His eyes watch me, hanging low, taking in every bit of me as if he’s mesmerized.
When Asher reaches between us and presses his thumb over my bud, I gasp. When he rocks against me at just the right angle, I cry out, the noise muffled by his body. He cages me against the countertop and drives his cock inside me again, slow and deep and—
My orgasm rips through my body like wildfire. Everywhere he’s touched in the past hour lights up, as if my cells have memory encoded specifically with him. My breasts tighten, my core clenches. I cling onto him, wrapping my arms and legs around him as my teeth sink into his shoulder. He urges me on with low grunts, kissing wherever his lips land.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Come on my cock just like you came on my tongue a minute ago. Give it to me.”
No one has said those things to me. Not even my late husband. No one has said dirty, delicious things in my ear as I come, urging me to let go and let my pleasure take me higher and higher.
Asher’s fingers don’t stop moving over my clit and before I know it, another wave of pleasure is crashing into me. I’m trembling. Panting. Saying his name over and over like a mantra. A prayer.
With a grunt, Asher finds release. Our orgasms twist and wind around each other as I hold on for dear life, my nails sinking into his skin as he fills me up with his seed.
I…I love it. I love feeling him inside me like this, throbbing and panting as pleasure relaxes every line in his face. I love feeling connected to him on a primal level. I love knowing his orgasm is inside me, as if it belongs to me now. Mine.
When we pull apart, Asher’s eyes are clear. I kiss his cheek, his jaw, his chest. It’s only when I pull away and see his face that I notice the way his eyes shine. His hand drifts over the spot where I kissed his chest, where the burn scar covers his heart.
Asher leans over and kisses my lips. He’s trembling. It’s a soft kiss, but it contains a thousand unsaid words, hidden emotions, and layers of pain.
I know what his kiss means, because I feel exactly the same thing.
I’ve found someone who knows me—the real me. The only problem is we can never have each other.
14
Asher
My fingers drift over Penelope’s skin as I nuzzle my lips into her neck. She tastes sweet, and I know we’ve just shared something special.
Her eyes drift over my neck, following the jagged edge of my scar all the way down to my hip. She runs her fingers over the skin as I try my best not to wince.
No one’s touched me like this before—almost reverently. Flicking her eyes up to meet my gaze, Penelope smiles. “You look like some kind of gladiator,” she whispers. Her hands sweep around my back, and there’s no disgust in her face. No hesitation at touching the scarred skin.
It covers a third of my body, and Penelope…likes it?
I try not to frown as she lets her hands drift over me, struggling to understand how she could see me as anything more than damaged. Because isn’t that what I am? Broken? Marred?
“Do you remember the fire?” Pen asks, smoothing her palm over my shoulder and sliding it up to my neck. Her thumb teases my jaw, and I lean down to nip the tip of her finger, grinning when she yelps.
I nod. “I do.”
Biting her lip, Penelope glances at me through long lashes. “What was it like?”
“Terrifying.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, but there’s no pity in her voice.
I lean over to hand her the discarded shorts and top, then help her slip on her robe. Pulling my own pants up over my hips, I shrug. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, but I had just left the day before. If I’d stayed…”
“I wouldn’t have been moping in my room missing you when the fire started?” I grin, teasing. Penelope’s face falls, as if I’ve just spoken her deepest fears. “Hey,” I say, sliding my hands over her hips. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Did it hurt?” Her brows draw together, and for the first time, I feel like someone really wants to hear about that day.
People have asked me about it, of course, but there’s always been some sort of sick curiosity underlying their words. Behind their well-meaning stares full of pity and sadness, there’s always a hint of pleasure at my misfortune, like they’re watching a gruesome true crime documentary play out on my face. Those conversations always leave a bitter coating in my mouth.
With Penelope, there’s none of that. She asks me about the fire as if she wants to know—not because she wants to feel better about herself or because she wants to pity me, but because she truly wants to understand what it was like that day at boarding school.
Roughing my hand through my hair, I take a deep breath. “Yeah, it hurt,” I finally answer, my thoughts faraway. It’s like remembering an old movie, as if my brain has shielded me from the true horror of that day. “I was stuck on the top floor, and I ended up crawling down the stairs to the entrance. The fire was blocking my path.”
Penelope’s hands reach for my chest, drawing soft circles over my skin. I slide my hands around her waist, loving the closeness of her body. I haven’t talked about this in a long time. I don’t like remembering the years of doctors’ appointments and skin grafts and operations.
It’s a visible scar no one wants to acknowledge—least of all me.
I gulp. “I had to run through it. My shirt caught fire, but they said I was lucky I didn’t inhale more smoke. They said by crawling to the exit and running out, I saved my own life.”
Penelope’s shoulders drop as her hands slide up to the nape of my neck. She wraps herself around me, leaning her cheek against my chest. Her skin rests right above my heart, where the edge of my scar begins. “I’m so sorry, Asher.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I feel like I have no right to be upset about anything. My life has been easy.”
“Just because you don’t show your scars doesn’t mean they aren’t there.” My voice is soft, and I let my hand drift through Penelope’s hair. I tuck a strand of gold behind her ear, kissing the top of her head. Here, like this, alone in a house on the edge of the world, it almost feels like nothing else exists.
