Emily was an American. I didn’t know who her family was. She was outspoken and ambitious—things my uncle didn’t exactly value in a woman.
Things I found incredibly sexy. I’d never met anyone quite like Emily. I’d dated plenty of girls—socialites, models. Heiresses. Girls my uncle would approve of. But none of them could keep up with me the way Emily could. None of them talked to me like Emily did.
Bloody hell.
I had a lot riding on being a good TA. People were always so confused about why a member of the royal family would bother getting a PhD in Economics. They were especially dumfounded by my position at the bottom of the totem pole as an assistant. But I’d do anything if it meant I could one day lead The Prince’s Foundation.
My dad, Prince Edward, was the Queen’s second son, after my uncle, the Prince Carlton. Although dad was the more popular—and progressive—of the two princes, he probably wouldn’t inherit the throne. Carlton had married a (much) younger second wife, and we all expected them to have kids.
So dad had focused his attention on giving back to the community, underprivileged youth especially. The Foundation raised money and awareness for initiatives aimed at helping all young people reach their potential, no matter their background. In the twenty years since its establishment, mum and dad had grown the foundation by leaps and bounds. The Queen very much approved of their work. She understood the people loved my parents and their causes; and the peoples’ love was the basis of our power and influence as England’s royal family.
As the oldest of four siblings, I had a lot of experience with children. I’d had a keen interest in The Prince’s Foundation since I was little. Dad said he’d pass it on to me on one condition: that I earned it. My parents had raised me and my siblings Rob, Jack, and Jane to believe that hard work and humility were the keys to success, so it didn’t surprise me one bit that dad wouldn’t just hand me what I wanted.
He wanted me to see the world, to meet people of all backgrounds. Most importantly, he wanted me to get a top-notch education so I could lead the foundation in a way he never could. Which was why I was currently enrolled in one of the best PhD programs at one of the best universities in the world. Yeah, the hours were long, and the departmental politics could get intense. Like every PhD candidate, I had to TA several classes, an unglamorous part of the job. But teaching students like Emily Kilpatrick made it worth it. I got so many ideas from her. Stuff about business and marketing and strategy that I hoped to use one day at the foundation.
“Christ,” I said, an automatic response. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Mr. Thorne, it’s tearing me apart. I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. Never mind ace an exam.”
I swallowed.
I hate to see you hurting, I wanted to say.
I want to make you feel better.
I will do anything to make you feel better.
“This bloke sounds like a proper knob head,” I said instead. Best to stick to safer subjects for the time being.
Her lips twitched, even as a tear fell down her face. “You Brits and your cute little curse words.”
“Knob head means dickhead, you know.”
“I know. Still sounds kinda tame, though, doesn’t it?”
“All right.” I pushed off the desk to stand in front of her, the chair between us. “What would you call him?”
She pursed her lips, pretending to give it some thought. “Hm. A scumbag, probably. An asshole son of a bitch. A dickweed.”
“Dickweed.” I nodded my approval. “Woefully underused, that one. Would you consider twat as well, or would that be too ‘tame’ considering the circumstances?”
Emily smiled, and I swear to Christ the whole room got brighter. This was the real Emily. I was drawing her back out.
I wanted to see more of her.
“Oh, no, I like twat,” she said. “I think it fits the circumstances perfectly. Good call.”
I laughed. No one ever talked to me this way. Ever. It was like people assumed that because I was a prince, my precious royal ears would fall right the fuck off if profanity—or God forbid the truth—was ever uttered in my presence.
Not Emily, though. She talked to me like I was just another twenty four year old bloke. She liked the word twat.
I liked her.
Bollocks. I really, really liked her.
I knew now was the moment to step back. To keep things professional. But the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, egged on by a semester’s worth of pent up longing.
“So this twat ex of yours tore you apart,” I said. “What can I do to help put you back together?”
Emily furrowed her brow, her smile fading.
“Why would you want to do that?” she asked. “That’s not your job.”
I took my hands out of my pockets. I kept my eyes locked on hers. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. I was full to bursting. Full of her. Hurt. Hope.
“Maybe I want it to be my job,” I said. “Maybe I miss you—the real you. The girl who’s fearless and smart and sexy as hell.”
Something flickered in her green eyes, making them spark. I waited for her to step back. To tell me to fuck off.
What the hell was I doing?
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking away as I kicked at an imaginary pebble on the floor. My face burned. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I looked back up to see Emily staring at me. I couldn’t read her expression. But she didn’t move. Good sign? Bad?
“Kit,” she said. It was the first time she’d used my first name. Fuck, I liked the sound of it on her lips. “I have a boyfriend.”
I was already in for a penny. Might as well go for the pound.
“The dickweed who cheated on you? That boyfriend? I care about you, Emily. And I mean it when I say I want to help you.”
She blinked. “Help me,” she repeated. Her voice was hoarse again.
Her eyes flicked to my mouth. They went a little hazy. I could practically see the idea forming in her head.
The muscles and sinews in my core tightened. Came alive. Energy—a magnetic heat—pooled between us. Did she feel it, too? I knew I was being stupid. But was I mad as well? This fire inside me, stoked by a semester’s worth of exciting conversations and ideas and glances that lasted just a little too long—it burned so bloody hot, I wondered how the hell she’d not feel it.
“Yes,” I said. “Anything you want.”
She took a sharp breath. “God, you smell good.”
“Thanks. I showered today, just for you.”
She scoffed, biting down on her bottom lip.
“You can help me forget,” she replied. “Forget him. Forget the hurt.”
I nodded. “Of course. Just tell me what to do.”
Emily looked at me for another beat, like she was debating whether or not to say what she was about to.
“You can fuck me,” she said at last.
My heart leapt to my throat. I started. “Pardon?”
“Just this once. Nothing leaves this room, remember?”
It was my turn to stare. Out of all the things she could’ve said, I was definitely not expecting that. Hoping for it? Fantasizing about it? Yes. But expecting it—hell no.
My cock leapt at the idea. I’d wanted to put my hands on Emily—really put my hands on her body, get to know it, savor it—for bloody months now.
It was wrong. But I wanted it. Badly. And now that I knew she wanted it, too…
“Now or never, Kit.” She swallowed. “Please.”
My body moved before my mind did. I angled my foot against the chair between us and shoved it aside. Emily’s lips parted at the sound.
Fuck it. If this is what Emily Kilpatrick wanted, then I’d give it to her.
I’d make her forget this asshole ex of hers. Maybe then she’d think about me instead.
I’d make her mine.
I didn’t hesitate. I stepped into her, pressing my body against hers. This felt so good. So blo
ody good. My pulse thundered as I cupped her face in my hand. In one smooth, impatient motion, I bent my neck and tilted her head and brought her mouth up to meet mine.
She drew a breath as I kissed her, rising into my caress.
I kissed Emily Kilpatrick in the middle of my office like I had nothing to lose.
It hit me that I didn’t. I’d already lost myself to her a long time ago.
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About the Author
JESSICA PETERSON began reading romance to escape the decidedly unromantic awkwardness of her teenage years. Having found solace in the likes of Mr. Darcy, Jamie Fraser (OMG love the gingers!), and Edward Cullen, it wasn’t long before she began creating tall, dark and handsome heroes of her own. She lives in Charlotte, North Carolina with her husband, Mr. Peterson, and her smelly Goldendoodle Martha Bean. For more information, please visit her website at www.jessicapeterson.com.
Royal Rogue: A Sexy Royal Romance (Flings With Kings Book 3) Page 25