Royal Marriage Market

by Heather Lyons

  A noise sounds on the other side of the door, of wheels and plates rattling, and of footsteps. And still, Christian sucks and licks and teases. Not caring if anyone hears me, I cry and yell and do all of those things he wanted to hear—not because he asked for them, but because he knows precisely how to coax them out of me. And when I honestly don’t know if I can take it anymore, he gifts me with one, last intense lick.

  I shatter into hundreds—no thousands—of little pieces, all carved with his name, and mine, together.

  chapter 49

  Christian

  I give Elsa no time to recover from what I hope is the first of several orgasms tonight. She’s in my arms and I’m carrying her through the suite, kicking open the bedroom door. And then we’re on the bed, which is where she really deserved to be in the first place, and I’m kissing her—not soothingly, like I really ought to, but hotly, reverently, like I don’t really have a choice.

  In a lot of ways, I suppose I don’t. Since the moment I ran into her in a narrow hallway in California, she’s possessed my heart and it really only feels like I have it back when she’s with me. It’s terrifying, this lack of control that threatens to wash me away from my responsibilities every time I even think of her. Responsibilities I was born with, ones that stem from more than family, but from an entire country’s worth of people who expect me to assume the throne. Christian, to Aiboland, represents the present and the future. The newspapers often talk about how the country desperately needs to climb headfirst into the twenty-first century. I think about the people I met in grocery stores. Or charity events. Or on the streets. Or anywhere, really.

  Nobody ever asks what I need. Not that I expect them to; that’s pure hubris. My life is one of service. Aiboland comes before Christian, right? It always comes before my own wants and needs.

  But then I met this woman and she made me, for the first time in my life, want something more than I have. So I’m kissing her like I mean it, like I have to because she’s my air, my sunlight, my warmth, the very blood in my veins. Like she is the reason the muscle in my chest beats so hard and fast, because she is. She makes me feel like I could be more than just what everyone else needs, and that is more intoxicating than any drug or drink in the world. Being here with Elsa, having just tasted her and listened to my name come from between her lips as she fell apart in my hands . . . It’s the best goddamn feeling ever.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. I promised to take my time tonight.

  I reluctantly break away, staring down at her in the pale lamplight, at how dark hair spreads around her head like chaotic waves across the white, foamy sea of bedspread. At how glazed her eyes are, all liquid desire mixed in her irises. At how swollen her lips are. She truly is a Valkyrie, or at the very least something mercurial and temporary, because surely this can’t be real. She can’t be real. This is just another one of the many fantasies I’ve built around this woman over the last few weeks, isn’t it?

  Her hand cups my cheek; her lips brush my own. “Are you okay?”

  It’s a fist around my heart. Yes, I want to tell her. Yes. But, the words are stuck—not because I fear saying them, but because it’s just too hard to offer anything coherent right now. So I kiss her instead. Long, and hot, and meaningful. And then I slowly begin to memorize the map of Elsa’s body with my hands and mouth. Before I even know what’s happening, she slides down over me until I’m deep inside her, so deep all I can do is gasp and then moan. She’s tight, so warm, and it’s like I’ve died right here and now and went to heaven, as utterly saccharine as that sounds, because no other time I’ve been with a woman has ever been so intense.

  I had hoped this would happen tonight. It’d been the best of wishful thinking, the blowing of candles on a birthday cake. All I’d expected, though, if I were lucky, was to see her. If the fates aligned, I hoped for a shot to tell her my feelings, as fucking terrifying as that was. But it’d been practically a wet dream wish that I’d ever find myself in her.

  But here we are, and it’s better than I ever hoped.

  She bends over and kisses me, all languid tongue, and I have to will myself not to instantly explode before I even move. But then she lifts up and slides back down and I’m certain my eyes roll right into the back of my head. I grab her arse, hold her tight, and roll us over so I’m the one on top. Her mouth, her wonderfully, tempting mouth opens to—argue, maybe?—about the change in position, but as much as I adore sparring with this woman, I kiss her instead. Kiss her once more like I must, because the need to do so is felt all the way down in my bones and then beyond, straight into the atoms and molecules within. There will be plenty of time to let her ride me later. I’ll happily be putty in her hands. But now, for this first time, I want it to last longer than a singular minute.

