Prince and Future... Dad?

by Christine Rimmer

  Finn reached out and slipped his fingers around the back of her neck. He gave a tug—a tender one. It didn’t take more than that. He was, after all, only pulling her where she wanted to go.

  She landed with a sigh against him.

  He lowered his mouth so that it just brushed hers. “Was that so difficult?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  She glanced away.

  “Look at me.”

  She made herself do that. “I just realized I’m going to hate saying goodbye to you.”

  He kissed her, quick and hard. “You won’t have to. You’ll be coming with me.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t do that, Finn. You know I can’t. Not and continue with the plans I’ve made for myself. I can’t be in politics in California—if I live in Gullandria.”

  He asked tenderly, “You want that so very much, to run this state of yours someday?”

  “Oh, Finn. I do. I want…to make a difference. I want to leave the world a better place than it was when I got here.”

  “There are other ways to do that than to be a governor or a senator.”

  “You’re right, there are.”

  He chuckled. “Say that again—the part about how I’m right.”

  She wrinkled up her nose at him. “Okay. You’re right. There are other ways. But those other ways aren’t my way.”

  He looked at her deeply. “Maybe you’ll reconsider. Maybe you’ll…how do you say it? Rearrange your priorities.”

  “Maybe you’ll move to America.”

  “I am Gullandrian.” He wasn’t smiling.

  She wasn’t smiling, either. “And I am American.”

  “We have a problem.”

  She nodded. “We do—or we might. It could, after all, turn out that I’m not even pregnant.”

  He was studying her again, giving her that feeling that he could see down into her soul. “You’re saying that everything would be solved if you’re not pregnant?”

  Would it?

  Uh-uh.

  With humor and heat and relentless tenderness, this man had left his mark on her. She would never forget him, whatever they found out when she took that test.

  “No,” she confessed on a breath. “It wouldn’t. Not everything. If I’m not pregnant, you’ll leave. I might never see you again. And I’ll miss you, so very much.”

  He lifted a hand, traced the line of her hair where it fell along her cheek. “Four days, until Saturday…”

  She felt a pang of sadness, sharp and also infinitely sweet. “It’s no time at all.”

  “True.” His eyes glittered down at her. She could feel every glorious, lean male inch of him pressing so close. And all she wanted was to have him closer still.

  She lifted up, brushed her mouth once, and then again, across his. “Let’s not waste a moment.”

  He whispered, almost as if it hurt him to say it, “Such willingness suddenly.”

  She kissed his chin with its faint, masculine cleft. “Not so sudden. We both know you’ve been breaking me down for days now.”

  “Breaking you down?” His eyes were hooded.

  “Oh, you know you have. With your endless stunning kisses, with your hand that won’t stop reaching for my hand, with the way you listen, as if mine is the only voice you’ll ever hear.” She laughed, low in her throat. “But I know all the women must tell you that.”

  He gave her a smile—a faint one, the smallest hitch at both sides of his mouth. “How would I know, as yours is the only voice I hear?”

  “Hmm. A question I don’t think we need to even try to answer.”

  “Wisely said.”

  She put a finger to his mouth, felt the feathery warm caress of his breath against her palm. He caught her hand, kissed the fingertips and then guided it up to encircle his neck.

  “Such softness,” he whispered, his mouth against hers again, “and pressed so close…”

  “And we shouldn’t waste a minute, a second, a fraction of a second…”

  His hand swept down her back. He tucked her snugly into him. She felt the firm ridge of his erection against her lower belly. And then he was kissing her—little, brushing butterfly kisses—up over her cheek to her ear.

  He smoothed her hair out of his way and he whispered, “What would you like, my darling?” He captured her earlobe and worried it tenderly between his teeth.

  “Oh!” She lifted her hips, pressing in shamelessly, making a cradle for him. “Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Oh, yes. Please.”

  He took her face between his two hands and claimed her mouth—hard—his teeth punishing her lips. She moaned.

