“Are you part of a secretive pie information network, Els?”
She smiles, and it hits me way harder than my mother’s hand from earlier this morning. “Naturally. Here is the first I want tonight: we ought to try some before we leave. After all, isn’t pie a quintessential American experience?”
“I believe it’s specifically apple pie that’s the true slice of Americana.”
She mutters, “Har-har.”
I continue, undeterred, “I doubt the local pie you’ve heard about is apple. How delightful. We have a pie mystery on our hands.”
She gently presses against me, like she’s shoving me. And I chuckle, because the look of amused frustration she lets me see is so adorable. “Are you game?”
“What would this pie mission entail? Should I dress in all black?”
“Sneaking into the kitchen, of course. But that is old hat for you and I. We are to eat as much pie as we can without vomiting afterward.” The corners of her lips slyly curve upward. “Unless you’re watching out for your girlish—excuse me, mannish figure.”
I feign outrage. “I bet I can eat you under the table.”
Damn, her smile is gorgeous.
“If I join you on this mission, will I be allowed to join PIN?”
She releases a ghost of a laugh, and I feel this tiny breath all the way down to my bones—and pants. “PIN as in Pie Information Network? Certainly. You will receive all benefits entitled to full members, including the opportunity to eat the best pies on the planet.”
I’d like to eat her.
“The security guard is making a tidy sum off of me this week, isn’t he? I shall have to pay him another visit,” I tell her.
She blushes, and just the sight makes my pants all the more uncomfortable. By the time the song finishes, I’m so dangerously turned on that it’s a miracle I can even walk.
chapter 37
Elsa
We are alone in the spacious kitchen, leaning against one of the stainless steel islands. Christian located old-fashioned lanterns to illuminate the place where we became more than strangers; the soft glow lends the room a hazy, magical countenance. “What do you call these?” I poke my fork in the berries spilling out of the slice of pie on my plate.
He was right. There was not a single slice of apple pie to be found anywhere.
Christian lifts the flap of the pie box and angles it toward me. “Olallieberries.”
“Is that even a real word?”
He laughs, and I resent the sound. It’s gorgeous and rich and sexy and unfair to any woman in its vicinity, including me. And that’s the rub, because I’m not sure how I will ever be able to resist Christian and all of his lovely, addictive too-ness.
“It’s here on the box,” he’s saying, “so I’m thinking yes.”
I refocus on the pie below me, because no good can come of lingering on Christian’s perfect laugh or how the urge to drift closer to the warmth floating off his lean body is oh so strong right now. Or about how the thought of him and my sister, hanging out in a kitchen at three a.m., gorging themselves on sweets, makes me want to break every dish I can find. “Anybody can make up a word.” I shove a large spoonful of pie in my mouth. “Farfleggle.”
As sordid images run wild through my mind, I am thankful Christian is too busy cutting himself another slice of pie to notice my flaming cheeks. “Pardon?”
I swallow and take a deep breath, wishing I could just fan myself already. “Farfleggle. I made it up. See? It can be done.”
His mouth curves upward at this; it is patently ridiculous how attractive I find him right now, all ease and grace and charm whilst stuffing himself full of pie in the middle of the night in an empty kitchen.
Why did I have to keep on talking to him this week? Why did he have to be so bloody wonderful and easy to be around, my own Prince Charming come to life?
A silver fork points my way, laden with rich berries and flaky pastry. “What does it mean?”
“It doesn’t have to mean anything. It is a made-up word. That’s my point.”
He chews his bite slowly as he considers this, and I suppress an urge to touch his mouth. His lips are stained a tiny bit from the berry juice, and I am too weak in the moment to deny that I would like nothing more than to lick them clean.
I have no doubt the women who have been lucky enough to feel that gorgeous mouth against theirs lose track of time or swoon or feel like they’re flying or any of the other banal descriptions people read about in books, because that mouth promises so very, very much.
I think I could hate my sister for all the kisses she’ll get from this man.
“But the thing is,” he’s saying, forcing me to look from his mouth to his eyes, “olallieberry means something. It’s a type of berry. Its existence in the lexicon is warranted.”
I am daydreaming about kissing. He is thinking about etymology—which is a good thing. One of us must remain focused on the task at hand.
As I take another bite of pie, I search for a proper definition for such a gloriously ludicrous word. And then it comes to me. Farfleggle: a noun—a princess whose knickers practically drop every time a certain Aibolandian prince looks at her.
What I tell him is, “Farfleggle: a noun meaning a prince addicted to secretive organizations.”
That absurdly attractive smile of his reemerges, and now I am more than just squirmy; I am hot and achy and focused on his sinful mouth again. “So, you’re saying I’m a farfleggle?”
No. I am. I pray my smile is gracious. “You are most welcome.”
At the bemused look on his face, I am unable to hold it in any longer. All the laughter he has sought from me for days now bubbles up and out of me, like fizzy champagne shaken for celebrations.
I laugh. I giggle and laugh and flat-out chuckle. My sides hurt. My mother would be horrified.
Christian’s smile slowly fades until he stares at me as if I am nothing more than a stranger who barged into the kitchen and stole his pie.
