Alvek’s new title also solved another problem. He’d turned out to be the perfect match for Calara, combining wealth, status and a complete disregard for what the rest of upper society thought. Watching the Queen maneuver them together was almost frightening: they’d never really stood a chance. Fortunately, they’d hit it off and what the media at first found shocking was now being portrayed as a glorious comeback for the almost-princess. We’d even managed to get on – chilly – speaking terms.
I looked at Jagor again. Oh God! I swallowed and quickly looked back at the guests.
I was near the front, now, passing the retinue and then the extended royal family on one side and what little family I had on the other. Telessa was there, too, hours away from leaving her country for good.
And then I was there, standing next to him, and I didn’t have a choice but to look at him. He looked different, since the coup: his fears had evaporated and he was ready to rule. He’d always looked strong, but now he had…bearing. He looked like a king.
All my doubts and fears went away. I was there, for one perfect moment: for once I wasn’t second-guessing myself or over-thinking things. I was at the altar with Jagor, and I was bathed in a glorious, warm certainty that this was right.
Jagor lifted the veil, his eyes full of concern. I felt something run down my cheek, and realized I was crying. “Sorry,” I told them, trying to wipe my eyes without ruining my make-up.
The priest, who looked about a hundred and fifty, smiled kindly. “Happens every time,” he said.
In a nod to my norms, the vows started with Jagor slipping a wedding band onto my finger: I’d had to fight the Queen to get that. Then it was time for the collar. What was surprising was how small it looked: but that was the point. A big, elaborate collar would have been impractical: for show only. This one was designed to be worn forever.
It was three fingers wide and curved down at the front. The outside was a seamless, shining coating of solid silver: thick enough to maintain the shape between the hinges but thin enough that it wasn’t overly heavy. On the front, the prince’s seal was picked out in diamonds: it burned like fire every time the light caught them. The inside was padded with leather so smooth and soft it seemed to melt under my touch.
“Do you give yourself to this man,” the priest asked, “utterly and without question?”
“I do,” I said, looking into Jagor’s eyes.
“Do you accept that you are now his: owned by him, provided for by him, cared for by him?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear to accept his commands, whatever they may be, placing your trust completely in him?”
“I do.”
The priest nodded to me and I lifted the collar to my neck. Countless fittings meant that it was superbly comfortable, as light and soft as a lover’s caress. And yet at the same time it seemed to weigh as much as a country.
I looked at Jagor as I pushed the ends together. I had no doubts.
The cathedral was quiet enough that everyone could hear the single click of the lock. I placed the key in Jagor’s palm, and I was his.
***
We’d been told that when we came out of the cathedral, we were to stop and wave to the crowd. I was on such a high that Jagor had to gently restrain me by the hand, or I would have been halfway into the limo.
The applause was thunderous. Billboard-sized screens had been set up outside the cathedral so the crowds could watch the ceremony and every flat surface beyond the barriers – even the roofs of cars – was covered by a carpet of people.
We held hands and waved. The coup had done what we never could have done on our own. Any notion of Jagor being a playboy prince had been quashed by the speech he’d made. Support for the royals and Jagor in particular had never been higher, and they’d even accepted me, believing me to be some sort of heroine. A worrying number of women were now copying my hairstyle.
Things would have to change, of course: but maybe not as much as you’d think. The coup, and the backlash against it after Jagor’s speech, had shown that people were basically happy with the system. With the army temporarily disgraced, Jagor and his father could cut them down to a reasonable size and spend the money where it was needed. The UN had made gentle suggestions about political reforms and elections, but the public was overwhelmingly against it. The royals were going to be in power for a long time to come and as long as the people were happy, most countries supported us. The US, in particular, was even talking about some sort of limited trade agreement and, eventually, a treaty that would allow for tourism. Tourists in Asteria: that was going to be interesting.
As for those behind the coup, fourteen people in the French government, including the minister of defense, had been hauled up in front of an international tribunal that would take at least another year to finish. The arrests in the Asterian army had stopped at the higher levels, with no charges brought against the soldiers themselves.
There was some strange fallout from the coup. They’d put a plaque up in the abandoned apartment Jagor and I had hidden in, and there was talk of the apartments being overhauled and sold to yuppies for eye-watering sums. The motorbike Jagor had stolen had been returned, with a very public apology, and the owner had later sold it for five times its value.
That only left one person.
“How was he?” I asked as we finally stopped waving and climbed into the limo.
Jagor just nodded for a second. “Okay,” he said eventually.
I hadn’t understood his visits to the prison at first. I was sure Vinko was beyond salvation…but Jagor wouldn’t – or couldn’t – believe that.
He looked at me guiltily. “He’s my brother.”
I leaned over and kissed my husband. “I know.”
