Leopold: Part Five

by Ember Casey

  I ignore the obvious attempt to get me to tell him that I love him again. “You tricked me, though. You kidnapped me. You told me you wanted to give me a royal date experience. That we were only going on a date—”

  “We did go on a date, Elle.”

  I raise my index finger, pointing at him. “Taking me on an airplane to New York City is not a date. It’s…” I’m sputtering, unsure I really want to say the thing I know comes next. “It’s a fairy tale.”

  He nods, a slow smile forming on his lips. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  I drop my arms to my sides, my hands curling into fists before I squeeze my eyes shut. “This isn’t real.” My voice is a barely recognizable croak. “This. Isn’t. Real.” I open my eyes, almost certain that my words are going to break the spell—that when I’m able to see again, everything will have disappeared.

  But it hasn’t. Leo looks at me for another moment before he walks over to the rack of clothes, pulling down a floral dress—one of the dresses Matthias brought the other day. He hangs it on a hook in front of the other gowns. “This is the most suitable of your dresses for an afternoon tea. Not that you would concern yourself with such trivialities.”

  My chest tightens and I feel a flash of tears in my eyes, but I blink them back almost as quickly. How the hell does he read my mind like that?

  He leans against the wall again. “If you’d like, we can have tea in the morning. I’ll have Matthias set up a service in your parlor.”

  “I…” I frown, and the damned tears swim in my eyes again, but I blink them back once more. “I would like that.”

  He nods. “Elle, I really must ask you something.”

  I’m silent for a moment. I search his eyes, trying to decipher whatever it is he’s going to ask me, but I can’t. “Okay.”

  He stares at me in silence for another moment. “What will it take for you to trust me?”

  I can see the pain in his eyes—the vulnerability again. And I know I’m a complete and total bitch for being the one responsible for it. But I don’t know how to do this—I don’t know how to say the words or make him understand. I’m not even sure I understand.

  My voice is low, almost a whisper. “I…I don’t know.”

  He winces and I feel a stab of pain in my chest.

  I shake my head. “I’m only going to hurt you, Leo.”

  He frowns. “Elle, the only way you will hurt me is if you leave me again. Can you at least promise to tell me if you decide to go? That you’ll not disappear when I’m not looking?”

  I stare at him for a moment before I give him a slow nod. I suppose that after all he’s already done for me, being honest with him—or at least telling him if I’m going to leave—is the least I can do for him now.

  His brow furrows. “Say it, Elle. Promise me.”

  I wince. It’s one thing to nod—the actual words seem a hell of a lot more difficult. “I…I promise. I promise I won’t leave without telling you.”

  He strides across the room to me again and slides his arms around my waist. He dips his head to whisper in my ear.

  “That’s all I ask.”

  Leo

  As requested, Matthias brings us a full tea service in the morning. I usually prefer a heartier breakfast—especially after a night like the one we had—but I must admit I am excited by the opportunity to give Elle her first lesson in Montovian culture. Though there are certainly those much better suited to teaching etiquette here in the palace, I don’t intend to let anyone else take my place this morning.

  Elle still looks a bit groggy as she stumbles out of the bedroom, and I’m grateful she was able to fall back asleep after our conversation in the closet in the middle of the night. Part of me was afraid I’d wake to find her gone—but as promised, she was still there in my arms when I woke, as soft and sweet to the touch as ever.

  “Are you ready for your first lesson?” I ask her.

  She pulls her messy, unbrushed hair over one shoulder as she looks at the spread Matthias ordered for us. “Should I get dressed?”

  “Normally, semi-formal dress is required for tea in the palace,” I say, “but there is no dress code this morning. In fact, we may do this lesson naked, if you prefer.”

  She shakes her head with a laugh. “I’ll stick to my pajamas, thanks.” She comes over to the sitting area and looks me up and down. “Are you wearing anything under that robe?”

  “In this country, we call them dressing gowns,” I say. “And you’re welcome to come have a look if you wish.”

  She settles down on the sofa. “I think I’ll wait until after tea.”

  I take the chair next to her. “Have you ever been to any sort of formal tea?”

  She shakes her head. “I know they serve high tea at some of the fancy hotels in L.A., but I’ve never been.”

  “First of all,” I say, leaning forward and lifting the teapot, “don’t let anyone hear you call it high tea. The proper term is afternoon tea, at least in Montovia. Our customs are similar to those found at afternoon tea in other parts of Europe, but we have some of our own traditions, too. Tea is the most popular drink during these meals, of course, but coffee is also an acceptable alternative. For special occasions, champagne is also available.”

  She already looks a little overwhelmed, so I smile and extend the teapot toward her cup.

  “Shall I pour you a cup?” I ask. “It is always the host’s responsibility to serve the others.”

  She nods. “Sure.”

  “There’s no reason to be afraid,” I tell her as I pour the amber liquid into her porcelain cup. “My mother won’t expect you to know everything already. And she’s a very conscientious hostess—she’ll do everything in her power to make you feel comfortable.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she says. “I just have a lot to learn at once. That’s all.”

  “Fortunately, you have a very good teacher,” I say with a grin. I pour my own cup. “There’s lemon, sugar, and milk. You may add any or all of them to your preference.”

