Royal Treatment

by Tracy Wolff

  He mutters something filthy in French as he reaches down and pinches my nipple between his thumb and index finger. I cry out—I can’t help it—as my whole body goes on high alert. I’m breathless now, shaking, my nipples tight and my underwear soaked through.

  It would be so easy to give in to him, so easy to let him take over and make me come half a dozen times. But that’s not what tonight is about and it’s not what I want, no matter what my body currently feels.

  I pull away. I don’t go far, but I do put just enough space between us for Garrett to understand that I’m not messing with him. Not this time.

  “I need you to come for me,” I say. “I need to see you.”

  He doesn’t answer, but then I don’t expect him to as my lips close over him once again, my tongue continuing to move back and forth along his length as I reach for his balls and press my finger to a spot on the underside that makes him cry out. That makes him try to pull away.

  But I’m having none of it. Cupping his ass in my palms, I pull him tightly against me and once again slide his entire length down my throat. I stroke my tongue across the underside of his cock and rub my fingers on the sensitive spot right behind his balls. Then I hum in the back of my throat, and the ensuing vibrations have him calling out my name in a husky, strangled voice that only eggs me on.

  I hum again, then suck him as deep as I can take him without gagging. He stiffens, calls out my name one more time, and tangles his fingers more tightly in my hair. And then he comes, emptying himself into my mouth in an orgasm that goes on and on and on.

  When it’s over, I release him slowly. He’s obviously drained, his skin flushed and his whole body trembling slightly. His breathing is harsh and his arm is thrown over his closed eyes.

  His scars are standing out in stark relief on his flushed, sweat-slicked skin, and I take a moment to look at them. Really look at them. They’re a map of his suffering, of the pain he endured, and every part of me aches at the injustice of what he went through. Of what he’s going through still. And though I want to kiss every scar, want to smooth my hands over each and every one of them, I know that doing so will only make him suffer more.

  So I settle for running my hands down his heaving sides and pressing soft kisses to the salty skin of his chest and shoulder and neck.

  He wraps an arm around me and pulls me close. As he does, he turns me so that my breasts brush against his mouth. I’m still dressed, but that doesn’t stop Garrett from pressing kisses to my taut, aching nipples. Doesn’t stop him from reaching beneath my skirt and tearing my underwear off my body with one smooth yank.

  Then he’s pulling my blouse off and flicking my bra open. Sliding a hand between my thighs. I’m hot and wet and so desperate for his touch that I cry out the moment his fingers slide against my sex. He groans in response as he slips one finger inside of me, followed closely by a second. I gasp as he works them back and forth, his thumb rubbing against my clit as I ride his hand.

  It feels so good, he feels so good. I tilt my head so I can watch him watching me with that intent stare, those lust-blown eyes. And when he pulls me over him, my legs straddling his hips and his slowly lengthening cock nestled between my ass cheeks, I can’t help but gasp. Can’t help but moan his name.

  His fingers move harder and faster within me and his other hand comes up to tweak my nipple. “Come for me,” he orders, his voice all black magic and beautiful.

  And though I want this to last longer, though I want him to keep looking at me with those lust-blown eyes forever, my body can deny him nothing. I come on command, orgasm flooding through me, tightening every muscle in my body until I’m calling his name.

  Garrett holds me throughout it, strokes me through it as he whispers sweet nothings in a darkly erotic mix of French and English. And then he’s sliding home before the contractions deep inside me have even stopped, lifting and lowering me on his cock until I can’t think, can’t breathe. Until all I can do is feel the ecstasy sizzling through my bloodstream.

  Our eyes meet and hold, and it’s so intense I start to look away. But Garrett reaches up, holds my chin between his fingers, and keeps my gaze locked on his as he slams into me again and again and again. His beautiful blue eyes are blazing, burning, beckoning me closer even as they promise things I’m not sure I’m ready to believe.

  But each second that passes with his eyes searing into mine takes me higher, each thrust of his hips bringing me closer and closer to coming again. I fight it, try to stop it. I’m not ready for this to end, not ready to move beyond this sensual maelstrom that makes me feel closer to Garrett than I have to anyone, ever.

  But then he’s slipping a hand between us, stroking his thumb firmly against my clit. And suddenly it doesn’t matter what I want. It only matters what I need—and what Garrett needs from me.

  “Come with me, sweetheart,” he whispers as he looks deep into my eyes. “I need to feel you. I need—”

  He breaks off as I do as he asks, giving up the last vestiges of my control as my orgasm roars through me. I start to close my eyes, start to drop my head back, but he barks, “No! Let me see!” and I’m helpless to do anything but obey.

  Helpless to do anything but give him everything as we come and come and come.

  When the last ripple of sensation finally fades, I collapse against Garrett’s chest. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and concentrate on breathing, just breathing. Because what started out as a way to comfort him, to pleasure him, somehow turned into something so much more. And now I’m raw, the intensity of what just happened hollowing me out and making me feel strangely shy and tongue-tied as emotions surge through me at an alarming rate.

  What will I do if I fall in love with him?

  Or worse, what will I do if I already have?

