by Ember Casey
I hear another throat clearing and my eyes fly open at the same time as Andrew’s.
His eyes widen and he pulls me toward him, shielding me against his body from the man standing in front of us.
I can’t even turn around to look—I know it’s the steward. My face feels like it’s on fire and my chest is so tight I can barely breathe. I pull my bra back up—at least it’s still around my arms and hasn’t been thrown to the floor. Yet.
I don’t even bother to hook it—I just pull it up and cover my breasts, turning myself off Andrew’s lap and back up against my seat, trying to get my arms back into my dress while my back is turned to the steward.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Highness, but the pilot has informed me that there is going to be some turbulence in a few minutes. He recommends…” He clears his throat again. “Buckling your seatbelts, Your Highness. Until the turbulence has subsided. He says he is trying to find a way around it, but it may last for some time. I apologize, Your Highness.”
“Yes… Yes, thank you.”
I still can’t bear to turn around—I’m pretty sure the steward got an eyeful of my bare breasts—and I’m sitting with my head against the back of the seat, my eyes closed as I’m almost head-butting the neck rest on the back of the chair.
I feel Andrew’s hand on my still bare back a second later. “I’m so sorry, Victoria. Let me help—”
“No. I can do it myself.” I turn away from him as best as I can and pull the dress back up and over my shoulders before I reach back to try to zip it.
“Here, allow me.” His hand is on my back again, and I stiffen, pulling away. I stand, my back still turned to him as I zip up the dress myself, not even bothering with trying to rehook my bra.
What the hell was I thinking?
“You… You should sit down, Victoria. Buckle your seatbelt.” He pauses. “I… That is to say that we may need to—”
He’s interrupted by a lurch of the plane and my heart speeds up as I grab the arm rest. I turn to him, my eyes wide with terror.
He motions back to my seat. “Sit. Please?” The last part sounds almost like a question and I can tell he’s just as terrified as I am.
I nod and drop back into the seat next to him, fumbling again for my seatbelt.
I’ve barely clicked it closed before the plane bounces a few times and lurches again. I close my eyes, leaning against the headrest and clutching at the sides of the chair, my fingernails digging into the leather once more.
Another lurch and I feel Andrew’s hand on top of mine.
“I’m sorry, Victoria. I’m so, so sorry.”
Andrew
My chest is tight. My stomach in knots. I’m beginning to think the brandy might have been a bad idea, because my gut is twisting so much I fear I won’t be able to keep it down.
I close my eyes, trying to steady myself, but that only makes it worse. In my mind, I see flashes of those last few moments on Atalanta—of her nose pointing down, of the ground rushing closer, of the suffocating panic in my chest as I realized I was about to be responsible for not one, but two deaths.
My eyes fly open again. My fingers are clamped around Victoria’s, and my grip is so tight I’m surprised she hasn’t said anything. I loosen my hold, but the moment I do she twists her hand around and slides her fingers through mine, squeezing tightly.
“Don’t let go of me,” she says, her voice strained.
“I won’t.” I squeeze her hand back.
The plane lurches again, throwing both of us to the side. Her shoulder slams into mine, and even when the plane steadies again, she stays leaning against me. I don’t mind—I find her nearness comforting, and I hope the contact does the same for her. A shiver moves down her arm.
Even with the plane shaking and jerking around us, even with my stomach twisting and turning and threatening, I can’t help but notice how soft her skin feels beneath my fingers. The scent of her fills my nose—a scent like honey and autumn, sweet and sharp at the same time. Only a few minutes ago she was in my arms, melting against me. The tension of those short, heated moments still lingers in my body, making my skin feel hot and tight. Added to the tension caused by the plane’s jerky movements, I feel like a coiled spring.
I don’t know how long we suffer through the turbulence. It might be seconds, or minutes, or hours. Time seems to stretch, to blur, to freeze around us as the plane dips and lurches.
And then, almost suddenly, the shaking stops.
Neither Victoria nor I say anything for a long moment, but we both seem to have realized that the worst has passed. She visibly relaxes at the same moment a long, shaky breath escapes my lips.
Her hand is still clasped in mine. Her shoulder still pressed against my shoulder.
The pilot’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker. “We seem to be clear of the turbulence, Your Highness. You should be free to move about the cabin again.”
Victoria leans away from me. She tries to pull her hand away, too, but I keep her fingers clasped tightly in mine. Part of me just wants to hold her hand until we reach Montovia. The other part of me wants to pull her back into my lap, to relieve this nervous tension in my body by finishing what we started before we were interrupted.
With my free hand, I reach across and undo her seatbelt. When she’s free, I pull her toward me. She hesitates for the briefest of moments. Then she leans into me, her body melting against mine again. I pull her partway into my lap and then put my arms around her, holding her against my chest. Her face is nestled against my shoulder.
From this position, I can breathe in the scent of her hair. Feel the heat of her breath on the skin of my neck. My arms tighten around her as my body responds. I need her. Now. I need someone, something, to take away the fear in my chest and to remind me of the pleasures of this world.
