The Queen's Baby Scandal

by Maisey Yates

  He was done with words. He was done with verbal sparring.

  He tightened his hold on her and she gasped, her head falling back, her eyes wide as she looked up at him. And he smiled. Because this reminded him of that night in the club. This reminded him why even if he could go back and undo what had happened between them knowing what he did now, he probably wouldn’t.

  He lowered his head, claiming her mouth with his. He parted her lips ruthlessly, sweeping his tongue in deep so that he could taste her. Taste this one thing between them that was utterly, completely honest.

  They had an audience still. A captive one. They were out on the dance floor, and he was kissing her as if she were air and he was a man deprived of it. She clung to him, shaking, and that was when he knew he was going to get exactly what he wanted. Her, trembling beneath him. Begging for him.

  He pulled away from her. “We should make our way to our room, don’t you think?”

  “Is that what this was about?” she said in a hushed whisper.

  “No. You will find out exactly what this is about. When we go to your room.” He thought for a moment that she might protest. But instead, she lowered her eyes, and then when she met his gaze again, they were blazing. “Then let’s go to bed.”

  * * *

  Her heart was racing, threatening to thunder out of her chest.

  Yet, she had gone with him.

  She had allowed him to lead her from the room. She was... She didn’t know what was happening. He flew in the face of everything they had agreed, everything she had decided was appropriate. But he had kissed her, and then she didn’t care. And then the idea of being married to him and not sharing his bed had seemed like an impossibility.

  Because from the moment she had seen his picture for the first time in the papers, the idea of not being in his bed had been torture. She had been contending with that part of herself for the past few months.

  Badly.

  Because what did it say about her? That she was merely another groupie of his? One who had dressed up her motivations for being with him into something a bit more noble, when her reasoning was as base as anyone else’s.

  Right now, she felt base. Utterly and completely. Was reduced to a grasping creature made entirely of need and desire. That was all she was, it was all she could remember being. This woman who needed his touch more than she needed anything else.

  That kiss the night they’d gotten engaged had been kerosene. And the kiss tonight had been a lit match against it. She was not strong. Not with him. Not with this.

  She had stood tall and steady, with a will of iron since she had started to rule the country two years earlier. Before that she had been a model citizen. Studying, completing vast amounts of charity work. She had been strong. She had been for so very long.

  She wanted something else now. She wanted to be held in someone else’s strong arms. To let him hold on to her, and in so doing, take some of the weight of the crown, of her duty, off her. Even if it was just for a night.

  How twisted was it that even her one and only time being with a man was rooted in a lie she told herself about it being all for her country?

  When what it was had been... She had done it for her country. For herself. The baby part. But there had been other ways. But she had been willing to use him first. Before she resorted to science. Because at the end of the day she had wanted him. And it was all fine and good to try to make excuses, to try to tell herself she’d been selecting the finest specimen genetically.

  She had told herself a lot of pretty lies.

  What she had been was a girl with a crush. Latika had been right about that.

  A girl who had a crush and no understanding of how to handle it.

  She had spent a life dealing with people who catered to her too much, counterbalanced by constantly feeling opposed and undermined. Great authority, but with a very short leash. It made it difficult for her to figure out how to actually know people. How to relate to them.

  The fact of the matter was she didn’t know. And she never had. Her brother was her friend, but he was also a royal.

  Latika was someone she also considered a friend, but Latika worked for her, and that created a strange sort of dynamic. She was isolated. And a bit spoiled. And she had behaved that way with him. Like a child entitled to something, one who had seen a shiny toy that she wanted, and had come up with all sorts of reasons why she deserved it.

  But he wanted her now. And she wanted him. Even as remorse for her behavior flooded her, she still wanted him. Their rooms were next to each other. As was custom. He had not spent the night in the palace yet, and she wondered if he ever really would. But for appearances, they had readied the standard royal bedchambers. She wondered which room this would happen in. And what would happen after.

  What would happen during.

  The very thought made her shiver.

  He dragged her down the empty corridor, and then suddenly pushed her up against the wall. His dark eyes blazed into hers, fearsome and filled with the dark emotion she couldn’t name. It was like rage but hotter, desire but with a knife’s edge.

  He had not looked at her like this the night of the club. This was something more. Something deeper. Something that carried the layers that their relationship contained. A relationship she had forced him into.

  Because he was here out of a sense of duty, she understood that all of a sudden. Not because he wanted to be her husband. Not because he was drawn to the idea of being married to a queen.

  Not because he hungered for power or lusted for money.

  Because of his own integrity.

  She had convinced herself that she was acting with some kind of integrity when she had fooled him. But it had been self-serving.

  Guilt lashed her like a whip. And for the first time she wondered if she was much more her father than she had ever previously imagined.