  He softened the kiss, teasing her mouth with his questing tongue, running it over the bow of her upper lip, tracing the slightly fuller bottom lip until she moaned again.

  He caught her lower lip between his teeth gently, dragging on it. “Open for me.”

  With a small cry, she obeyed. His tongue slid in, slick and wet and wonderful. He swept all her inner surfaces, claiming them, branding them as his, leaving a hot trail of longing in his wake.

  Liv was melting, sighing, gone already. And all he’d done was kiss her.

  He turned her, one hand sliding down to catch her under the knees, one bracing across the widest part of her back. She shuddered as her feet left the floor.

  His tongue moved in her mouth, thrusting, retreating and thrusting again, in a blatant imitation of the motions of lovemaking. He started up the stairs carrying her high in his arms, never once breaking the hot rhythm of the shamelessly sexual kiss. At the top, he lifted his mouth just enough to ask “Which room?”

  She flung out a hand toward her open bedroom door and dragged his head back down to hers. Four steps and they were there.

  Somehow, he turned her—how did he do these things?—and guided her legs to wrap around his waist. She kicked off her sandals. One and then the other, they thudded against the wall. She hooked her bare feet at the small of his back, locking herself around him like a vine around a tree.

  She kissed him deep and hard and oh so wet.

  Images spun and pulsed through her mind: wet things, open things—orchids beaded with dewdrops, the secret, moist sweetness of a freshly cut peach. She saw slick curves…a large, thick glass vase, calla lilies standing in it, water cascading down the sides of it, dripping more gently on the flowers themselves.

  The flowers, so white, velvety trumpets dewed with water drops like jewels, naughty stamens like tongues…

  He already had her button-front sundress scrunched up around her waist. He cradled her thighs on his lean arms, those incredible hands of his cupping her bottom, fingers slipping skillfully under the elastic of her panties, finding her, spreading her, gliding along her cleft, which was already thoroughly drenched, swollen with yearning. Liv writhed and moaned and kept on kissing him.

  She had a sensation of opening, of turning, wet flower petals blooming so wide that the inside turned outside. His fingers teased her, readied her, while his manhood pressed up, hard, insistent, shielded from her by his clothing and her panties. She could have stayed there forever, in the doorway, wrapped all around him, kissing him endlessly, her body moving, pulsing, yearning, in his strong arms.

  But he had other plans. Still kissing her, he lowered her. She slid down his body with a needful moan.

  He fisted his hand in her hair and he tugged, gently, inexorably, until the kiss broke.

  “Liv,” he said. “Ah, Liv…” He scraped his teeth along her chin, his fist opening, his hand easing from her hair.

  Her head tipped back, her eyes still closed, she drew in one slow breath. And another.

  There. She was able to open her eyes and lift her head.

  The sight of him thrilled her, his eyes so hot they seemed to burn her, his mouth as swollen as hers—swollen and hot, as if every nerve had been drawn to the surface, the flesh itself seeming to cry out for the next consuming kiss.

 
He laid a hand between her breasts, at the top button of her sundress. Light as a breath, his fingers went to work. The button fell open. Then the next, and the next….

  He was still fully dressed. She could help him with that. She got to work, starting at the top button of his shirt, staring in his eyes as she slipped each button from its hole.

  But then she happened to glance down. The front of her dress, with its built-in demibra, gaped open. Her nipples, drawn to tight buds, were exposed.

  “So pretty,” he whispered, as he took a nipple between thumb and forefinger and rolled it.

  She moaned. And he edged the sides of the dress farther apart, both hands at work now, guiding the thin straps over her shoulders and down.

  The dress fell away. She stood before him in only her panties. He knelt, taking hold of that scrap of satin and lace and whisking it over her hips, along her thighs.

  She stared down at him, slightly stunned. She’d never seen his eyes so soft. So hot. Like fire. Amber fire.