  I pull slowly out of her until I’m nearly out; she cries softly in frustration. I push myself back in, over and over in a steady pace that has her squirming and panting and whispering my name in a voice I pray no man other than myself will ever hear again. It’s one of the most brilliant sounds I’ve ever had the pleasure of listening to, this husky vocalization of two syllables I’ve resented for so long. But now that they come from her, it’s different. As our bodies come together in the best dance I’ve ever danced, I’ve never been gladder to bear such a moniker.

  I have no idea how long it takes her to come a second time. Too soon, I blurrily think, when her body tightens and then spasms around mine, but then I’m gratefully free falling into what I can only understand to be the most fucking amazing le petit mort ever and all of the CinemaScope of my life focuses tightly into just this one woman and what she makes me feel.

  chapter 50

  Elsa

  Bright sunlight filters through the hotel bedroom, disorienting me. A phone is ringing, and I think somebody is knocking on the door, too. I am achy and still oh-so-tired, but then a warm, naked body next to me reminds me of all of the hours I spent having the most mind-blowing sex of my entire life.

  Christian is really here.

  Silence reclaims the suite, and I spend these soft, hazy moments simply studying him. He is adorable when he sleeps, so boyish, in a way: dark lashes feathering against his cheeks, messy hair dipping across his forehead, and soft, long breaths sighing from his chest.

  My own chest tightens in response. For the first time in a long time, I feel not so much free, because such a concept is merely a pipedream to a royal beholden to their duty and country, but relaxed. Happy. No—it’s more than that. Content.

  I brush chocolaty strands away from his eyes, and he stirs—not enough to wake, but enough to shift even closer. His bare chest rising and falling spellbinds me.

  Somewhere nearby, a cell phone rings anew; fresh pounding sounds against a door, shattering the blurred stillness of the moment. “Your Highness?” The knocking turns frenzied. “Your Highness!”

  Christian jolts awake, groping about as if he overslept and should have already been somewhere, and I fail miserably at not noticing how low the sheets dip against his pelvis.

  Yum. And also: More, please.

  His voice is husky. “What time is it?”

  Time to have more sex. “I haven’t the slightest.”

  “Who the hell is pounding at your door so early?”

  “Chances are,” I tell him wryly, “my mother’s spy.”

  He groans and rolls over so an arm wraps around me. I slide back into the warmth of the bed we share, grinning like an idiot.

  “Hi.”

  He’s grinning, too. “Hi.”

  Our lips come together, soft and quiet, and while most everything falls away, one seductive, glorious thought rises to the surface: this is real.

  Bam-bam, bam-bam-bam. “Your Highness!”

  Christian pulls back, his nose brushing mine. “You should probably answer that.” I would never have imagined it possible, but his morning voice is ten times sexier than normal, his accent far more discernible in this
sleep-scratched state.

  A disgruntled sigh heaves up and out of me. I do not want to deal with any reality other than this.

  He kisses my shoulder. “Go find out what this spy wants. The sooner you do, the sooner we can get rid of her.”

  I hate that he is right. And I hate that I must get out of a warm, cozy bed with a yummy, naked man so I can assure a sixty-year-old woman I haven’t fled. I reluctantly slip out of bed and into a robe, all the while keenly aware of Christian’s hot eyes upon me. I flip my hair back and say, “If you keep looking at me like that, I shan’t be able to answer the door.”

  His smile is deliciously naughty.

  It is then the jangle and scrape of keys against metal sounds, forcing me to sprint to the door. It swings open just as I reach for the knob, prompting me to jump back and tighten my robe. Standing in the threshold is not only the hotel concierge and Greta, but Mat with his cell phone glued to his ear.

  My mental calendar ding-dings with: brunch with Mat. And also: reason why I am in Paris.

  “Are you alright?” he exclaims at the same time the concierge stammers, “Your Highness, please forgive my hasty entry, but when nobody could reach you for some time now, it was advised we check on your welfare,” and Greta wrings her hands as she wails, “I was so worried this morning, Your Highness! You weren’t answering your phone!”

  Brunch was scheduled at eleven. Just how late did we sleep in?