I press my lips gently to her hair. Once, then twice, then a third time. So softly I’m not certain she even notices at first. She’s still trembling slightly, still probably trying, as I am, to free her mind of the horrors of our memories.
I can help with that.
I flatten one hand and let it drift slowly up her back, all the way to the base of her neck. My mouth continues to brush gently across her dark, fragrant hair. The strands feel so soft against my lips, and I can tell the exact moment she notices my kisses because another shiver moves through her.
Her hand grips my shirt. “Andrew—”
“Shh,” I murmur against her hair. “We’re safe now.”
I grip the back of her neck and tilt her head back. My mouth presses against her brow, her temple, and her eyelids before finally dipping down to find her lips.
Her fingers tighten on my shirt, and her mouth falls open against mine. The kiss goes from soft to heated in less than a second, and hunger rushes through me as I slide my tongue into her mouth.
I need her. Need to feel her against me, need to feel something besides this wretched tightness in my gut. She seems to feel the same way, because she moans softly against me and presses nearer, deepening the kiss.
My hand falls from her neck down to her zipper. Before that wretched turbulence hit, I’d had her half naked on top of me, had her silken skin against me and her full, perfect breast in my hand. I want to see more of her. I want her fully naked against me. Want to feel her squirm beneath me.
I tug at the zipper. It’s halfway down her back before she suddenly freezes. Her mouth pulls away from mine.
“Andrew, wait,” she says. “We can’t do this here.” She throws a glance over her shoulder at the door to the front of the plane—where Christoph, the steward, stood when he interrupted us the first time.
“We won’t be interrupted again,” I murmur. “And even if we are, it matters little. All members of my family’s staff act with the utmost discretion.” I can hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth—they sound more like something Leopold would say. I’ve never put any members of the household staff in a position like this—I’ve always cared fi
rst and foremost about my reputation, and that includes my reputation among those in my family’s employ. I’m the dutiful one. The responsible one. The one who exercises restraint and conducts himself with a certain amount of decorum.
But I don’t care about any of that. I don’t know what it is about Victoria, but something about her makes me feel reckless. Makes me forget all the rules I’ve set for myself.
It’s just the fear, I tell myself. You nearly died only a few short days ago. That’s what is making you feel so wild, so out of control.
I pull Victoria close to me, kissing her again. For a moment, she kisses me back, and then she pulls away again. “Really, we can’t.” Her cheeks are bright red. “I’m pretty sure your steward guy saw my breasts.”
Her modesty is irresistibly charming.
“That’s all right,” I tell her, letting my fingers drift up her arm. “There are still plenty of things we can do without removing any clothes.”
I lean forward and press my lips to her neck. She sucks in a breath, and her hand grips my shoulder. I’m not sure whether she means to pull me closer or push me away, and she seems just as confused.
“Andrew…” She gives another gasp as I nip at her lightly with my teeth. “We really shouldn’t…”
“No, we shouldn’t,” I agree. “Which is, I suspect, why both of us want this so much.”
I drop my hand from her arm down to her leg. She’s still halfway across my lap, and the skirt of her dress has fallen slightly aside, revealing a fair bit of her thigh. My fingers brush against the exposed skin, and a little shudder moves through her.
“There are plenty of things we can do just like this,” I tell her again, letting my fingers drift higher up her leg. “And there will be nothing for Christoph or anyone else to see.”
My mouth moves up the side of her throat, toward her ear, while my fingers slide toward the inner curve of her thigh, slipping beneath her skirt. Honestly, I’d much prefer to have her naked against me, but if she’s feeling nervous I don’t want to press her. Just touching her is enough. Just tasting the honey-sweetness of her skin. Just feeling the heat of her up against me.
My lips close around her ear as my hand moves still higher up her leg. She bites back a moan.
There’s a heat between her legs that gets more intense as I move closer to my goal. She squirms in my lap, and I can’t decide whether she’s trying to wiggle away from me or silently urging me to hurry, to touch her in that most sensitive place.
“Victoria,” I murmur into her ear. I like the sound of her name on my lips. I’d like a lot more of her on my lips, too.
My fingers move that final distance up her thigh, finally coming in contact with the cotton of her underwear. It’s warm and wet beneath my touch, and when I press against it, I feel her quite clearly through the fabric. Slowly, I slide my fingers deeper between her legs, feeling the whole of her through the cotton.
Suddenly she jerks back, nearly falling over herself as she struggles to get out of my lap.
“Victori—”
“No. No, we can’t do this,” she says. She’s standing, backing away from me.
“If you like, I can speak with Christoph and tell him we require privacy—”
“This isn’t about Christoph. Or anyone else. This just can’t happen. Period.” She shakes her head and turns away from me, clearly rattled. “I shouldn’t have let you kiss me again.”
I stand. My body feels stiff, shaky, and for a moment I’m not entirely sure my legs will hold me upright—but they do, thank goodness.
“Victoria,” I say, stepping toward her. “We’re both shaken. Both in need of some comfort. And, quite clearly, we’re both attracted to each other—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “This is stupid. For both of us. We shouldn’t start something we can’t finish.”