  She had always thought of herself like her mother. And Latika had said, just tonight, that her mother would have approved of what she done.

  But her mother had never harmed anyone. Would have never lied.

  Her mother had told the truth when Gunnar and Astrid had been born. At great cost to herself in terms of her marriage.

  Her mother believed in honesty, if not in showing love. It was her father who would have stooped to subterfuge to do what he had imagined he might have to do to save the kingdom.

  Her actions were the same.

  Right because she had found a loophole, because she imagined her own sense of justice to be the one true version of it.

  And this was her penance. This man. This large, muscular angry man who was paying it right along with her.

  She didn’t know what he might do next. But he didn’t make her wait long to find out.

  He cupped her cheek, his touch gentle, and almost all the more terrifying for it. All that leashed strength. She could feel it. The force of his rage, and the way that he held it in check so that he could softly move his thumb over her cheekbone.

  He lowered his hand then, gripping her hips tightly and surging forward, letting her feel the evidence of his desire. And then he lowered his head, kissing her, harder, deeper than he had back in the ballroom.

  She was drowning in it. Drowning in him.

  There was no more time for thought or self-flagellation. If this was her punishment she would submit to it. Because it was also her salvation.

  Her moment.

  Because he was strong. And he could hold her.

  Because he was angry, and he could feel it in a thousand ways she had never really allowed herself to feel it.

  Because he wanted her. It opened the door to allow her to feel her own want.

  “Your room or mine?” he asked, his teeth scraping along the side of her neck. “Where shall I take you, out here in the hallway?”

  The idea made he
r shiver with need, but she couldn’t allow something like that. No.

  “The bedroom,” she said softly.

  “As you wish.”

  He hauled her to him, lifting her off the ground and carrying her a few steps toward the bedroom, opening the door and propelling them both inside before he slammed it behind them. The room was familiar to her. She had inhabited it for the past couple of years. And yet, somehow with this man inside it, it felt completely different. He should look civilized in that custom-made tuxedo of his, the dark, elegant lines conforming gracefully to his body. But he didn’t.

  Instead, it seemed to provide a greater contrast to that strength, to his feral nature.

  He tugged at his bow tie, letting it drape over his shoulders, and then he advanced on her, his movements quick and decisive as he grabbed hold of the zipper on the back of her dress and dragged it down, letting it fall to the floor, that custom creation that was worth thousands of dollars. He stepped over it as if it didn’t matter and picked her up, carrying her to the large, ornate bed and placing her at the center of it, where she was surrounded by lush, velvet pillows, the cool, soft texture such a contrast to that hot, hard man above her.

  “I would say that the night you approached me in Italy was your show. Tonight it is mine, cara mia. And I will enjoy every moment of it.”

  He grabbed hold of his bow tie, tugging it from his shoulders, and then he took hold of her wrists, encircling them easily with one hand and drawing them up over her head. He smiled, then in one fluid motion took the strip of black fabric and tied it securely around her wrists, leaving her bound.

  Desire and fear raced through her in equal measure, electricity shooting down between her thighs, the sensation of being hollow almost unbearable.

  “Just making sure you stay where I want you.”

  “Mauro...”

  “How badly do you want this?” he asked, tracing the edge of her lace bra cup with his fingertip. “How badly?”

  “I need you,” she whimpered.

  “Well, let’s see how long you can withstand this.” He let his fingertips drip beneath the edge of the fabric, one calloused pad skimming her nipple, and she cried out.

  “So sensitive,” he said, chuckling darkly as he pressed a kiss to that vulnerable place between her rib cage, down to her belly button, down farther. He pressed his mouth over her lace-covered mound, his breath hot against her skin as he scraped his teeth over the delicate fabric. She shivered, arching into him.

  “That’s the thing about going into a lion’s den, cara,” he said. “Sooner or later he’s going to eat you.”

  He hooked his finger through the fabric on her panties and tugged it to the side, revealing her to his gaze. And then he moved in, laughing at her with bold, intense strokes. He curved his arms around her thighs, locking his fingers together and dragging her toward his face, holding her firmly against him as he continued to lavish attention on her with his lips, his tongue, his teeth.

  He drove her to insane heights, and then brought her back from the edge. Over and over again until she was sobbing, crying with her need for release.

  He traced circles around that sensitized bundle of nerves with his tongue, before lapping her in one slow lick, her climax pouring over her, leaving her spent and shaking and breathless.

  But he wasn’t finished. He began to toy with her, using his fingers, stroking her and teasing her until she found her release again. And again, this time with his mouth at her breast and his fingers buried deep inside her.

  He brought her up to her knees, turned her away from him, where he lowered his head and laughed at her from a different angle, until she was trembling, begging for him to stop.

  “Please,” she said. “Finish.”

