It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5)

by Clare Connelly

  He pulled her to him and lifted her in one motion, wrapping her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bed where he dropped her backwards so she sprawled beneath him. She glared at him, her breath ragged, her breasts heaving with each push of her lungs. But he didn’t give her time to recover. He pulled at her underpants, removing them before dispensing swiftly with his own clothing, bringing his naked body over hers.

  When he kissed her, it was a mark of possession that was answered by his body’s hard push into her womanhood. There was no preamble, no foreplay, just this. He thrust into her with all that he was, crying out as her sweet warmth enveloped him, as muscles claimed him, reassured him, and then his mouth dragged down her body, finding a nipple and flicking it with his tongue.

  She writhed beneath him and when she whimpered he lifted his eyes to her face, watching as pleasure pulled her apart at the seams. Watching as she fell apart in his arms, feeling her muscles squeeze him, her body take him, feeling her react to him in a way that should have been reassurance enough.

  But it wasn’t.

  He needed more. He needed her to give him something but he didn’t know what.

  While waves of pleasure still rocked her to the core, while she trembled beneath him, and her body was ravaged by the waves of her desire, he pulled out of her and dragged his mouth to her sensitive heat, lashing her with his tongue until she was crying out, loud, shrill, desperate. He was driving her to the brink too soon after she’d already orgasmed, while the after effects were still ravaging her system, but he didn’t care.

  She was his, and he would make sure she understood that. He slid a single finger inside her tight warmth and she bucked against his mouth. Her fingers came to his hair, tangling in it, pulling it loose, dragging it from his head and then she came again, so that he felt her pulse, tasted her pleasure, and knew her to be carried away by what they had shared.

  But still he wanted more.

  He brought his weight down on top of her and thrust into her once more, and felt his own seed begin to spill. He held himself back, though, watching her as he shifted his weight, as his coarse chest brushed against her soft, womanly curves, as she pushed up and claimed his lips with hers. And then her hands were on his chest, pushing him, and something like panic filled Raffa – panic that she was going to end this. That she hadn’t wanted what he did, that he’d been wrong.

  And maybe he had, because when she straddled him and took him inside, she glared at him with the force of rage he hadn’t known her capable of. “I hate you for doing this to me,” she said thickly, but she moved her hips with frantic need, pumping him, making him almost incoherent with how good she felt, how right this was.

  But he wouldn’t let her control this or him. His fingers dug into her hips and he slowed her down with ease. She was tiny and he was strong. He held her low on his shaft and his eyes bore into hers. “Tell me you’re mine.”

  “Screw you,” she muttered, trying to move her hips, and he knew she needed to feel more of him, to feel him move. He knew pleasure was once again knocking at her door, and he held the key to opening it.

  His smile was tight, his own grip on the situation spiraling way out of control. “I am.”

  “Jerk.” She groaned when he pumped himself inside her, just once, just enough to remind her what this was.

  “You are mine. Whenever I want you, however I say. You are mine. Tell me. Say it.”

  And when she was quiet, he rolled his hips so she felt the gossamer promise of what he would give her if only she’d agree.

  “I hate you,” she groaned, trying to move, trying to take him in deeper.

  “So you said,” he drawled through half-shut eyes.

  He loosened his grip on her hips so she was free to move again, to roll her hips and bring herself, and him, to the very edge of sanity. But before she could explode, he stilled her once more, so that her body was denied what it needed so desperately.

  “I’m yours,” she cried out. “Just please don’t stop.”

  Raffa swore to himself as he finally gave into what they both wanted, tipping her over the edge at the same time he exploded, so that their bodies were a mesh of pleasure and satisfaction. And as she rode the wave of release, she mumbled, over and over again like a waterfall that wouldn’t stop bubbling, “I hate you for this.”

  Raffa woke with a pounding headache the next morning, and a heavy sense of something dark in his gut.

  Fractured memories of the night before assailed him slowly at first, and then all at once, like a tsunami hitting land. The way he’d felt seeing Goran talking to her. The way he’d taken his anger at a decades old crime out on Chloe. The way he’d punished her, the way he’d used her sensuality against her.

  The way he’d made her beg.

  The way she’d told him she hated him.

  The way she’d looked at him as though he were the devil incarnate.

  Something like a rock settled inside of him.

  Guilt. Yes, guilt. He hadn’t felt it before, and so it took him a while to identify it, but as the day progressed, he recognized the emotion and knew he deserved to feel it. It was eating him up from the inside out.

  He would swim – swimming always cleared his mind.

  Why had he allowed himself to become so invested in possessing her? His wife was a very beautiful means to an end, that was all. A convenient bride, chosen for her neutrality, chosen because no one faction within his country could object to her usurping all the other contenders. Chosen for her age and the ease with which it was presumed she would fall pregnant with all the heirs his country would require.

  Sleeping with her was precisely about that, not about making her body tremble until he was satisfied she needed him.

  What was happening to him? Why had Raffa let her get under his skin?

  He dove into the water of his private pool, stroking the length as though a shark was at his heels. He would regain control of this – he would remember why he’d married her and what place she played within the kingdom.

