Royal Marriage Market (31 page)

A sharp pinch to the arm proves lucidity, and then wonderfully, bewitchingly: hope. Because Christian’s voice seeps through the painted wood separating me from the hallway.

I rise upon my tiptoes, peeking through a small, golden hole. There, miraculously, wonderfully, is the object of all of my dreams. Christian is standing outside of this godforsaken jail of a suite with a stark five o’clock shadow, dressed in a t-shirt, flannel shirt, jeans, and a baseball hat . . . like . . . like he is anyone other than a prince. As if he is simply Christian, come to see Elsa, and not the Hereditary Grand Duke of Aiboland surreptitiously lingering incognito before the Hereditary Princess of Vattenguldia’s suite at the George V at eleven o’clock at night.

“Open the door, Els,” he murmurs quietly—not into the phone, but
to
me, like he knows my eyes are already undressing him.

So I do.

The moment the boundaries which separated us are finally gone, all of the practiced words wrangled over for two miserable weeks choose to find better pastures. There is only him and me, and there is really nothing else that matters. Not my parents, not his, not Mat, not anything.

My fingers find their way to his shirt, twisting just barely into the gray, faded cotton, until he falls prey to the undeniable magnetism between us just as strongly as I have. He steps into the room while simultaneously kicking the door closed, sending a thrill shooting up my spine and then lower, transforming my body into a live, hot wire ready to combust. His eyes, so astonishingly, expressively amber tonight, widen and darken all at once. Desire, relief, and an achingly lovely amount of caring reflect back at me, and it humbles and thrills me like no other look could.

His voice is husky and sexy when he murmurs my name. It’s pure, unadulterated liquid lust made just for me, so it is impossible, really, to resist gently tracing those delectable lips with one of my fingertips. How can my name, once believed to be stodgily old-fashioned, sound so utterly sensual coming from his mouth?

He’s here. I am here. We are here together.

There’s so much to talk about right now. Figure out. But the only words I can put together, the only ones that matter are, “Kiss me.”

“I thought,” he tells me in that lovely, accented voice of his, “you’d never ask.”

Oh, oh, does this man know how to kiss, I dreamily muse when Christian’s lips meet mine. They’re teasing, soft brushes of desire that trigger a massive earthquake in the middle of my chest and a tsunami of wetness in my knickers. Need mingles painfully with ecstasy, and through the fog of bliss that fills the suite we’re in, I understand this:
I have never felt this way about another person before.
Never. Not with Nils, or Theo, or any of the other men I have ever been intimate with. I wanted them, yes, but it was like merely sipping a glass of water compared to being a soul lost in the desert, frantic to quench their crushing thirst.

I dig my hands into his rich, dark hair in order to tug him closer, admiring how soft and silky the strands are. Loose ropes of fresh curls twist around my fingers, and I am rewarded with a beautiful, sexy sound that originates deep within his chest.

Speaking of . . .

I let go of his lovely hair, vowing to come back shortly, so I can slowly slide the flannel shirt off his lean shoulders. My fingers lightly trail down his arms until he shudders softly under my touch.
Yes
, I cannot help but greedily think. And then,
more
.

Next comes his T-shirt, and God almighty, his chest—his sculpted, hard, lean chest that would put any Hollywood actor to shame—is here for me to touch. Another thought comes to me, one fierce and strong:
mine
.

I am backed up against the door, the same one he just came through, and as he presses up against me, I delight in knowing he is as turned on by me as I am by him. It is intoxicating, knowing that this man is hard because he’s with me. Touching me. Kissing me. A strong leg slips between mine, spreading me wide against the door, and I am panting, I am so desperate to have him. My name is whispered again, and had I not already been wet, I would become so with these sensual, languid syllables from his mouth.

And to think I ever believed rejecting him was a sound idea.

His fingers mimic my action from before, lightly tracing the lines of my arms, raising every hair on my body as goose pimples break out. Past elbows, skirting past my shoulders to trace my clavicle, and then lower until they lightly graze my nipples.

Oh sweet heavens above, I am perilously close to weeping in want and need.
Do it again
.