  “We are finished,” he said, his voice rough. “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “You didn’t... We didn’t...”

  “I said that was enough. It was a very long day.”

  He moved away from her, and she rolled onto her back, her hands still bound. He took hold of one end of the knot, freeing her in one easy tug that seemed to make a mockery of the way she had felt at his mercy.

  Had she wanted to escape, she could have. The whole time.

  The captivity had been only an illusion, and she had been so willing to sink into it because of what she wanted from him.

  Because she had wanted him to hold her captive, to force her to feel those things, so that none of it was her responsibility.

  He had proved that he could. But now... Now he was leaving.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She was about to ask if he wanted her, if he had ever wanted her, but she could see the thick, hard outline of his erection pressed against the front of his black pants.

  She could see that he wanted her, and he was still walking away.

  “Good night,” she said, the words thin and shaking.

  “Good night.”

  And he didn’t even have to get dressed to leave, because he was still fully clothed, and she was... Destroyed. Her bra was wrenched up over her breasts, but still clasped, her underwear shifted and torn in places.

  She was humiliated. She had a feeling that he had intended to leave her humiliated.

  She couldn’t even feel angry, because she kept remembering the things that had occurred to her out in the hall. What she had done to him.

  The humiliation he must’ve felt when she was on TV saying their child had no father.

  Tonight he had demanded submission from her. He had exerted his control.

  And now he was finished.

  But she was not.

  It took only a moment for Astrid to come to a decision.

  She couldn’t exist in this. In this world where he took his anger out on her body in such a way. She would give him an apology.

  And she would make it one he would never forget.

  Apologizing was another thing that Astrid had never done. But she was sure that she would do it well.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MAURO STRIPPED HIMSELF NAKED. He needed a cold shower. Something. Anything to deal with the desire that was still riding through his body. He had intended to make her feel out of control. To give her a taste of what she had done to him that night at the club.

  When she had pushed him past the point of thinking clearly. Past the point of being sensible at all. And he had. He had, but in the end, she had somehow still done something to him. Overridden anything sensible. Destroyed every barrier that he had placed between the two of them.

  The fact that he had been able to walk away had been a damned miracle. And now...

  He was shaking. He was. He had wanted to make her tremble, had wanted to make her boneless, mindless, and he had done it. But at what cost?

  What cost to himself?

  He did not know the man he was when he touched her.

  He went up in flames.

  The connecting door between their bedrooms suddenly opened, and he turned.

  It was his wife.

  And he was completely naked, so there was no hiding the fact that he was aroused, that his cock was hard, and ready for her. That he was in no way in control of his needs or desires.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She was still naked, her entire body bare and exposed to him, her pale curves temptation he was not sure he could fight. Was not certain he could overcome.

  “I came because I owe you an apology.”

  She began to walk toward him, her hips swaying gently, her lush curves and wild, glorious hair, tumbled around her shoulders, making him think of an ancient goddess.

  “You owe me an apology?” he asked, the words sounding stilted.

  “Yes. I owe you a great many things. And one evening will not be sufficient in making amends. But I would like to try.”

 
“What are you doing?”

  She moved nearer to him, pressing her palm against his chest, her touch soft, bewitching. “If you have to ask, then I’m not doing a very good job.”

  She walked a circle around him, slowly, appraising his body, her fingertips grazing lightly over his skin as she did. She stopped in front of him, those green eyes intent on his, blazing.

  “I am a queen,” she said. “I have been, my entire life, even before I bore the title. That’s how it works. When you are the heir, you must behave as if you are from the beginning. There is no other option. There will be no quarter given. And I have... I have lived my life that way. Above reproach in many ways, as we discussed. But also without nuance. Without subtlety. There is no humility in me. I didn’t learn it. I like to think there’s compassion. Caring. And that mostly in my life I have acted in a way that would not do harm to others. But I have always been set apart, and I have always lived that way. My connections with those around me... I’m incapable of separating them from my status. I am not like you.”

  “Indeed,” he said, grabbing hold of her wrist and holding her fast. “Because I’m not blue-blooded like you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

  Rage fired through him, but it wasn’t because of that. It was because of all of the feelings inside him. The deep, roaring desire that he had to take her now, in spite of the fact that he had told himself he would not.

  “You’ve lived more than one life,” she continued. “And because of that I think you understand more. I think you see more. I have my struggles. Things that I have had to overcome. But they are in this world. My battlefield has been an ivory tower. I see my country from an elevated stance. My people. It is a necessity in many ways so that I can have an overview. So that I can know as much, and have time to look at it all. I fear sometimes that leads me to see people in general as statistics. Or chess pieces. I saw you as a chess piece. And I used you and for that I owe you an apology.” She looked up at him again, and desire made his gut tighten.