  Sex was sex, and he’d had enough of it to know that the pleasures of the flesh always faded. What they shared was special because it was new, that was all.

  He would restrict their interaction to the bare minimum. Sex, for the sake of begetting an heir. Pleasure be damned.

  Or so he hoped.

  It was only two months. Eight weeks. That was completely normal. When proof that she hadn’t yet fallen pregnant arrived only hours after Raffa had left her room, Chloe had whispered every sort of promise to herself, to reassure herself that in most cases, it took time to fall pregnant.

  Her rational mind knew that, but the part of Chloe that had presumed it would be as easy as looking at Raffa and conceiving, was breaking.

  She had breakfast, lost in thought, trying to make sense of the feelings welling inside of her, but they were no clearer by the time her plate was empty.

  She knew only that she wanted to go away again, to return to the city, to somewhere she was comfortable, where she could be without risk of seeing her husband. No, without him seeing her.

  She couldn’t face him.

  “Aysha?” She called, standing and wiping her hands on a napkin simultaneously.

  “Good morning, your highness,” Aysha smiled as she entered.

  Chloe found it hard to meet even Aysha’s eyes. “Aysha.” She moved towards her desk. “I need a letter delivered to my husband.”

  “No need,” Aysha interrupted. “His security detail just informed me that he’s on his way here. Now. He asked for a meeting with you.”

  “No!” Chloe’s eyes were huge. “I mean, not now. I can’t see him.” She swallowed, and turned away from Aysha, moving towards the balcony. “Please tell him I’m not well.”

  She didn’t turn around to see Aysha’s reaction, but despite that, Chloe thought better of her approach. “No. Give him a letter after all. That’s better.”

  She crossed to her desk again, dipping her head down as she wro
te.

  “I’m sorry.” She squeezed her eyes shut, hating the wave of over-sentimental emotions that were buffering her system. She’d never been like this before. She bent her head forward and continued to write, not seeing the way Aysha watched with obvious sympathy. What else could Chloe say? She was sorry. Sorry, angry, upset. With a noise of frustration she tore up the piece of paper.

  She wasn’t a coward.

  And it wasn’t her fault.

  Pull yourself together, Chloe! She’d tell him herself, and then she’d go far away to lick her wounds.

  “Never mind, Aysha. I’ll speak to my husband when he arrives.”

  Her servant nodded and left the room, so Chloe was alone once more. She paced to the windows, and stared out at the desert. A warm breeze came in across the space, fragranced with the heavy spices that were available to buy from the markets in the nearby town. It lifted her hair and distractedly she looped it over one shoulder, her mind running over the fact she hadn’t fallen pregnant.

  What if something was wrong?

  What if this wasn’t going to happen?

  It was too early to worry. She knew this to be the case. Every pregnancy magazine would confirm that. But this wasn’t a normal situation! They needed this heir, and they had a ticking time bomb with Malik being so ill. The transition to Raffa being sole ruler of Ras el Kida would run so much more smoothly if he had a child – even the promise of one – to offer his people. To show that the future was every bit as bright as the past had been.

  Unless… she closed her eyes and saw another royal heir. Amit.

  What if she could convince her husband to recognize him as his heir?

  He was Raffa’s son, and he was intelligent, kind, instantly physically recognizable as a descendant of the throne.

  It was like a weight being lifted off Chloe’s shoulders. She wanted a child, she wanted to carry the royal heir, but if she couldn’t, if her body wouldn’t comply, there were other options. She could help Raffa see that; she could make her understand that Amit would be an excellent Sheikh one day.

  The door to her suite opened and Raffa entered. She turned to face him, slowly, and her heart, her foolish heart, lurched to see him dressed in formal robes. Gold and black, they emphasized the caramel glow of his skin and the darkly handsome planes of his face.

  He crossed to her, his eyes scanning her face. “You are unwell?”

  “No,” she shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m…”

  “Yes?” He waited, but Chloe found she couldn’t answer him. She didn’t know what to say after all. Absurd! She was furious with herself for being so sensitive.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She turned away from him, looking towards the window. “Did you need something?”

  He was quiet for so long that she shifted her gaze back to his face. “Raffa?”

  “I have to go away for a few days. There’s a problem in the south and the local governments seem incapable of coming to an agreement.”

  Relief warred with misery at this. Hadn’t she just been thinking she would go away? The timing couldn’t be better – with Raffa leaving, there was no need for her to run to the city.

  “Last night was unforgivable,” he surprised her by saying, and when she looked at him, she saw anguish in his features. “I took my anger out on you. I had no business treating you as I did.”

  Chloe’s jaw dropped. His apology was something she’d never expected, partly because he wasn’t a man to apologise, but largely because no apology was necessary.

  She’d been furious with how he’d made her desperate for him, how he’d needed her to tell him of his body’s command over hers, and yet the pleasure she’d felt had quickly blotted out her anger, making her feel only pleased that they shared this connection.

  “It’s fine,” she said softly.

