or into this life, no longer existed.

  There was only Rodolfo. There was only this.

  Perfect, she thought, again and again, so it became a chant inside her head. This is perfect.

  She might even have chanted it aloud.

  He dropped down closer, wrapping his arms around her as his rhythm went wilder and more erratic. He tucked his face in her neck and kept his mouth there as he pounded into her, over and over, until he hurled her straight back off that cliff.

  And he followed her only moments later, releasing himself into her with a roar that echoed through the room and deep inside of Natalie, too, tearing her apart in a completely different way as reality slammed back into her, harsh and cruel.

  Because she’d never felt closer to a man in all her life, and Rodolfo had called out to her as if he felt the same. She was as certain as she’d ever been of anything that he felt exactly the same as she did.

  But, of course, he thought she was someone else.

  And he’d used the wrong name.

  CHAPTER NINE

  RODOLFO HAD BARELY shifted his weight from Valentina before she was rolling out from beneath him, pulling the voluminous skirt of her dress with her as she climbed to her feet. He found he couldn’t help but smile. She was so unsteady on her feet that she had to reach out and grab hold of the nearby chair to keep from sagging to the ground.

  He was male enough to find that markedly satisfying.

  “You are even beautiful turned away from me,” he told her without meaning to speak. It was not, generally, his practice to traffic in flattery. Mostly because it was never required. But it was the simple truth as far as Valentina was concerned. Not empty flattery at all.

  She shivered slightly, as if in reaction to his words, but that was all. She didn’t glance back at him. She was pulling her dress back into place, shaking back her hair that had long since tumbled from its once sleek chignon. And all Rodolfo wanted to do was pull her back down to him. He wanted to indulge himself and take a whole lot more time with her. He wanted to strip her completely and make sure he learned every last inch of her sweet body by heart.

  He was more than a little delighted at the prospect of a long life together to do exactly that.

  Rodolfo zipped himself up and rolled to a sitting position, aware that he felt lighter than he had in a long time. Years.

  Since Felipe died.

  Because the truth was, he’d never wanted his brother’s responsibilities. He’d wanted his brother. Funny, irreverent, remarkably warm Felipe had been Rodolfo’s favorite person for the whole of his life, and then he’d died. So suddenly. So needlessly. He’d locked himself in his rooms to sleep through what he’d assumed was a flu, and he’d been gone within the week. There was a part of Rodolfo that would never accept that. That never had. That would grieve his older brother forever.

  But Rodolfo was the Crown Prince of Tissely now no matter how he grieved his brother, and that meant he should have had all of the attendant responsibilities whether he liked it or not. His father had felt otherwise. And every year the king failed to let Rodolfo take Felipe’s place in his court and his government was like a slap in the face all over again, of course. It was a very public, very deliberate rebuke.

  More than that, it confirmed what Rodolfo had always known to be true. He could not fill Felipe’s shoes. He could not come anywhere close and that would never change. There was no hope.

  Until now, he’d assumed that was simply how it would be. His father would die at some point, having allowed Rodolfo no chance at all to figure out his role as king. Rodolfo would have to do it on the fly, which was a terrific way to plunge a country straight into chaos. It was one of the reasons he’d dedicated himself to the sort of sports that required a man figure out how to remain calm no matter what was coming at him. Sharks. The earth, many thousands of feet below, at great speed. Assorted impossible mountain peaks that had killed many men before him. He figured it was all good practice for the little gift his father planned to leave him, since he suspected the old man was doing his level best to ensure that all his dire predictions about the kind of king Rodolfo would be would come true within days of his own death.

  This engagement was a test, nothing more. Rodolfo had no doubt that his father expected him to fail, somehow, at an arranged marriage that literally required nothing of him save that he show up. And perhaps he’d played into that, by continuing to see other women and doing nothing to keep that discreet.

  But everything was different now. Valentina was his. And their marriage would be the kind of real union Rodolfo had always craved. Without even meaning to, Rodolfo had beaten his father at the old man’s own cynical little game.

  And it was more than that. Rodolfo had to believe that if he could make the very dutiful princess his the way he had tonight, if he could take a bloodless royal arrangement and make it a wildfire of a marriage, he could do anything. Even convince his dour father to see him as more than just an unwelcome replacement for his beloved lost son.

  For the first time in a long, long while, Rodolfo felt very nearly hopeful.r />
  “Princess,” he began, reaching out to wrap a hand around her hip and tug her toward him, because she was still showing him her back and he wanted her lovely face, “you must—”

  “Stop calling me that!” she burst out, sounding raw. And something like wild.

  She twisted out of his grasp. And he was so surprised by her outburst that he let her go.

  Valentina didn’t stop moving until she’d cleared the vast glass table set before the couch, and then she stood there on the other side, her chest heaving as if she’d run an uphill mile to get there.

  His princess did not look anything like hopeful. If anything, she looked... Wounded. Destroyed. Rodolfo couldn’t make any sense out of it. Her green eyes were dark and that sweet, soft mouth of hers trembled as if the hurt inside her was on the verge of pouring out even as she stood there before him.

  “I can’t believe I let this happen...” she whispered, and her eyes looked full. Almost blank with an anguish Rodolfo couldn’t begin to understand.

  Rodolfo wanted to stand, to go to her, to offer her what comfort he could—but something stopped him. How many times would she do this back and forth in one way or another? How many ways would she find to pull the rug out from under him—and as he thought that, it was not lost on Rodolfo that unlike every other woman he’d ever known, he cared a little too deeply about what this one was about. All this melodrama and for what? There was no stopping their wedding or the long, public, political marriage that would follow. It was like a train bearing down on them and it always had been.

  From the moment Felipe had died and Rodolfo had been sat down and told that in addition to losing his best friend he now had a different life to live than the one he’d imagined he would, there had been no deviating from the path set before them. Princess Valentina had already been his—entirely his—before he’d laid a single finger on her. What had happened here only confirmed what had always been true, not that there had been any doubt. Not for him, anyway.