I’m not my father’s son. I’m not here to start a new mining project. She’s not the Queen. We’re just two people who understand each other. Need each other.
“I’ve never really talked about the fire,” I admit. “Whenever people ask me about it, it always feels like they’re doing it to satisfy their own perverted urges.”
“That’s how I feel about Xavier’s death,” Penelope says, her voice soft. “Sometimes I get the impression they used my grief as a symbol of virtue for me. Like if I ever wanted to move forward, I wasn’t allowed to.”
“The people of Nord?”
“The media. My family. My advisors.” She lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “It’s not that bad. Cost of wearing the crown, I guess.”
“You’re allowed to struggle.”
Penelope glances up at me, smiling sadly. “No, I’m not.”
“That’s how I feel sometimes, too. Unless I’m achieving more than everyone else at the company, I’m just the boy who was in the fire. I have to perform better than my brother, bring in more business, be more ruthless—all in the hope that people see me as something other than the sum of my scars.”
“You’re a lot more than that, Asher.”
“Am I, though?” I think of the way my father’s eyes drop to my neck whenever I walk in the room. How he averts his eyes whenever a sliver of skin is showing. How even after everything I’ve done for him, he still plans on giving the company to my incompetent, pretty-boy brother.
“You’ll be providing jobs for a lot of people who need them.”
“And they’ll be providing my father with healthy profits.” Bitterness soaks through my voice, and I wonder why I’m doing any of this. For my father? For the money?
It all seems so…meaningless.
Penelope sighs, pulling away from me. She puts her hands on either side of my face, pulling me down for a soft kiss. “You walked through fire and lived, Asher. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. In the few times I’ve seen Penelope, it’s like she understands my deepest fears. My greatest shame. And, amazingly, she doesn’t judge me for it.
Penelope smiles sadly, shaking her head. “I feel a lot of shame for never having given Xavier an heir. He died knowing I couldn’t give him the one thing he really wanted.”
“A child? Were you trying?”
Penelope lets out a snort. “Trying? We were desperate for it. I was desperate for it. We tried for many years. I…I’m infertile.” When her eyes meet mine, I see nothing but sadness in them. There are no tears, but it’s something deeper. An old wound that refuses to heal. Scar tissue so thick, it’s impossible to ignore. Penelope pinches her lips. “I have polycystic ovary syndrome,” she explains. “The doctors kept telling me there was nothing wrong with me because I was a healthy weight and things seemed normal. They couldn’t find anything wrong with me. But there were little things, you know. My cycle was messed up, and we found out later I wasn’t ovulating. I knew something was off. I let doctors push me around and tell me I was fine. I guess, I just…I never advocated for myself. Maybe if I’d known sooner, I could have done something. I don’t know what, because we tried every single fertility treatment we could find, but…”
My heart squeezes. I hold Penelope, my fingers sliding over the silky fabric of her robe. She doesn’t meet my eye. Tightness in my throat makes it hard to swallow, but I manage to take a full breath. “That’s not your fault, Pen.”
“And the fire wasn’t yours, but we still have to deal with the consequences, don’t we?” Her voice has sharp, jagged edges. She shakes her head, dropping her eyes. “Sorry.”
“Never apologize for speaking your mind.”
“It’s not something I’m supposed to do.” She grins. “I’m the Queen. I don’t have a mind of my own.”
“You have a mind, and it’s beautiful.” My voice is gruff as I sweep my finger over her cheek. Penelope closes her eyes, tilting her head toward me. She melts into me as if my touch is made of magic, as if there’s some connection between us that can’t be ignored.
I feel it, too.
“I wish you were here under different circumstances,” she whispers.
“What do you mean?”
“Not business related,” Penelope says, her eyes still closed. “So we could…spend time together.”
So there was no conflict of interest. So you didn’t feel like I’m using you to make a profit.
I hear her unsaid thoughts, and I want to respond. I want to tell her that I wish the same. I wish I’d had the courage to walk away from my father’s company so I could stand next to her. I wish I’d come to Nord without pretense, without needing a shroud of business to give me an excuse. I wish I hadn’t lied about Donovan. Lied by omission—but a lie is a lie, and this one hangs heavy on my mind.
I wish I’d had the courage to come to Nord simply because I wanted to see Penelope again—because after all, isn’t that the truth?
15
Penelope
Asher and I share a late night meal in the kitchen. It’s intimate and quiet and…nice. He makes me laugh when he teases me about my time at boarding school and makes my heart warm when I catch him glancing at me across the kitchen island.
I feel nothing like a monarch and I forget the responsibilities I’ll have tomorrow. For a few hours, I just…exist.
Then, with one last soft kiss, I head upstairs and disappear into my room. Lying in bed by myself isn’t where I want to be, but I know it’s what has to happen. After all, what happened in the kitchen felt special, but I have to remember who I am and why I’m here.
If word got out that I was sleeping with, well, anyone, it would cause a splash. But if word got out that I was sleeping with the man who had just been awarded the right to mine Nordish land? That would be more than controversy. It would taint not only my reputation as Queen, but put a stain on Asher’s reputation, too.