  His smile was dismissive. “It won’t happen again.” He lifted his hand, as though to touch her cheek, and then stepped back, his face assuming a mask of distance. “I’ll be back in a week or so.”

  11

  MONTHS PASSED. RED-HOT sex by night, nothing during the day, and every four weeks, more reason for Chloe to worry. More reason for her to fear. More reason for her to be certain that something was wrong with her body or his. And it was easier to suspect her own body to be at fault, because Raffa was everything a man should be. Virile, strong, so masculine. Surely the fault could not be his.

  Besides, he’d already borne a son, so there was incontrovertible proof that his body was able to give to a woman’s womb the recipe for life.

  On the sixth month of trying and failing to conceive, Chloe knew she needed to find answers. To at least look into the possibility that things might not be going to work for them.

  It felt like the only thing she could do.

  “Aysha,” she murmured. “There’s a children’s hospital in Switzerland I’d like to inspect – for the charity. Their fundraising model is unique, and they have one of the best children’s pediatric wards in the world. Would you contact the hospital director and arrange it?”

  “Of course, your highness. Which hospital?”

  Chloe handed the computer print-out to her servant, pleased that not by a single tremble did she betray the importance of what she was doing – nor reveal that she wasn’t being completely honest.

  “When would you like to visit the facility, your highness?”

  “As soon as it can be arranged.”

  Less than a week later, Chloe’s private jet flew over Bern, the beautiful winding river glistening like a snake sunning itself beneath her. The old buildings stood like an Alpine postcard, and Chloe leaned closer to the window, her breath held, as the plane flew lower and lower, the plane touching down early enough in the morning that the air was still crisp, the sun still fresh.

  Instead of the stately limousines that were used in Ras el Kida, a fleet of three armoured Range Rovers was waiting on the runway. She stepped into the middle car, accompanied only by Aysha.

  “How far are we from the hospital?” Chloe murmured, as though her pulse wasn’t racing, as though the answer was neither here nor there.

  “Only twenty minutes.”

  “Excellent.” She pressed her head back against the leather seat and closed her eyes. Aysha wouldn’t have started a conversation in any event, but Chloe wanted to make it clear that she’d prefer not to speak. Her mind was too distracted. She was miles away.

  The outskirts of Bern passed her by, all beautiful low buildings with lemon yellow walls and terracotta red rooves, windows that forced their way out like little children reaching for bubbles. She barely saw, though. Buildings gave way to trees, in city-parks, and finally, the car drew to a stop at a grand, old building near the river.

  The door to the limousine opened and Chloe stepped from the car, her eyes taking in the façade of the hospital, her stomach shifting with the rolling kaleidoscope of butterflies that had taken up residence within.

  Several men and two women stood at the top of the steps, and as Chloe’s eyes moved towards the group, one gentleman stood further forward. He wore a suit, and had dark, gleaming hair with a grey streak brushing back from his brow.

  “Your Highness,” he bowed low and then took two steps closer.

  “Doctor Schultz,” she smiled. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  “Of course, we are honoured by your interest in our facility.”

  “Your facility has achieved a lot in a short space of time.”

  His smile was wry. “It does not feel like a short space of time to me.” He gestured towards the hospital. “I have been the director for over ten years and only recently have we found strategies that have proved successful in raising our profile and therefore fundraising initiatives.”

  “I’d love to hear more about that.”

  He nodded, moving back towards the hospital.

  “May I introduce you to our heads of department?”

  “Of course.” She waited, feigning polite interest whe
n impatience was making her mind sag. She made polite conversation with each member of the team, listening and committing details to memory so she could engage with the staff throughout the tour.

  It took almost two hours to see the facility, and Doctor Schultz was generous with his information as they went. Between Chloe’s staff and the heads of department, Chloe felt as though they had an entourage of one hundred, when it was really only perhaps twenty or thirty people walking in their wake.

  And with such attention and company, it took Chloe the full two hours before she could lean close enough to Doctor Schultz on the guise of examining a wall-chart, and murmur, “Is it possible to speak privately with you, sir?”

  His eyes jerked to hers, showing surprise, but his nod was almost instant.

  “And now,” he said, turning to address the assembled group. “I would like to show Her Highness some information in my office. As you all know, there is no space in there for more than two.”

  The hospital staff tittered with laughter, and Doctor Schultz joined in. Chloe liked him. Some of her anxiety ebbed away as she realised she had the good fortune of having happily fixed upon someone who was kind and nice to be her light in the dark.

  The various heads of the hospital departments said their farewells, moving back to their duties, leaving only Chloe’s staff.

  “My office is in this direction,” Doctor Schultz said, nodding down the corridor.

  They began to move towards it, and Chloe worried over how she would manage to get rid of her own staff, but Doctor Schultz answered that question.

  “I was not exaggerating about the size, or lack thereof, to my office,” he said with a grimace. “And I would like to discuss some confidential donor strategies with Her Highness. If she has no objection, I wonder if you’d excuse us?”

  “I have no objection,” Chloe was quick to interject. “I’m grateful you’re willing to be so generous with your time.” She met Aysha’s eyes, her expression regal and firm. “Thank you.”