  She leans forward and takes the milk, while I set the teapot back down and help myself to the sugar.

  “Many aspects of tea etiquette should be fairly obvious,” I say. “Don’t swirl your tea, mix it only with a spoon—the small one right next to your saucer. But be careful not to bump your spoon against your cup. It is considered quite rude—and my mother’s favorite tea set is nearly two hundred years old, which makes it quite fragile as well.”

  “Don’t crack the two-hundred-year-old china, got it,” she says, picking up her spoon and giving her tea a stir.

  “That’s it for the tea part,” I say, lifting my cup. “It’s quite simple, really.” I take a sip and then put my cup back on the saucer. “Oh, except for one last thing—always look down at your cup when you’re drinking. Don’t try to look at anyone else, even if they’re speaking. It’s far too easy to spill otherwise, and most of the furniture in my mother’s sitting room is as old as this palace. Not that I think you have anything to worry about, mind you. Just thought it appropriate to warn you.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” she says with a smile as she lifts her cup.

  “You’ll do fine, Elle. I know you will.” I lean toward her and wrap my hand around hers on the cup. “Just make sure you keep your pinkie finger in. Curl it under the others, like this.” I gently curl her fingers, letting my hand linger on hers a moment longer than necessary.

  “I think I’ve got it,” she says.

  “Good.” I pull my hand away, grinning. “I think I deserve a kiss for being such a good teacher.”

  She laughs. “Only a quick one. I’m starving.”

  I pull her face toward mine, letting my lips dance over hers. I could waste the entire morning tasting and teasing her, but I only let my mouth linger a moment before pulling away again.

  “I very much like this teaching thing,” I say.

  She shakes her head, smiling. “I can tell.”

  And I’m happy to s
ee her smiling and laughing again, see her enjoying this little game. I want her to find pleasure in Montovia, as archaic as some of our customs might be.

  “So when am I allowed to dig into this food?” she asks, indicating the small-tiered trays in front of us on the table.

  “Once the tea is poured,” I tell her. “Traditionally speaking, though all the food is served at once, it is eaten in courses. The savories are eaten first, then the scones, and finally the pastries. The host will offer the first pick to his or her guests in order of their rank. During this first serving, take only one piece. After everyone has been served, you may take others at your pleasure—but it is impolite to have more than one on your plate at any time, so make sure you eat whatever you take before choosing another. Also take care to watch what others are eating—though there is no rule as to how much you can eat, others will take notice if you have seven pastries while everyone else only has one or two.”

  “Got it,” she says, and I can see her trying to commit everything I just said to memory.

  I take the plate of savories and hold it toward her. The platter holds mostly finger sandwiches, but there is also a selection of soft cheeses and olives. Elle takes one of the tiny sandwiches and puts it on her plate. I select another and set the platter back on the tiered stand.

  “It’s much easier to manage when there are only two people,” I tell her. “My mother will lead the way, don’t worry.”

  She looks down at her sandwich. “It’s not so much the etiquette I’m worried about.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I have no idea what we’re going to say to each other during all of this. What exactly do people talk about at tea?”

  I pause with my sandwich halfway to my mouth. “Are you worried about what she might ask you?”

  “A little. I mean—not worried, exactly, but am I walking into an interrogation here?”

  “You’ve met my mother,” I say. “She’s not like my father. This isn’t an audition or anything. She just wants to get to know you better.”

  “And that’s a little fucking terrifying. I mean, meeting your boyfriend’s parents is hard enough without them being the king and queen of an entire country.”

  In spite of myself, my grin widens.

  “This isn’t funny!” she says. “You’re used to all of this, but I’m not. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

  “I’m not laughing at that, Elle. I can imagine that this would be intimidating to someone who’s never experienced it before. I’m merely pleased to hear you call me your boyfriend.”

  Color blooms on her cheeks. “I’m not… I didn’t mean… God, haven’t we already had this conversation? We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. What else are we supposed to call each other?”

  “You may call us whatever you like, Elle,” I say. I take her hand and bring it to my lips. I smile again when I feel a tremor move across her skin as I kiss the back of her knuckles. “You will do just fine with my mother, I know it. But to make it easier, is there anything I might offer you in return for doing this? Some way I might thank you later?”

  She tugs her hand away from mine. “You don’t have to give me anything in return.”

  “You know what I mean, Elle,” I say, and I know she can tell from the tone of my voice exactly what I want.

  She gives another laugh and grabs the sandwich off her plate. I love that even now, after some of the nights we’ve had together, she still sometimes gets self-conscious and modest around me. Somehow that makes me want her even more.

  But I resist the urge to push her down on the sofa and have her right here—I suspect we should try to stay away from going at it on sofas for the time being.

  Though that might be an impossible task…

  “Scone?” I say, reaching for the second plate to try and distract myself from the hardness in my pants. “My father loves scones so much that he flew in a British chef specifically to make them—and only them. Seriously, the man makes nothing else.”

  She gives me a look. “Now you’re just fucking with me.”

  God, does she have to use the work ‘fuck’? My cock throbs almost painfully, and I shift in my seat again. I clear my throat.