  She thought of that other night, a continent and an ocean away. Of the sleek Viking ship, blazing, the flames reflected in his eyes…

  Her panties were all the way down, at her ankles. She stepped out of them. His hands moved back up, along the outsides of her calves, over her knees and then inward. Her thighs trembled. She had to clasp his strong shoulders to brace herself upright.

  The brushing caress turned searingly intimate, his palms against the front of her, thumbs burrowing in, dragging in the wetness, rubbing back and forth, back and forth…

  Liv groaned. Her eyes would not stay open.

  He was leaning closer. She felt the heat of his breath—and then his lips upon her. She cried out then. He wrapped his hands around her hips, pulling her into him, opening her with his hot, skilled mouth, delving in with his clever, knowing tongue.

  He found her, found the center of her pleasure, the small, swollen nub tucked away in the wet folds. He drew on it.

  She clutched his shoulders and moaned. She couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t…

  Words blew away. The world spun off into twilight and wonder. She saw meadows, smelled heather and cedar, felt the acrid tang of wood smoke at the back of her throat. And there was fire. Endless, red fire, blazing toward the twilit sky.

  She called his name and the pulsing began. He held her to him as the contractions claimed her, his mouth tender and demanding, never letting go.

  At the end, she crumpled on a groan. He let her fall, guiding her so she dropped across his shoulder, limp, finished.

  She let out another sharp cry of surprise as he rose beneath her. The floor moved away and she found herself carried, head down, legs dangling, like the ravished prize from some hard-fought midnight raid. He wrapped an arm tight around her to steady her. A few dizzying steps and they reached the bed.

  “Here we are.” He was whispering, the sounds soothing, coaxing. Carefully, as if she were a most precious burden, he lowered her to her back on the high, soft mattress. Then he stood to his height again and looked down at her.

  She lay under his gaze, without a stitch on, arms and legs flung luxuriously out, everything heavy—with heat, with stunned satisfaction. She had no urge to move or to cover herself.

  He looked at her, at all of her, his gaze burning. She felt claimed by him, his in some deep and irrevocable way.

  She had felt this same soul-deep sense of possession Midsummer’s Eve in Gullandria. And as soon as the morning came, she’d set herself to escape it—to escape him.

  It hadn’t worked out the way she’d planned.

  Really, the truth was, it hadn’t worked out at all.

  He had won this race. And in this at least—in her passion for him—she conceded to him willingly.

  With a soft sigh, she lifted her arms.

  He started undressing, quickly, ruthlessly, kicking off his shoes, tearing off his socks, shrugging his shirt off and tossing it behind him, yanking his zipper down, shoving his pants and briefs off in the same motion. He stared at her the whole time, pausing only to take from a pocket a few small foil pouches, the condoms he’d forgotten that other night.

  She smiled at that. “Prepared this time, huh?”

  He gave no answer. She gazed up at him. He was so tall and lean, every muscle sharply defined, long rather than bulging. Graceful, in a thoroughly masculine way. A dusting of chestnut hair tracked the center of his chest, continued over his lean belly, and widened to a nest between his strong thighs. His manhood stood out, proof of his intent. She looked at the strong, upthrusting shaft, and then she looked back into his eyes. Her smile trembled. Her whole body felt as if it shimmered in sheer eagerness.

  He tossed the last of his clothing aside and joined her on the bed, settling himself between her open thighs, lifting up enough to slide the protection into place. She lowered a hand and took him, guiding him home.

  He lunged deep, filling her. She gasped in shocked delight, grasping his hard shoulders, holding on tight.

  He moved—a slow, rocking motion, settling in. Then he rested on his forearms above her and sought her eyes.

  It was Midsummer’s Eve again. They were joined, they didn’t move. He looked into her, into the heart of her. And she looked back at him.

  “Sweet,” he whispered. “So very sweet.”

  She sighed and managed a nod. “Oh, yes.”

  Time spun out, a web of stillness and sensation. She couldn’t have named the exact moment when they began to move. It happened so slowly, her body responding to his, so they rippled together, a seamless swaying, like waves lapping on a gentle sea.