  Chapter 25

  Garrett

  “So, this is your Paris,” I say, looking around the small, out-of-the-way park that Lola picked for us to picnic in on our second-to-last day in Paris.

  “I wouldn’t call it my Paris,” she answers as she slathers cheese on a piece of bread. “But it’s definitely Paris.” She brings the bread to my lips and I take a bite, just as she intends.

  The fact that she’s doing an impressive job of ignoring the flashes going off from halfway across the park—where Bryce and Bastian are keeping the paparazzi at bay—shows how far she’s come in the last week.

  It also makes me fall for her just a little more, something that’s been happening every second of every day that I’m with her. Which wouldn’t be a problem considering the way she looks at me most of the time too. But we still haven’t talked about whatever this is between us, still haven’t given voice to the fact that it’s rapidly become a lot more than either of us intended when we first entered into this deal.

  I need to stop being such a wuss and get on that. And I will, I promise myself as Lola feeds me another piece of bread. Just as soon as she’s done with everything she came to Paris to do. The last thing I want is to distract her from work, to make her think that I don’t value what she does when that’s so obviously an issue for her.

  “You’ve been to Paris a million times, right?” she asks when I’m done chewing. “So why the surprise?”

  I pluck a couple of grapes from the bowl, hold one up to her lips, and wait for her to take it before popping the second in my own mouth. “I’m usually here representing Wildemar. Even when it’s a pleasure trip, I’ve never had time to walk through the Marché Bastille picking up lunch, let alone time to have that lunch spread out on a blanket in the park.”

  “I’ve got to tell you,” she says, completely deadpan. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. I may actually cry for you, poor little prince boy.”

  Despite the sober way she says it, there’s a wicked gleam in her eye that has me picking a couple more grapes out of the bag. This time I throw them
at her, though, crowing in triumph as one hits her right between the eyes.

  She squawks indignantly and launches herself at me. I catch her—of course I do—pulling her on top of me as we both tumble to the ground. It’ll be a hell of a pic for the gossip blogs, but as Lola lowers her mouth to mine, I can’t bring myself to care.

  Lola is who she is, and I am more than okay with that. And would be even if none of my people approved of her.

  It’s a strange feeling for a guy who has spent his life making sure to follow the rules, to never cause a scandal, to never look anything but kingly when in public. But what the hell did that get me, anyway? Kidnapped, tortured, and demoted from heir to spare? And just taking the demotion because a gentleman doesn’t fight dirty?

  Following the rules sure as hell isn’t all it’s cut out to be. Especially since the two best things in my life right now—Lola and the chance to get my position back—have come only after I started breaking them.

  It’s a powerful thought, and an arousing one. So much so that I find myself fisting a hand in Lola’s hair and pulling her closer so I can slide my tongue along the seam of her lips before delving inside.

  She gasps at the invasion, making a small, desperate sound deep in her throat. Tangles her fingers in the front of my shirt as she presses closer. She feels good, so good, and I want nothing more than to stay right here, kissing her, touching her, for hours.

  But there’s bending the rules and then there’s shattering them all to hell. And as need builds inside me, I know I’ve got to break this up while I still can. Because if the last few days have taught me nothing else, it’s that after ten more seconds I won’t care about where we are or who’s watching. All that will matter is getting inside of Lola, and frankly, Lola on the brink of orgasm is not something I want anyone else to see. Ever. Let alone most of the free world when the pic is plastered on the cover of every gossip rag that can get its hands on it.

  She moans a little as I gently lift her off my lap, her fingers tightening in my shirt even more. But her eyes flutter open when I call her name and I watch as the reality of our situation slowly comes back to her.

  Lola lets out a long, gusty sigh, then flops down on the blanket beside me, hand over her eyes. “Sometimes I really hate your life.”

  “Sometimes I really hate it too.” I reach out for her hand and twine our fingers together. As I do, I try not to notice how good it feels. How right.

  I’m about to suggest that we go back to the hotel—where we’ll have a lot more privacy—when the alarm goes off on her phone. She groans a little as she slaps at it with her free hand until the obnoxious noise finally cuts off.

  “You know, there are a million other tones you can choose from,” I tell her as we continue to lie there. “None of which sound quite so much like the end of the fucking world.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes the sound of the end of the world is the only thing that gets me up in the morning. Speaking of which…” She sits up and starts gathering the remnants of our picnic. “I need to get going.”

  It’s my turn to groan. “Where to now? You’ve been on the go for five days straight!”

  And yes, I am aware of how very whiny and un-prince-like I sound, but at the moment, I don’t actually give a shit. I’ve known Lola less than two weeks, but I really like spending time with her. Hell, if I’m being honest, I’ll admit that I like every single thing I’ve found out about her so far.

  Which isn’t all that much, considering she blocks me every time I try to delve deeper into her past, into who she is. I mean, I know the basics from the background check, but I want to know more than that.

  I want her to let me past her defense so I can see her, really see her, for the first time. It’s terrifying to be this crazy about a woman and know she doesn’t trust you enough to let you see the real her. Terrifying to realize that no matter how much you care about her, no matter how much you reassure her, the mask she shows the world may be all you ever get to see of her.