The best thing for me to do is stay away from Asher until the discontent in Nord subsides and the mining operation is well underway…but it doesn’t make it any easier to stay on my own. Asher’s the first person to make me feel almost whole.
I turn onto my side, hugging a pillow to my chest, enjoying the soft warmth that permeates my stomach. Closing my eyes, I do my best to push the thoughts of Asher out of my mind.
My team ushers me away from Asher’s house in the early hours. We say a rushed, polite goodbye, with nothing but a flash in Asher’s eyes to remind me of what we did last night. Then I’m whisked off to the plane and back to Stirling.
Once I’m home I feel somehow colder. I walk to my office and bury myself in work, asking not to be disturbed.
I don’t hear from Asher that day. Or the next.
Protesters still picket outside the castle gates, but their numbers seem to lessen. Then, on the third day after the official announcement of the mine, I turn on the television in my office to see Asher doing an exclusive interview with one of my greatest critics.
Jacinthe Crawley, the woman who wrote the front-page article on Asher, is on the screen. She’s a staunch abolitionist, wanting to strip me of my titles and make Nord a republic. With deep, black hair and angular features, she makes a striking image on the television.
Across from her, Asher sits. My eyebrows arch when I see the top button of his shirt undone, revealing more of his burn scar than he usually does. He gives Jacinthe a smile, and bitter jealousy twists somewhere deep in my stomach.
Irrational, sure. But it’s there.
Gulping, I turn up the volume.
“…The new mines will provide jobs for over two thousand people during construction, and seven hundred and fifty permanent jobs during the operating phase.” Asher’s hands are folded on his lap as he reclines against the back of the chair, looking powerful and completely at ease. “If phases two and three of the project are approved, those numbers could triple.”
Jacinthe shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. She leans forward, a dangerous look dancing in her eyes. “Mr. Gerhard, is it true the Queen initially rejected your proposal to open the diamond mine? She stood in the way of Nordish progress until you were able to convince her otherwise, happy to let thousands of people remain without employment while Nord threatens to enter a recession?”
I grind my teeth together. That’s a total lie. I’m the one who told Asher about the diamond fields and encouraged him to submit a proposal. Me. Crawley has always been able to twist the truth for her own agenda—but then, I suppose, she is a reporter. She has headlines to sell and an agenda to push—one that includes the end of the monarchy in Nord.
Asher chuckles, the sound low and warm, with just a hint of menace. I clench my thighs together, leaning toward the screen. “The Crown has been nothing but supportive of our efforts near Roston. The Queen herself even made the trip and managed to get us to commit to thirty percent more jobs guaranteed to Nordish citizens. She was in full support of the joint venture with NRG, ensuring that Nordish interests were front and center in the project. She very clearly stated she didn’t want us to bring in workers from elsewhere when there were hundreds of qualified tradespeople and professionals in Nord. Her Majesty wasn’t standing in the way of Nordish progress. Quite the opposite—she advocated for her people every step of the way.”
Warmth curls in my heart as my cheeks grow pink. Asher didn’t have to say that. Yes, it’s true I asked him to guarantee jobs for my people. But to admit it on television? That makes me look good at his own expense. He could have played it off as a quality of his own company. Instead, he chose to shine a favorable light on me.
My breath catches as the camera stills on Asher, his upper body in the frame. The pinkish, pale skin on his neck is on full
display, and he makes no move to cover it up. Pride swells inside me, and I wonder if our evening together had an effect on him. Did he feel the shift between us, as I did? Did it hurt him to see me leave? Has he been thinking of me as much as I have him?
Shaking my head, I lean back in the chair and listen to the rest of the interview. I wouldn’t have that kind of effect on him. What we shared in the kitchen—and at Prince Gabriel’s wedding, if I’m honest—was special, but that doesn’t mean it changed the fabric of who Asher is.
If he’s showing off the scar, it’s either because he’s always felt comfortable doing so, or he thinks it’ll be beneficial to the reception he gets in Nord. Nothing more. He’s a businessman and an incredibly clever one at that. His interview today has nothing to do with me.
Still, when I flick the television off, I clutch the remote to my breast and let out a long sigh. Something is changing inside me. I no longer feel like the world is muffled under a layer of frost. My emotions aren’t cold and distant.
Heat is melting the ice inside me. Fire is making me feel alive. Asher’s presence is bringing me back to life, and I don’t know what to do about it.
If I pursue these feelings, I open myself up to criticism, ridicule, and rejection. I could be accused of signing off on the mining rights at Roston because he’s my lover, and not because it’s good for Nord.
But if I turn my back on Asher, can I really face a lifetime of cold distance? Can I keep my feelings at arm’s length and pretend that nothing has been awoken inside me? Can I say goodbye to Asher and resign myself to a life of loneliness?
As I sit in my office, with the same four walls that have surrounded me since I became the Queen at ten years old, conflict rages within me.
On one side, duty. On the other, life.
Both have been one and the same until Asher walked into my life and showed me what I’ve been missing. My life was my duty until now.
Ice Queen: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance Page 12