  “I’m not fucking with you at all,” I say. “I’ll introduce you to him later if you like. His name is Nigel. He’s a very pleasant fellow. Our head chef is Catherina. She makes damn fine food, but she’s very sour. She always yells at you if she catches you trying to sneak something out of her pantry. You’re better off going through Julia if you want a late night snack—she’s only a cook, but she knows how to get around Catherina. I’ll introduce you to all of them later. I still need to give you a tour.” I take a lemon scone for myself and put the plate back down. “Oh, and Matthias asked about arranging a lady’s maid for you. Someone who knows the palace who might attend to any of your needs while you are here.”

  She blinks. “I don’t need a lady’s maid.”

  “Of course you don’t need one any more than you need someone to serve you food in a restaurant or help you find things in a boutique. But they’re paid—very handsomely paid, I might add—to make sure our guests have everything they might need while they’re here. She’ll know the palace and our customs, so if you ever need assistance or have a question about anything when I’m not around, you can ask her.”

  She picks at her scone. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Please do, Elle. Matthias says he thinks Johanna would get on with you quite well. Of course, if you’d rather interview women for yourself, you are welcome to do so.”

  “I… I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.” I pass her the clotted cream and raspberry preserves. “You should put some of these on your scone. You won’t be sorry.”

  She takes the tiny bowl from me and spreads some of the preserves on her scone. When she moves to take a spoonful of the clotted cream, however, she accidentally bumps the spoon against the edge of the bowl and spills the cream on her leg.

  “Fuck,” she says under her breath. She sets the bowl down on the table and scoops up the cream with her finger. Rather than wipe it off with a napkin, however, she brings her finger to her lips and slides it into her mouth, licking it clean.

  Oh…my…God…

  She notices me staring, and her eyes widen.

  “Shit,” she says, her cheeks reddening. “I shouldn’t have… Fuck, obviously licking your fingers isn’t allowed at tea. I just wasn’t thinking—”

  She doesn’t get to finish because I’ve lunged across the sofa and planted my mouth on hers.

  Her lips still taste like the sugary cream. My tongue slides along the length of them, licking up every last bit of flavor until I find the taste of her beneath the sweetness. One of my hands grabs the back of her head, and I hold her against me, drinking up as much of her as I can.

  After a moment, she pulls back, laughing.

  “I bet that is definitely not allowed,” she says.

  I grin. “I’m a prince. I can do whatever I damn well please at tea.” I straighten slightly. “Now, let me show you the best way to eat scones.”

  I sit myself on the sofa next to her and reach over to her plate, breaking off a bit of preserve-covered scone. I spread some of the clotted cream on in before holding it out to her, but when she reaches for it, I shake my head.

  “Open your mouth,” I say.

  She hesitates for only a second and then does as I ask.

  Gently, I put the bit of scone in her mouth, brushing my thumb against her bottom lip as I pull away again.

  A smile crosses her faces as she chews, but as I reach for another piece of scone, she shakes her head.

  “It’s my turn,” she says. She takes a bit of my scone and tops it, then brings it to my mouth.

  As she places it on my tongue, I close my lips softly on her fingers, tasting her skin before she can pull away again. Her eyes grow darker as the tip of my tongue flicks at the pad of her finger.

&
nbsp; When I’ve swallowed, I reach for her plate again. “This is much better, isn’t it? I don’t much care for the normal rules of tea.”

  “Much better,” she agrees.

  I feed her another piece, and then she feeds me one. Every time my fingers brush against her lips, need pulses through my body. And every time her fingers touch my tongue, I have to fight back a groan.

  This won’t do. It isn’t nearly enough.

  The next time, rather than reach for the scone again, I grab her instead. She lets out a little gasp of surprise.

  “I’m hungry for something else now,” I say, my voice almost a growl. “Something far, far more delicious.”

  Before she can say a word, I’m tugging down her pajama bottoms, making sure to grab her underwear as well. Her fingers grab my shoulders, but she doesn’t object as I pull the offending clothes off her ankles and toss them across the room. And she doesn’t say a word as I slide onto my knees on the carpet in front of her and gently push her knees apart.

  She smells amazing. And I wasn’t lying when I said I thought she was more delicious than our chef’s prized scones. No—nothing matches the sweet flavor of pure Elle.

  I lean forward and lower my face between her legs. She quivers as my breath heats her skin.

  “Lean back,” I murmur to her.

  She obeys, reclining against the plush back of the sofa.

  I move my face even closer, burying it completely between her thighs. And then I slip my tongue between my lips and let the tip of it slide against her.

  She releases a soft, shuddering breath, and I smile before doing the same thing once again.

  I could feast on her all day. Damn all our other responsibilities.

  My tongue can’t get enough of her. I lick her again and again and again—sometimes with long, slow strokes and sometimes with hot, quick flicks—and with every touch of my tongue, her flavor gets stronger and her scent even headier. I’m drunk on it, a madman desperate for her ambrosia, and little by little I can sense her coming undone. Her soft, ragged breaths turn into moans, and then her moans turn into desperate whimpers. Her fingers move to my hair, tightening in the strands and urging me onward.