by Wilde, Kati
Those legs start to tremble. “And if they have a telephoto lens?”
“Then they’ll be jealous as fuck when they realize I’m eating out this perfect little cunt. But they won’t see a damn thing, except my head under your skirt.” And they’ll never know how fucking good she smells with her panties already soaked. Or how incredible she tastes, or know the sounds she’ll make when I suck on her clit. But if she’s having doubts, I won’t do any of that. “Unless you want to wait.”
“No.” It’s an immediate denial, and the naked hunger in her eyes is joined by a darker, deeper emotion. “I’ve waited long enough.”
I have, too. So long that every cell in my body is starving for a taste. Her fingers tighten in my hair and her body quivers when I drag her panties down to her knees. The tuxedo jacket draped over her shoulders conceals just about everything that my kneeling body doesn’t.
And everything that’s revealed before me as I push her skirt higher… She’s a goddess. A living, breathing goddess with the most exquisite cunt, and I’m a mere king humbly worshipping at her feet. Her plump labia already glisten with her juices, and her pink clit’s swollen with arousal.
She whimpers softly in anticipation as I lean in. I want to tease. To take my time. To kiss those silky inner thighs and work my way up.
But then she pants breathlessly, “Please, Maximilian. Now.”
Begging me. Though I’m the one on my knees. But there’s nothing on earth I can deny her.
I go straight for those glistening pussy lips, that pouty little clit. Her flavor floods my tongue on the first lick and I groan, undone by her sweetness. She cries out and her body sags against the column, the new angle of her hips denying me another taste. My touch made impatient by hunger, I hoist her left thigh over my shoulder, opening her up and spreading her wide. With my hands gripping her ass to help hold her upright, I dive in again, my tongue thrusting into the well of her cunt before returning to her clit.
Her soft moans change to frantic little gasps, and her hips thrash against the firm hold of my hands. But there’s no holding back when her body begins trembling. The pounding of my heart thunders through my head. I’m so worked up by the slick heaven of her cunt and by the juices running down my chin that my balls draw up tight and full. Molten drops of cum leak from my cockhead, my shaft milked by the agonizing need to shove past the tight entrance that I’ve only breached with my tongue. But there’s no time to unzip, to fist my dick and stroke to completion. Even as she stiffens, then cries out my name with her back arching, what feels like a kingdom’s worth of cum erupts from my cock. With a ragged groan, I ride out the orgasm and push her to another, my face buried between her thighs, her clit pulsing against my tongue.
When her body sags again, this time I carefully ease her down to the ground until she’s kneeling in front of me, her skirt torn and her hair disheveled. Her lipstick is a smear across her mouth.
Utterly beautiful. In a gruff voice I tell her, “I ruined your hair.”
“Fuck my hair,” she replies tartly, then drags me in for an openmouthed kiss.
A kiss that I never want to end. Because she’s soft now, with no stiffness in her posture and no pain lurking in her eyes. Every time she withdraws from me, it’s after we stop touching. But soon—so goddamn soon—I’ll have her in my bed. I’ll touch her so deep and so thoroughly, she’ll never be able to stop feeling me with her, inside her. And she won’t run away again.
Until then, I’ll continue touching her as often as I can, continue breaking down the wall she keeps putting between us. And tonight I’ll eventually have to let her go.
Not yet, though. I sweep her up into my arms and begin carrying her along the garden path, heading for the car. I’ve got at least forty more minutes before we’ll take her home for the night. Forty more minutes to have her all to myself.
Longer, if we take the scenic route.
Victoria
“The hair stylists will arrive at your house at four,” Ursula tells me. “Makeup is coming at five. His Majesty’s car will pick you up at half past six, and you should reach the ball by seven.”
Unless we take the scenic route again. And if His Majesty is in that car, I’ll probably spend the last ten minutes redoing my hair and makeup.
But I don’t say so aloud, and if Ursula notices my amusement, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead she surveys the table in front of me, as if making certain every fork and knife is in the proper place, though we aren’t really here to eat. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Only the interviewer—and His Majesty,” I tell her.