Was my mother right after all? Is such behavior really so tawdry? All of my frivolity dissipates into awkwardness and another overly large bite of olallieberry pie.
His chest rises and falls slowly, his attention on me in a way that disconcerts. Because he isn’t merely looking at me—he is looking at me, and I have no idea what it means. It isn’t the first time he has done so meaningfully, but even now, even days after immersing myself in all things Christian, I am unable to decode the words behind his eyes.
Which means, naturally, I must shove another bite of pie into my mouth, futilely attempting to ignore how I wish I were shoving something else in my mouth, instead.
After what seems like forever with a fortnight tacked on for good measure, he murmurs, “It’s not fair when you laugh like that.”
I try not to choke as the glob of pie I just shoved in so quickly fights to slide down my throat. “I am sorry if I offended you, Chris.”
He shakes his head, holding out a dismissive hand. “No. Not that.”
I try to play it cool. Stifle the hurt his rejection births. “You never told me what you want your first to be tonight.”
I am horrified when he stiffens. Even more alarmed when he shoves away from the shiny, metal island, his pie and fork suddenly forgotten. “I should go.”
Before I can even form a word, he closes in on the doorway. What just happened? We’d been eating pie and joking and I laughed, which he told me before he wanted to hear, yet now he feels he must leave?
Can he sense how my feelings toward him have shifted in ways I fear I no longer can control?
I do not want him to go. Not yet. Not when our time together is so preciously limited. Two hours from now, I will be on a plane, and the next time I see him might be at his wedding.
Just as he reaches the door, Christian skids to a halt. His palms slap against the wooden doorframe, the sound reverberating throughout the still kitchen.
I want
to disappear when my voice trembles as I say his name.
And then Christian strides back across the kitchen, back toward me, his eyes serious and apologetic and hot all at once, and I honestly have no idea what to do. Or say. I haven’t the foggiest if he is angry or pulling my leg or any other variation of any emotion, and it’s . . . unnatural. Because everything else after the first day has been natural, so this is unacceptable.
But then he kisses me.
Finally.
chapter 38
Christian
Hearing her laughter was my death knell. Or rather, not necessarily my death knell, but that of all of the bloody protections and resistances I’ve attempted to maintain against Elsa and her charms over the last few days. Her laughter was a gift, all warm and bubbly and wonderful, and it smashed through me, overtaking my very cells until all I felt was joy.
I like this princess. I like her very much. I fear it’s more than that, that I’m in love with her. And this absolutely terrifies the hell out of me. We’ve both been ordered to marry people we don’t love. Today, in fact.
But I’m done trying to convince myself I don’t feel something for Elsa, or that what I do feel is nothing more than friendship or even lust. I don’t want just her friendship. I want her. So now here we are, and my lips are touching hers for the first time, and God almighty, she’s absurdly delicious, all tangy sweet and sour like the berries. But she’s more than that, too. As I deepen the kiss, I have no idea how to explain it other than what I’m tasting is just Elsa, despite never having savored her before this moment. I cup the back of her head, my other hand drifting to her lower back so I can tug her closer, and, thank all that’s good in the world, she comes willingly, the strength of her kiss matching my own.
It’s the headiest feeling in the entire bloody world.
We’re kissing, noses bumping like we’re teens experimenting for the first time, but it’s more than just my lips on hers. I can’t explain it, but my heart’s pumping too fast, faster than it ever has when I’ve kissed a woman.
I’m instantly hard. This woman, no matter what she does, turns me on like no other.
“This is my first,” I murmur against her mouth. “This is the first I’ve wanted all week.”
Any restraint I might possess beats a quick retreat out of the kitchen when her fingers dig into my shirt so she can tug me closer. I moan, and so does she, and these sounds have me pressing her up against the island until I fear I’m going to come in my goddamn pants like some arsehole during his first time. I’m on bloody fire, all hard and hot and aching and desiring nothing more than to peel her clothes right off her body, have her do the same to me, and shove the pie off the island so I can climb up there with her and take my time learning every inch of her body.
Things turn frantic, tongues tasting and stroking, hands tugging off shirts and sweaters, mouths seeking out necks and clavicles, and I swear that the ground below us disappears entirely and I’m part of one of those clichés I’ve always scorned, because I’m fucking floating on air.
I need to be in her. Now.
She unbuckles my belt, tugs at my zipper. I nearly lose control when she cups me.
Just as I’m unclasping her bra, something clatters loudly nearby.
We jerk apart, our feet forced to return to earth. There is a maid staring at us, her mouth opened in shock.
Bloody hell.
Elsa snatches her shirt and turns around, tugging it on.
The woman curtseys, leaving the small tray she’d dropped on the ground where it landed. “Pardon my interruption, Your um . . . Highnesses. I wasn’t aware the kitchen was in . . . use. I . . . I can . . . I was just getting some . . . But I can . . . I’ll just leave you two . . . to . . . um . . .”
The way she babbles this makes what she’d walked in on sound so seedy, like me finally kissing and touching this gorgeous siren is the equivalent of so many of the other heirs shagging like rabbits upstairs in closets when they don’t think others are listening or watching, instead of the life-altering experience it just was.