***
After the reception, we stopped back at the palace to get changed: it was also my last chance to see Gwen for a while. I hugged her while Arno loaded our bags, promising to email her from the beach. The retinue had gathered to see us off, Ismelda only slightly distracted by her Blackberry buzzing every few seconds as another dignitary wished us well.
“You,” Gwen told Jagor, prodding him in the chest, “don’t go messing with her heart. And no kinky stuff on the wedding night: it’s supposed to be romantic.”
I balked. “Gwen!”
Jagor looked half-annoyed, half-amused. “Okay.”
Gwen hugged me again and whispered in my ear. “Can I keep this collar?”
“To wear in New York?!”
“In the bedroom, idiot. Mostly.”
***
I looked at my reflection. A long, boned corset in ivory silk nipped in my waist and made even my modest breasts look bountiful. The suspender straps were attached to matching lace-topped stockings, which together with the shining ivory heels made my legs look endless. There were matching panties, too, which tied with ribbons at the side so they could be removed without taking off the stockings. And completing the picture, the silver and diamond collar, gleaming at even the slightest kiss of light.
Nothing kinky on the wedding night. Yeah, right.
I came out of the bathroom and he was standing there waiting for me, in dress pants and shirt. He looked at me, and it was the same look he’d given me in the embassy, the very first time we’d met.
He said nothing, just glanced at the bed. A ripple of heat went through me.
I walked over to the bed, an iron-framed four-poster with heavy scarlet drapes and midnight blue covers. I lounged in the center, half on my back, half on my side, my legs curled up under me. He stared at me and I stared back at him, seeing the muscles moving under his shirt: that animal presence again. He’d regained the confidence he’d had when I’d first met him in New York: it had taken me a long time to figure out that it was Asteria itself, and the idea of ruling when he thought he was unworthy, that had drained him each time he was there. He’d used Monaco and the playboy lifestyle to run away from it. Now that he’d faced his fears and won, he could be the man I fe
ll in love with all the time: better, because he’d stopped running. And we were closer, now, after nearly losing each other.
He came to stand at the end of the bed, his arms gripping the cross rail above him. I was reminded of the embassy again, when he’d leant through the door like that.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Kneel.”
That one, simple word, loaded with meaning. I knelt, facing away from him, towards the head of the bed. I heard him get something from our luggage, and then he was beside me, gently lifting one arm. He tied a long white silk scarf around my wrist. I watched as he tied the other end to the top of the bed post, high above me, stretching my arm up and out and drawing me up on my knees.
He looked at me as if to ask if I wanted to stop. I looked at the safeword ring…but didn’t move it, my lips parted and my breath coming faster, now. He smiled, and did the other arm, so that I was kneeling and helpless, my arms up in a ‘Y’.
Then he took a final silk scarf, and blindfolded me.
He slid off the bed, and I just knelt there for a few moments, feeling his gaze on my ass, my back, my hair. I was breathing faster and faster, the anticipation building until it was unbearable. And then I felt him climb onto the bed behind me. The blindfold meant that every sound, every sensation was magnified. I could smell the clean, outdoor scent of his aftershave, feel the touch of his breath on my neck.
“Spread your legs,” he told me.
I opened them, feeling my arms stretching tight as I sank lower.
“Wider.” Almost a growl.
I stepped my knees farther apart, my arms taut. I felt his hand on my hair, tangling in it, smoothing down my cheek. I moaned and pushed into his palm, and then it was sliding down my side, over my waist and down my hip. It moved away for a moment, and then it was back – coming under me from behind, this time, cupping my sex through my panties. I was sure he could feel the burning heat of me. His fingertips toyed with the waistband.
“They tie at the side,” I told him. “Ribbons—”
A sudden jerk and the sound of ripping stitches, and I was bare. A second later, his hand returned and played over my lips, until I bit my lip and moaned.
Then something new. Two of his fingers, upright and firm, but not driving up into me as I craved. He just held them there, the very tips of them against my slickened opening.
He didn’t have to say anything: didn’t have to ask me as Lucy, or command me as his slave. He just had to hold them there, and watch me: the feel of his eyes drinking me in and the caress of his warm breath against my neck was enough to drive me insane. Before I was even aware I was doing it, I was circling my hips, trying to push myself lower. Which meant opening my thighs wider, and stretching my arms more.
The room seemed to grow hotter with each second. I sank, letting my knees spread farther apart on the smooth covers, the stretch in my arms nothing compared to the glorious feeling as the tips of his fingers just parted me. I started to grind in the air, and then I felt a third finger just barely touch my swollen nub and I almost went light-headed. He could have teased me, could have kept moving his hand down and away from me. But he kept it exactly where it was, let me have my reward of pleasure for every millimeter I sank downwards, until I was as low as I could reach, half his fingers buried in me, the one at the front stroking me with each movement.