Oh, I would make certain we both finished, the wicked, irresponsible part of my mind says—but I have a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate that lusty bit of humor.
I step closer to her and touch her arm. She jumps at the contact.
“Perhaps this is irresponsible,” I admit. “Perhaps it is foolish, and ill-advised, and highly inappropriate. But frankly, after the events of the last few days, I couldn’t care less. We might have died, Victoria. And I suspect the knowledge of that fact—that sickening fear—has taken up residence in your bones the way it has in mine. I have no intention of succumbing to that fear, but nor do I have any intention of ignoring it and pretending everything is as it was. Everything is not as it was. And I’ll be damned if I push away the small bit of pleasure the universe has offered me in the meantime.”
Her nose wrinkles in what looks like disgust. “Can you even hear yourself? Maybe our little near-death experience has left you with some ‘seize the day’ attitude, but not all of us can afford to think that way. If you want pleasure or comfort, then get it from someone else. You might have the freedom to be reckless, but I don’t.”
I frown. “Victoria—”
“We’ll start the search for your wife as soon as we get to Montovia,” she says. “I’m sure there are plenty of noblewomen who will be more than willing to comfort the crown prince.”
My body is still tight with need, but as much as I’d like to grab her to me and kiss her arguments away, I can tell by the look in her eyes I’m not going to change her mind about this, not now.
“If that’s what you want, then I won’t try to convince you otherwise,” I say, returning to my seat. “But I see no harm in seeking comfort in the arms of each other, especially after what we experienced together. In fact, should you change your mind and decide you need any comforting—”
“I won’t.”
“Well, if you do, you only need to say the word.” I capture her gaze in mine. “I have a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t something either of us will easily shake.”
“I can deal with it without your help,” she says, but beneath the determination in her eyes, I’m fairly certain I see fear. I don’t know why she’s being so stubborn about this, why she’s resisting this pull between us or denying the deep need for comfort I know she must feel, but I intend to discover the truth. Carefully, of course.
In the meantime, I think, shifting and trying to ignore the ache in my cock, this is going to be the world’s longest flight.
Victoria
I force a smile and walk over to take a seat on the other side of the plane. This area is less like a traditional airplane and more like a living room—there are four seats, two on each side facing the others with a small table in between.
He stands and follows me over to this side of the plane.
I look up at him with the same phony smile. “Would you like to discuss your potential brides? I assume you told your mother about this plan—did she have any suggestions?”
He frowns, his brow furrowing and he stares at me for a moment before he takes a seat across from me.
“I assume Princess Natasha will be on the list. I think people have wondered why the two of you haven’t already gotten together. She seems to have everything you want in a woman—she’s beautiful, she’s royal…” I try not to growl when I say the word, but I only barely cover my disdain.
“She’s an idiot.” His face is expressionless and he merely stares at me.
I wrinkle my nose. “She went to Harvard—”
“And received a meaningless degree in French literature.” He stares at me again. “And she can barely discuss that.”
“Well, you may have to lower your standards a bit, Your Highness. It isn’t like beautiful noblewomen are falling from the sky—” I stop, my mouth falling open as I realize what I’ve said.
But he doesn’t react at all—not even flinch or a wince. He just stares at me, almost like he’s waiting for me to say something else. Maybe to admit to my desires, the way he almost dared me to a few minutes ago.
“I think she should be on the list, even if you know for sure you aren’t going to c
hoose her.” I pause for a second. “Did you have someone in mind already? The woman who will win the contest?”
He narrows his gaze. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t bother doing this. I would merely propose and be done with it.”
“And that would lose all the drama and buildup of the courtship, which your adoring public will want to watch. The thing is, Andrew, they usually like to watch it build over the course of years. Months, at least. You might want to consider that, too, after you choose your winner. That maybe you’ll want a longer courtship, even if you do intend to marry—”
“Why wait if we intend to marry?” He lifts a brow. “What is the point of dragging a courtship out any longer than necessary? I will win the affections of the public and they will want to see a royal wedding. I intend to marry the winner within no more than a month or two. And—”
“Wait—no more than a month or two? Why?”
He glares at me again. “Because the people will want a royal wedding. They will want the full pageantry at the end of the contest.”
I tilt my head and look at him for a second. There’s something in his voice that isn’t ringing quite true. “Even on those reality shows, the man doesn’t marry the woman right away. Most of the time, they never get married at all. It’s pretty hard to find a wife from a limited menu of options—”
“She merely needs to be tolerable. If she can carry on a conversation, that will be enough for me. We’ll have already established that the public adores her, as they will have had some say in my final choice. And the public will be eagerly awaiting our royal wedding and we’ll not disappoint them.”
I search his eyes, trying to figure out what it is about this story that is making the back of my neck tingle—a sure sign for me that there’s something more to it. And then I realize what it is—his brother.
My lips press together—I’m not sure if I should ask him about it or not. But I finally muster up the courage to ask my question. “What does Leopold think of this plan of yours?”