But I don’t need to say it, because he does exactly what I want—little, light brushes and flicks that have me squirming against the door. His mouth, hot and drugging, finds my neck; bolts of lightning are sent straight to the very core of me when he sucks oh-so-gently.

I will not survive this. I fear I will simply dissolve right here and now.

As his teeth graze an earlobe, his fingers shift to untie the fabric belt around my waist. My hand fumbles behind us, toward the lock on the door. He pulls back, curious, and for one, rueful, gorgeous moment, I laugh.

“Have I lost you already?” His head ducks down toward mine, nose brushing the curve of my cheek. “You’re distracted and laughing—not that I don’t love the sound, it’s just . . .”

I cup his cheek, nipping at his bottom lip. “No one is allowed to interrupt us this time. We cannot trust another pan won’t be dropped and ruin the moment. Thus, before I lose my mind entirely, the door must be locked.”

He reaches higher still, to the deadbolt. A quiet hiss of metal against metal informs me we are good to go.

“Els?”

“Chris?”

His grin is blinding. “I’m ready to help you lose your mind. Kiss me already.”

I happily oblige.

After an eternity or an hour or even just a mere minute, Christian has the tiny buttons running the length of my shirtdress unfastened. The sides are spread open, leaving me vulnerable to his hot gaze.

I watch the lines of his throat as he swallows. “No bra?”

I shake my head, dark hair spilling across my shoulders.

“Jesus.” His large hands gently cup the side of my breasts. More quietly, “Jesus.” Thumbs on both side track across my sensitive nipples, and I bite down on my lip to keep from moaning too loudly.

One hand momentarily leaves a breast to cradle my face, encouraging me to look up at him. “No more hiding.”

The confusion that must have reflected in my eyes has him adding, “I don’t want you holding back who you are with me. Not here, not now, not ever. Not again. If you want to shout or moan or laugh or do anything like that when I touch you, then do it. Because I promise you, it’s something I want to hear.”

To prove his point, a moan is coaxed right out of me the moment his mouth closes over my breast. I’m dazed and delirious and yet praying all the same that this is real.

“I’ve dreamed about it, you know,” he murmurs. “My name falling from your gorgeous mouth when I make you come over and over and over again. Fantasized about it for weeks now. When I’m in a meeting . . .” His lips find mine again, licking the seam until I gladly allow his tongue in. “At a charity event . . .” Another kiss, this time hotter and longer than the last, leaving me writhing against his leg. “At dinner . . .” His mouth finds my neck again, sucking harder than before. “Everywhere. All I could think about was you, and how very, very much I want you. How I’ve desired you like this.” More quietly, “I’ve never wanted anybody the way I want you, Els.”

His mouth travels lower still, until it comes back to one of my aching breasts. But his tongue teases, only flicking briefly across the tip of a nipple. “I need to know. . . Am I alone, thinking, wanting these things?”

“God, no.” My voice is barely audible. He is a thief who has not only stolen my heart but now my breath.

I have never actually said the three words clamoring inside me to anyone before. Not to Nils, not even to my parents or sister.

He slowly slips the dress off my shoulders and then cups my face. “I know what I’m doing right now is selfish. The first day we met, you were very clear about not wanting—”

My fingers press against his lips. “I didn’t know you then. Had I known...” I can’t help but laugh again. “I probably would have torn your clothes off right there in the middle of that hallway. Propositioned you myself.”

A kiss is pressed against my fingers. “That would have been awkward, don’t you think?”

“Awkward and yet an excellent idea.”

“I’m glad you said what you said, though. Because it gave me a chance to get to know you.” He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, tucking it behind an ear. “And Els, getting to know you was one of the best things to ever happen to me.”

The joy I feel right now is world shattering. “Me, too.”

“You’re probably wondering how I knew you’d be here—”

“Charlotte,” I say brightly. I love Charlotte.

“Yes, partially to Charlotte, but also because Isabelle called me the day she eloped and asked me a very important question.”

My sister? “What—”

“She asked me if I was in love with you. I told her I was.”