With Liz in tow, I arrived at the palace a half hour ago. Immediately we were escorted to this parlor, an extravagantly baroque chamber that overlooks the gardens, and served a light brunch. Shortly afterward, Andrew Bush arrived—almost as early as we were. But after Ursula informed us that Maximilian wouldn’t be here until the scheduled time for our interview, Bush took the opportunity to ask Liz to accompany him on a walk through the palace’s gallery.
And no doubt conduct an impromptu interview with Liz, as well, but my little sister is fairly savvy in these situations.
The door at the opposite end of the parlor opens. My heart leaps as Maximilian strides through, his expression austere, his big body imposing. The same King Maximilian that I’m so familiar with from years of watching and waiting.
Geoffrey trots alongside him. He flashes a helpless look toward my assistant just before Maximilian barks out her name. “Ursula!”
Immediately she snaps to attention, then glances at me hesitantly before answering him. “Yes…?”
“Solve a mystery for me,” he demands.
She takes a huge gulp of air and squares her shoulders determinedly. “I will try, Your Majesty.”
“How many years have you been friends with Geoffrey?”
“Four years.”
“And have you ever seen him eat?”
Ursula blinks. Then blinks again, a puzzled frown creasing her brow as her gaze settles on the young man. “I…don’t think so, Your Majesty.”
“I knew it.” With humor softening his eyes, Maximilian stops by my chair and stoops, softly kissing my mouth before adding, “Anyone that efficient has to be a robot.”
Behind him, Geoffrey frowns at Ursula, his expression affronted. “But I do eat!”
Maximilian pulls out the chair next to mine, snags a plate of berries from the table in front of me, and holds it out to his beleaguered assistant.
“Prove it,” he commands.
Oh no. Lurching forward, I snag the plate back from him. “Not this one.”
Three pairs of eyes turn toward me—Maximilian with a bemused expression, and Ursula and Geoffrey staring at me in shock and horror.
Probably because I just stole something out of the king’s hand. Smoothly I sit again and explain, “Forgive me for countermanding His Majesty’s direct order, but my sister was here with me earlier and…I licked the berries.”
Maximilian arches a brow. “You licked them?”
“I did,” I say as matter-of-factly as I can, as if licking berries in a royal palace is an utterly reasonable thing to do. “Because my sister’s an unrepentant berry thief, and licking them stops her from taking what’s mine. But I’m certain Geoffrey wouldn’t want to eat something that has already encountered my tongue.”
“I wouldn’t,” he agrees hastily—then pauses and looks uncertain. Probably wondering if whether he should have claimed to enjoy his future queen’s germs.
“I think we’ve established that Geoffrey doesn’t eat anything at all. I, on the other hand…” Almost lazily, Maximilian sits back in his chair and regards me with a heavy-lidded gaze. “I also like to claim what’s mine by licking it.”
My body instantly catches fire as memories assail me, and I recall how thoroughly he claimed what was his—at the botanical garden, during the trip home, and several other car rides since.
With a smile tilting his lips, Ma
ximilian doesn’t look away from me, but his next words are directed at Ursula and Geoffrey. “Andrew Bush seems to be missing.”
“He certainly is, Your Majesty,” Geoffrey replies as he and my assistant head for the door. “We will go and find him immediately.”
“Not too immediately,” Maximilian warns them and a shiver of anticipation races over my skin. “Five minutes.”
The moment the door closes, he captures my lips in a deep, blistering kiss. After rendering me breathless, he eases back, lingering over my mouth with gentle kisses before finally pulling away.
With a sigh, I let him go. “Only five minutes?”
A satisfied smile curves his mouth. “For now.”
“For now?”
“I asked Ursula to clear your schedule today. You don’t need to be anywhere until you have to get ready for the ball tonight. Geoffrey cleared mine as well.” A slow fire builds behind his gaze. “And there are over a hundred beds in this palace. But we’ll only need the bed in my chambers.”