He didn’t have to tell me to rise and fall on his fingers: to fuck myself, essentially, while he watched. His hand stayed as still and solid as rock while I bucked and writhed, until I finally collapsed, gasping, hanging limply from the scarves as the orgasm wracked my body.
Then I heard him pull off his clothes, and a second later the hot hardness of him was against my slickened lips, pressing for entry. No condom, this time: we’d agreed we were ready.
He pushed into me in one long, slow thrust, lifting me with him, one arm wrapping around my waist and lifting me, the scarves going slack. That glorious feeling of being filled; stretched, luxuriating in the size of him. And he was so hot - the feel of his skin on mine at last: glorious. He started to thrust and I groaned. One hand pushed my hair from my face, and then his finger was playing against my lips.
“You’re mine,” he told me.
“I’m yours.” Long, rolling thrusts like ocean waves….
“My princess.”
“Your princess,” I panted. He ground against me, so deep now. God! I opened my mouth and took his finger between my lips, sucking on it, nibbling on it. His mouth was right up against my ear, his breath urgent as he slid the other hand into the top of my corset, roughly palming my breast. Tremors shot through me, building—
“I love you,” he growled, and even as he said it, his thrusts became hard and savage…taking me over the edge. We came together, our straining bodies pressed tight, and I tipped my head back onto his shoulder as I told him I loved him too.
***
Later, he opened the curtains. The sea started no more than fifty feet from the window, the palm trees just visible as silhouettes against the waves.
“I think,” he told me, “we should do that again.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“You know you don’t have to call me that anymore?”
I rolled over and looked at him. “Yes…Your Highness.”
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An Extract from “The Elf Princess’s Lover”
There was no birdsong. That should have been a warning, but the brook beside the track was gurgling playfully alongside them, the horses were moving at an easy, hypnotic walk and the sun warmed their skin, casting dappled leaf patterns on them as they rode through the forest. It was easy to forget how far from home they were.
Their group had been twenty strong when they left the palace. Ten of the King’s men had peeled away as they reached the border and left the kingdom of Tyrelia behind: they’d been there more for show than for protection. Then, when they reached their overnight stopping point, they found the village centre in smoking ruins; a fire had ripped through it earlier that day, and all was panic and chaos. They’d spent the night in an inn on the edge of the town, and Salranna had insisted that half of her guards stay behind with some of their supplies, to dispense aid. They’d argued, of course. She’d had to use her especially firm tone with them.
Now, still three days from their destination in Farnsberg, they were down to Salranna herself, her two maids and four guards. But this was hardly dangerous territory: her father, the King, was well liked even this far from home. Farther east, at their destination, things were...colder. Salranna found her thoughts turning to what she’d have to do when they arrived...then pushed the notion from her mind. Her bleak future would look after itself. For now, she could afford to indulge herself with the present.
Salranna was at the front of the group; she should rightly have been in the centre, but she’d never been one to follow rules, no matter how much her father chastised her. The track was thick with fallen leaves; every step they took towards Farnsberg seemed to take them further from summer and closer to winter. She wished she’d dressed in something warmer than the long white dress, cinched tight around her trim waist wit
h a brown leather corset. At least she’d persuaded her maids to allow her to wear sensible riding boots, instead of whatever high-heeled absurdities were fashionable amongst the masses. She closed her eyes and let her head loll back, her long golden hair neatly pinned up in a style that had taken her maid a good hour to complete. On her shoulder, she could feel the bright orange pokka blossom she’d picked just as they left the kingdom. A last reminder of home; she was hoping it would last until they reached their destination, but the cold was already starting to wilt it.
The reins were loose in her hands: she trusted Dargadus, her stallion, to follow the path. Like all elves, she had an affinity with animals, especially ones she spent so much time with. She couldn’t quite hear Dargadus’ thoughts, but she could sense his moods and call him when she needed him. His presence was like a comforting blanket around her mind, reinforcing the muscled body between her thighs. A body that was rising and falling as they rode, pressing hard into the softness at the apex of her legs....
She felt the blush rise from her cheeks up to the points of her ears and kept her eyes resolutely closed: if she caught the eyes of one of her maids they’d know exactly what was going through her mind. But it was so difficult, with the sun’s warmth caressing her body through her thin dress and the steady rhythm between her legs...she felt herself slipping into a daydream.
Salranna had plenty of female friends and she was closer to her maids than a princess probably should have been. She wasn’t anything like as sheltered or naive as her mother had been at her age; she’d giggled and whispered with her friends and even had a few secret fumblings with suitors at balls. She was very much her father’s daughter - brought up as a rider and a swordswoman, albeit more for tradition than with any intention of her ever facing battle. But she was still expected to conduct herself as a lady and as a princess, and that left little opportunity for close male friends, let alone boyfriends. At twenty-one, and unmarried, Salranna was a virgin.
Asteria - In Love with the Prince Page 33