  Then again, I haven’t dropped my guard either, haven’t let her see just how messed up I really am. Three nights this week she’s woken me from nightmares, her arms wrapped around me and her lips pressed against my throat. I’ve taken the comfort she’s offered, then made love to her while the cold sweat of fear was still rolling down my spine. But when the sun comes up, I shove all the shit back under lock and key so I don’t have to think about it.

  So I don’t have to face it, or the fact that my life has turned out nothing like what I expected it to be.

  It’s probably not the best way to handle the situation, and it’s definitely not the healthiest. But it’s what I’ve got right now when I’m finally—finally—on the precipice of regaining the keys to the kingdom and winning Lola’s heart. I don’t have time for a meltdown, and I sure as hell don’t have time to deal with all the shit from the abduction. There will be time enough for that later, after everything else is taken care of

  “I barely get to see you.” I continue complaining as I pull her closer.

  “Yes, well, we all have our jobs,” she says, sniffing a little at my complaints even as she reaches up and pats my cheek. “Yours is to strut around as His Royal Hotness, posing for pics and breaking hearts. Mine is to hustle my ass off to fill the insane demand that has rocked my site since I became Gorgeous Garrett’s very public girlfriend. It’s a rough life, but someone’s got to do it.”

  “Excuuuuuse me,” I squawk in mock outrage as I push to my feet. “I happen to do a lot more than just strut around. In fact, I have an appointment with the Prime Minister in two hours.” I start folding the blanket we’ve been picnicking on.

  “Oh, really?” She looks me over from head to toe in a way that can only be described as lascivious. It gets me hot all over again, even though I know she’s only messing with me. “And what will you two be doing during this ‘appointment’?’ ”

  “Keeping up diplomacy between our two great nations.”

  “And by keeping up diplomacy, you mean strutting around together looking hot and drinking in some local bar where you can break double the hearts and take double the pics.”

  “You know me so well.”

  “I know you better than you think,” she answers, sounding serious for the first time since we arrived. I start to ask her what she means, but before I can, she takes off toward the nearest trash and recycle bins to throw away our garbage.

  “What time will you be back at the hotel?” I ask, as I tuck the blanket under my arm and then take hold of her hand.

  “Careful, Gorgeous Garrett. If you don’t watch it, it’s going to start sounding like you’ll miss me.”

  “I will miss you.” It’s a bold statement considering we still haven’t officially talked about how our arrangement has changed lately, but I’m feeling bold right now. Besides, it’s the truth, and I’m tired of pretending it isn’t. This thing between us might have started out as an accident turned into a convenient hoax, but the more time I spend with Lola, the more real my feelings for her become. Especially after the week we’ve spent together, where every part of it has felt real and special and…right.

  It’s way past time for me to let her know how I feel—and to figure out how she feels in return.

  She softens instantly, her smile going from bright to gentle in the space between one breath and the next. Surely that means she feels something for me as well. “I’ll miss you too,” she murmurs.

  She presses up onto her tiptoes, then wraps a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me down for a quick kiss. “Let’s make a deal. You hurry through your drinks with the Prime Minister, I’ll rush through the two estate sales I have scheduled for this afternoon, and we’ll meet back at the hotel at eight o’clock. We can spend all night making love in the hot tub and vegging out in front of the TV. Sound good?”

  “Sounds amazing.” I pull her in
for one more kiss. “Stay close to Xavier and Van,” I say, nodding toward the security detail I’ve brought in for her. Kian says it’s overkill, and maybe it is, but after what happened to me, I’m not taking any chances. Not with Lola. Not ever.

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” She gives a mock salute, then just sighs when I continue to stare at her blankly. “Sometimes dating someone who doesn’t get my American pop culture references really bites.”

  “Oh, I got it,” I tell her as I propel her toward the park’s exit. “I just chose not to acknowledge the impertinence.”

  “My, my, don’t we sound all snooty this afternoon,” she says with a sniff. “Practicing for the Prime Minister?”

  “More like trying to keep you from walking all over me.”

  She gives me a wicked grin. “A little late for that, isn’t it?”

  It is. It’s way too late and I’m just now beginning to realize it. Not that I’m going to tell her that in the middle of a park with a bunch of paps recording our every move. “Hope springs eternal.”

  She presses close. “Looks like hope isn’t the only thing that does that,” she tells me as she rubs against my rapidly hardening dick.

  “It’s not my fault that everything about you turns me on.” I wrap a hand around her waist and hold her against me for one second, two, as I try to get my body under some kind of control. “You’re a wicked, wicked woman, Lola Barnes.”

  “I am,” she agrees solemnly. “And don’t you forget it.”

  As if I could.

  Chapter 26

  I get back to the suite about six, after spending a couple of happy hours at a local bar, drinking with the Prime Minister and “strutting around looking hot,” as Lola so eloquently put it. She’s due back any minute now and I’m hoping to take a quick shower before she gets here. The Prime Minister really likes his cigars, which doesn’t bother me any. But I learned a few days ago that smoke aggravates Lola’s allergies, so I want to make sure the smell is off me before she gets back to the room.