  His eyes changed. They made demands of her. She gave herself up to them—gave herself up to him, as the rhythm below became faster, deeper, frantic….

  Needful.

  She wrapped her arms and legs around him, anchoring on him, and drew him down. He buried his silky head in her shoulder.

  The rhythm slowed, each stroke so long and hot and deep. And then, with a groan, he was moving faster again, she with him.

  She saw the heavens, exploding on the inside of her eyelids, stars going supernova, everything shimmering, a blanket of light thrown out to swallow the universe.

  A sense of falling.

  Of opening.

  Lilies, roses, water…

  Heat.

  Liv heard a shout of pure erotic joy. Several endless moments went by before she recognized it as her own.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Come home with me tomorrow,” he whispered. “We’ll be married in the Viking way.”

  “Oh, Finn. I am home.”

  He looked at her for a long time. She wasn’t sure she liked what she saw in his eyes. Finally he covered her mouth with his own in a savage, demanding kiss.

  She didn’t fight him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him right back, as hard as he was kissing her. Slowly, the kiss gentled.

  And then it turned to heat and hunger.

  They spoke no more of marriage that night.

  They got up much later, showered together and went out for a late meal. He stayed with her until morning.

  It was after nine when Finn returned to Ingrid’s house. Hilda came out on the back steps as he was emerging from his rental car. The housekeeper watched him, her long face set in a scowl as he came across the lawn.

  “Well,” he said cheerfully, “good morning to you, too.”

  Hilda grunted. She opened the screen door and held it for him to go through.

  “Thank you, Hilda.”

  “Humph,” said the housekeeper.

  “Is Ingrid already gone for the day?”

  Another grumbling sound. He assumed it must mean yes.

  Finn turned and faced her once she’d joined him on the big service porch. “Something you’d like to say to me, Hilda?”

  One side of her thin lip lifted in an expression very close to a sneer. “His Majesty called for you ten minutes ago. He asked if you’d returned yet. I said you were…still out. He said
to tell you to call him back as soon as you got in.”

  “All right. And you’re angry because His Majesty called?”

  “I am only a servant,” the housekeeper said, aggressively humble.

  Finn knew that when good servants got surly, it was usually wisest to keep after them until they admitted what was bothering them, and then to immediately take pains to solve the problem. Otherwise, they tended to exercise their pent-up frustrations in inconvenient and unpleasant ways—they’d run off with the silver, or take to spitting in the soup.

  “Come on, hit me with your best shot.” He smiled to himself. He liked that expression. It came from an old song by an American rock star, Pat Benatar, a song that sounded especially satisfying when played very loud.

  “Too much scheming around here of late,” the housekeeper muttered. “The king knows where you’ve been. So does the queen. So do I.”

  “And?”

  The housekeeper shook her iron-gray head. “I don’t like it, that’s all. I’m not so blind as some. I have no stars in my eyes at the idea of a grandchild. I know what Liv wants from life. And I can see it’s not at all what you have planned for her. I know the ways of Gullandria. I know you will see to it, in the end, that she marries you—whatever you have to do to make it happen.”

  “You know then why I’m here?”

  Hilda knew. The servants always did. “Liv has shown the Freyasdahl signs. She carries your child.”

  “And you are Gullandrian by birth?” He knew she was.

  She admitted it. “I am.”

  “Then you should understand why a marriage has become imperative.”

  “I understand more than you think. Liv is not like Elli. She’s not a woman to follow her man wherever he must go. You think to tame her to your will. Think again.”

  Finn stared into Hilda’s piercing dark eyes. He wondered if perhaps she’d been raised among the Mystics.

  A chill crept up his spine.

  And why in the name of all the frozen towers of Hel was he standing here explaining himself to the housekeeper? He’d do better to leave her to spit in the soup.

  “Thank you for the advice, Hilda.”

  Hilda took his meaning. The subject was closed. She brought a fist to her chest in the Gullandrian salute of respect for one’s betters. “Will you have breakfast, sir?”