Understanding and desire twist inside me, forming a heavy liquid ache. “As soon as the interview is over?”
“Yes.” His voice is low and gruff, his eyes hot with need. “Then as soon as I can get you in my bed, your cunt wet and your legs spread.”
“It’s wet now,” I tell him wickedly. “Absolutely drenched.”
A groan rips from his chest and he lurches up out of his chair again, claiming my mouth in another hot kiss. This time he doesn’t linger, but rips away and drops back into his seat, staring at me with a scorching promise in his gaze.
With a saucy little grin, I reach for one of the cherries on my plate. “You’ve met with this interviewer before?”
His answer is a slow nod. His dark eyes follow the cherry as I bring it to my mouth.
“Hmm.” Breaking the cherry’s skin with my teeth, I use the juice to paint a red stain on my lips. “And how did you answer the questions regarding our romantic history?”
“He didn’t ask.”
“He will now,” I point out, and pop the rest of the cherry into my mouth.
His gaze lifts from my cherry-stained lips. “We haven’t mentioned the betrothal before. Should we?”
I shake my head, trying to ignore the deep pang that strikes my heart. “We’re trying to persuade the world that this was a love match. An extended betrothal doesn’t fit that narrative. No one will believe we had no contact for twelve years, then instantly fell in love.”
He scowls. “Why?”
I shrug, because every answer hurts too much to say aloud.
“What narrative fits, then? What do people typically do? Do we make up a history of secret rendezvous?” His jaw tightens as if the very thought irritates him. “Dinner dates? Did we swipe right, and the rest is fate?”
“That’s far too complicated. We’ll stay as close to the truth as possible. Then there’s less chance of being caught in a lie.”
He gives a sharp nod, as if that’s a more satisfying solution. “All right. The truth. Mostly.”
Yes, mostly. Except for the part where he’s pretending to love me.
My throat tightens. Watching me, he seems to sense the change in my emotions. His eyes narrow, and he slowly rises from his chair. Intending to kiss me again.
I’d rather have the pleasure than the pain. I lift my mouth to meet his, and he slowly kisses my upper lip, then my lower lip, then licks away the cherry stain.
Through the blissful haze, I’m aware of the parlor door opening, of Liz’s and Ursula’s voices—and the abrupt silence, as if they suddenly realized what Maximilian and I were doing. But he doesn’t quickly draw away. Instead his dark gaze holds mine for an endless time.
When he finally retreats, it’s with another kiss and a gruff, “An hour from now, I’ll have your cherry juice all over my cock,” spoken quietly against my ear.
I’m so dizzy with anticipation and need that I barely notice when Liz and our assistants leave again, and Andrew Bush takes his seat. With wire-rim glasses, a wiry build swimming in an oversized suit over a collared sport shirt, he resembles every mild-mannered journalist I’ve ever seen in movies or television. But after reading some of his work, I suspect that ‘mild-mannered’ fits him as well as a donkey’s boot. His observations are sharp, but often infused with warmth and humanity. As if he’s truly looking for stories to tell, not just lining up jugulars to cut. Of course, that doesn’t mean his articles haven’t sliced some of his subjects’ throats open.
I pour the coffee as he begins by offering his congratulations on our engagement. Setting the cup in front of him, I sit back in my chair and say, “I see that you’re married as well.” I gesture to the gold band on his finger. “Do you have any advice to offer a pair of newlyweds?”
“Where do you want me to start?” He laughs, but his gaze turns serious a moment later. “Be true to yourself and recognize your needs—then make certain to communicate those needs.”
Perhaps easier said than done. “Does communicating come easily to someone like you—a man who writes for a living?”
“I wish. Whenever my husband and I get into an argument, I can’t say a damn thing right. Then I’ll write him a ten-page email and finally manage to explain myself.” Abruptly he grins. “And Liz warned me that you always do your homework, and that you’ll end up interviewing me instead of the other way around.”
I smile innocently and sip my coffee. “What would you like to ask?”