Time stops. Just grinds to a brilliant halt, and all there is right now is this moment, here with this man.

“She also told me to get my arse to Paris, because she was pretty sure you’re in love with me, too.”

When did Isabelle become so wise? “You think?”

“I
hope.”

All the words filling the atoms that make me, me find themselves stuck in the peanut butter that miraculously appears in the lining of my throat. Because…because opening oneself up to another like this is something you can’t take back. Once these words are out there, they are out forever. They can be lost or ignored or forgotten, but never taken back.

But as I stare into those eyes that I do, in fact, love, any question of whether or not I could ever deny what I feel toward this man is answered firmly and soundly. So, instead of tumbling head over feet as I plummet toward uncertainty and yet assuredness all at once, I stretch my arms wide and catch the current. I tell him, “I do, you know. I am utterly, completely in love with you.”

I am also utterly in love with the look on his face right now, as Christian, who has always been too much everything else, appears too in love with me.

Damn, do I love his
too
-ness.

“That’s good to hear,” he says softly. “Or
this
could have been desperately awkward.”

I am laughing again, and he’s now looking at me as if I am just Elsa, and he is just Christian, and we are simply two people crazy in love and not subject to crowns and countries and duties. A tiny wish is sent off, a silent one, begging all that is good in the world to allow this man to always look at me just so.

Laughter fades away until we are studying one another, silence our friend in the hotel suite. Clocks tick and people around the city sleep, and somewhere around the globe others wake and work and live their lives. But here, in this room, words never spoken out loud before sink quietly into each other’s skins, burrowing straight through muscle and bone until they land cleanly in souls. The orderly, regimented lives we’ve always known and found comfort in are irrevocably altered.

He kisses me again, slowly, carefully, stubble scraping across smooth skin, just enough to remind me that this is real, he is real, and our words and feelings are now officially out there and cannot be recalled. No matter what else happens, no matter what the next day or any of those that follow will bring us, what we feel is finally logged into the census of our lives.

I have never felt more right and sure of anything else in my entire existence.

“I want you, Els.” My lips tingle against his whispered words. “Christ, I want you more than anything. But if you want to wait, we can—”

The space between us widens, even if just by mere millimeters. I refuse to allow distance to separate us anymore. “If you don’t make love to me tonight,” I tell him, voice clear and crisp and regal, “I will never speak to you again.”

His hardened length twitches violently against my leg, so I reach down and unbutton his pants. A long, slow hiss tears through him when my hand slides past his briefs (oh merciful heavens, they are red and sexy as all hell) and wraps around the very part I need in me. I had only gotten a brief feel back in the castle’s kitchen, but now? Now I’m ready to fully explore Christian. Except . . . I want him in me so bad I can taste it.

I want to taste
him
.

“Els—”

I love how he calls me this. Nobody else in the entire world does so. Nobody else has the right to. Just him. It will only ever be him. “Take your pants off, Christian.”

An amused eyebrow lifts up, so I clarify, “Take everything off.”

I very nearly drool as I watch him strip bare. A sharp vee and thin trail of hair leads down to one of the most spectacular sights I have ever seen on a man, and the urge to fall to my knees takes hold because Christian naked, as I suspected, is very nearly a religious experience.

He steps toward me, running his hand down my belly until it cups the space between my legs. Fire bolts blaze throughout my body. “Your turn.” Unfamiliar, tormented whimpering slips through my lips as he strokes his fingers back and forth. “You’re already wet, aren’t you? So wet,” he adds, smiling as if I have given him the best present in the world, “that you’ve soaked through your knickers.”

Normally, that would embarrass the hell out of me, but not tonight. Not with him. Because I am wet, incredibly so, and it is all because of what I feel toward him and that is nothing—
nothing
—I can be embarrassed about.

He bends down before me, nose perilously close to my belly button. Fingers slowly hook into the sides of my panties and I’m whimpering once more, this time his name, my hands fumbling to clutch at his shoulders.

“Easy, tiger.” His fingers trace the rim of skin just under the thin elastic holding my panties up. “As we’re not skinny-dipping in a group setting, I don’t think you need these, do you?”