I’ve never wanted to bellow at a servant to get the hell out, but I’m pretty damn tempted to right now.
“It is fine.” Elsa’s smile is indulgent and regal, her voice steady as she steps forward, smoothing her hair as if she isn’t affected in the least by what just happened. “We were merely indulging in some late night pie.”
If I wasn’t so pissed, I might laugh, because it’s clear the maid takes pie to mean something else, especially when her eyes track down the front of my, well, shite, still open pants. And then I’m incredulous and more than a bit uncomfortable as she continues to stare until I’m forced to clear my throat.
And, you know, tuck myself back in and zip my pants up.
It’s enough to snap her out of whatever trance she was in. Her cheeks flush dark pink and she stammers out something incoherent. Elsa flinches at the barrage of words, paling considerably like she’s just been caught with her hand in a cookie jar.
Fantastic. Bloody fantastic.
The maid quickly reclaims the tray and slides it onto one of the islands. Before another word is spoken, the door slaps shut from the woman’s clipped retreat.
And then Elsa turns to face me, her eyes wide and shiny and worried. And this sight, of all the things I could see, guts me.
I murmur her name when it’s quiet again, this single word of two syllables filled with so many emotions that I don’t have a bloody clue what else to say. Because what does one say to a person who has consumed both heart and mind so completely in four days? I want her. Desperately. She told me on the first day she wanted nothing to do with me romantically and I’m ordered to marry her sister, but I kissed Elsa anyway. This woman, this princess . . . she’s different. Different and lovely and wonderful and witty and desirable. She’s a Valkyrie, come to collect my heart. And that kiss? There’s nothing to compare it to. It was different, like she is. It was better. So I can’t help but say her name again, its syllables soft pleas for understanding and an unspoken prayer she feels the same way, because she kissed me back.
Her eyes briefly close; she inhales deeply, fingers resting against her swollen lips. And then she retrieves the pie box from the ground and places it upon the island. “I am departing in a few hours. As are you.”
The smile she offers cuts me off at the knees. It isn’t the smile I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing in secret for days now. This is the one she gives everyone else. The one she gives Mat.
This is the smile she hides behind. Dammit. I’m losing her before I even have the chance to win her.
“It was good pie, wasn’t it?”
My voice is hoarse. “Yes.”
Her eyes are glassy. “You are officially a member of PIN, Christian.”
Fuck PIN. PIN is nothing without Elsa. Neither is the RFC.
She blinks and glances away, a soft hint of a laugh coming out of her. Now that I’ve heard her real laughter, this will never satisfy me. It was beautiful—rich and warm and addictive and exactly like her.
This ghost? This isn’t her. She’s disappearing right before my very eyes.
“You have been a bad influence,” she murmurs, and I swear, my heart drops straight out of my chest. But then she says, “The best kind, actually. I’m glad I got to share so many firsts with you this week.”
There’s so much I want to say to her. I want to tell her that it was a week of firsts for me, too. The first time I’ve ever felt this way. That I want to be there for all the rest of the firsts in her life. Or at least have the chance to see if all our firsts should be together.
She steps away from the island, back toward me. A shaky hand comes up to brush the side of my face. “I was wrong, you know.”
I can barely get the word out. “About?”
“You.” The Valkyrie leans forward, her forehead resting briefly against me before she rises up on her toes to press a lingering kiss on my cheek. And the
n a softer, sadder one at the corner of my mouth. “What are we going to do, Christian?”
I have no idea. And it is so fucking impossibly unfair to accept that.
I receive another kiss, this time on the lips. But it’s too short. It’s only a hint of a kiss. I want more.
I want her.
“We should probably get some sleep. We both need to be up in a little bit.”
Sleep on the plane, I think. Don’t go.
“Thank you for this week,” she says, as if I took pity on her and am only here because I am bored or have nothing else to do. “I will always hold these memories close.”
A hand is proffered between us; I stare at it in horror. She’s going to do this. She really is going to do this. She’s going to shake my hand, say goodnight, and then she will leave for Vattenguldia, and I will go to Aiboland, and . . . and…we—I’m just to go back to life as it was before?
And marry her sister?
Fuck that. No. No. This cannot be how our story ends.
“It was good to finally get to know you, Christian.” I flinch at her formality. “I wish you much success. At least now we can be assured that our countries will always have an ally in the other, especially in the MC, once we both assume our respective thrones.”
An ally . . . and bloody in-laws. It isn’t fair. Goddammit, it simply isn’t fair.
“What happened to Chris?” I’m not even embarrassed that my voice cracks.
A tear traces a lazy path down her cheek, and it guts me like nothing else. Elsa shakes her head, forcing in a deep breath. And then she extends her hand once more.
When our palms and fingers come together, the sensation is nearly as intimate as our kiss minutes before. Skin on skin, touch to touch. Her fingers curve around mine and mine around hers. Desire once more flares like wildfire through my bloodstream.
I don’t want to let go, not yet, but that matters neither here nor there, because if she needs to walk away from whatever it is that compels my lungs to constrict and my heart to thrum in aching beats, then it’s her right.
Royal Marriage Market Page 18