“We’ll start with a simple one. Where did you two meet?”
“The first time? When we were burying my father.”
He grimaces. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t a romantic meeting, then.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I say softly, and stay as near to the truth as I can. “We didn’t meet again until fairly recently.”
“And you must have both played your renewed acquaintance close to your vests.” To Maximilian, he says, “You didn’t mention her at all during our recent series of interviews.”
“You didn’t ask,” Maximilian replies dryly.
“But if you only recently met Victoria again, this relationship must have also developed recently—and quickly.”
“You might say instantly.” His dark gaze warms as he looks to me. “I saw her standing in front of her house. Thirty minutes later I knew that I’d never want anyone else.”
“That quickly?” Andrew’s brows rise.
Maximilian nods. “I know it sounds unbelievable. But it’s true.”
Mostly true. And all pretend. My throat aching, I don’t let myself imagine that it could be anything else.
“So what was different about her?”
“Different from the first time I met her?” Maximilian frowns. “She was ten years older. And wasn’t crying.”
Andrew shakes his head. “I meant— As the king of Kapria, you must have encountered many beautiful and accomplished women. Yet you’ve never been attached to any of them. Not publicly, at least.”
“Not privately, either.”
“So why was your reaction to Victoria so different?”
Because he was betrothed to me. Because he’d made a promise and he kept it. But he can’t respond with that truth, or anything close to it. And I don’t know what to make of what he does respond with.
“It was different because there was a reaction.” He frowns at the interviewer. “Before meeting Victoria again, I was only a king. My only thoughts were of Kapria. When I met women, I didn’t see them as potential lovers. I only saw what needed to be done to help my people.”
The ache in my chest expands. I could have helped him. All those years, I wanted to help him. And I did what I could, though I would have loved to work beside him to do more.
But he was blind to that, too.
“So it sounds like the real change was your success with the Vic-10, and negotiating the trade agreement. It allowed you to broaden your focus.”
Maximilian nods. “And the burden of healing the damage from my father’
s reign was a lighter one, so I could imagine taking on other responsibilities. A queen, heirs. So when it was time to take a wife, I could look at women differently. But I didn’t need to look past Victoria. She is more perfect for me than any other woman I could possibly imagine.”
Because I worked so hard to be perfect for the role I saw myself in. But it is nothing like the role that Maximilian imagines me filling.
My heart feels sick and heavy in my chest, my throat raw when Andrew seems finally satisfied with that answer and turns to me again.
“So it’s been a whirlwind for you, too?”
“No.” It’s a thick, quiet rasp, overfilled with emotion. And true. “I fell in love with His Majesty when I was sixteen years old—on the day of his coronation, when he stood and delivered that speech. That angry, wonderful, inspiring speech.”
“I’ve seen it,” Andrew says quietly.
Of course he has. He probably watched it in preparation for this assignment. But that’s not how I saw it. Not as homework or research, but one of the most pivotal moments of my life.
“I watched it with my father. He hated having to flee Kapria when Leopold took the throne, and he always dreamed of going home—but to me, after hearing him speak of the kingdom for sixteen years, Kapria didn’t even seem like a real place. More like a fairytale land ruled by a villainous king. So when we watched the coronation and the speech, I thought I would witness the rise of a spoiled brat prince who would only bring more pain to my father’s heart.” Tears blur my eyes and ache in my throat. “But Maximilian gave my father hope, instead. And watching all that fury, listening to him promise that he wouldn’t rest until he’d secured a new future for the kingdom, I was so inspired…and determined to do the same.”
This time Andrew doesn’t respond. And I’m aware of Maximilian’s utter silence, and the burning weight of his gaze upon me, but I don’t look.
After a moment, I continue, “When I’m interviewed, people almost always ask whether I resent my father for giving so much to the Kaprian king, and barely leaving his family anything. But we Dietrichs are very good at giving everything away. I gave all that I am to Kapria and her king that day, too—and I didn’t hold much back. Certainly not my heart.”