  I clutch the robe tighter and offer up an understanding smile to the flustered group. “I thank you for your concern. I simply overslept.”

  The concierge bows and quickly excuses himself. Neither Mat nor Greta sees fit to follow suit, though. My mother’s personal secretary continues wringing her hands, as if she worries I will vanish right before her and Mat is more piqued than I have ever seen him. Stress lines crease his forehead, and a darkish purple color smudges the delicate skin beneath his eyes. He steps forward, past the threshold, shoving his phone into a pocket.

  There is no doubt in my mind he is not happy to be here. If I had to pick a more concise description, I would insist he is flat-out miserable.

  Greta makes a beeline toward my bedroom, no doubt to get my clothes ready for—wait. Greta is heading to the bedroom.

  “Wait!” I call out. She freezes, questions filling her eyes.

  “Would you mind fetching me coffee?” She opens her mouth, so I add, “Not hotel coffee.” Now she’s regarding me as if I’ve lost my mind. And I understand the reasoning; this is an excellent hotel. The coffee is most likely excellent, too.

  I lamely add, “Perhaps . . . real coffee? From a café?”

  Her dark eyes flit back and forth between Mat and me before easing in ridiculous assumption. Nonetheless, she curtseys and departs the suite, shutting the door behind her.

  Mat asks, “Are you feeling ill? You’re a bit flushed.”

  To prove his point, heat crawls up my neck; Mat clearly notices it, because his eyes trace the path too low for comfort. While there isn’t anything I’d call interest there—which I am uncertain if I find pleasing or insulting—his focus lingers far too long at the vee of my robe. I pull the pieces together so tightly they turn form fitting.

  I wave two fingers in front of my face. “Eyes up here.”

  He sighs and does as I ask. Even blushes a bit himself. “My apologies.”

  “Perhaps I ought to be asking you how you’re feeling.”

  Something that sounds perilously close to both a sob and a chuckle falls out of the landless prince standing before me. “Honestly? It’s been a bitch of a morning. When you didn’t show . . .”

  Uneasy silence falls between us for long seconds as we warily regard one another. And it’s irrational, but a bit of guilt taunts me, considering there is a man in my bedroom, one I’m falling in love with, and instead of being with him, I am out here going through the motions with a man everyone thinks I ought to marry.

  I clear my throat. “We need to talk.”

  He releases another sigh, one born of irritation edged with sadness. And then he covers his eyes with a hand and turns away, shaking his head.

  Uneasy silence transitions into excruciating stillness. I am ready to voice my concerns more forcefully when he breathes deeply, straightens his back, and once more faces me.

  Frustration reflects back at me. “I’m begging you to let all the arguments go. I can’t . . . What’s this going to be like, you and I going at this every single time we see one another? Is this our future? One massive row after another? I know you don’t want to marry me. You’ve made that perfectly clear. If you want to argue about it some more . . . do it with those who actually have a say in the matter.”

  It’s enough to draw me closer. “Who would that be?”

  He runs a hand through his hair. Says nothing.

  “Mat.” I touch his shoulder, drawing his focus to me. “Talk to me. Maybe together, we can figure a way out—”

  The next words burst out of him. “Stop. Just—I’m trying, all right? I’m doing my bloody best with this incredibly shitty situation. I need you to try, too. Especially when they’re watching.”

  “When who is watching? The same people who have a so-called say in this matter?”

  He shifts away, his shoulder sliding from my fingers as he clears his throat. “Obviously, brunch is no longer an option. And I think in light of how we’re both feeling, we ought to skip lunch as well. Hopefully my parents will understand. Let’s try again at dinner tonight. I’ll send a car to pick you up at eight.”

  “Talk to me.” I’m begging, but I have no other choice. “I’m blind to something right now. Don’t leave me in the dark.”

  As he steps through the door, a sad little shake of the head precedes, “I’ll see you tonight, Elsa.”

  chapter 51

  Christian

  For one brief, uncharitable moment, I despise my old mate, even as red alerts flash through my mind during the brief conversation between Mat and Elsa. Something isn’t right here, and while I now know part of the story behind why Prince Gustav is so keen to ensure Elsa marries into the Chambéry name, it strikes me there must be a pretty soul-sucking reason on Mat’s end, too.

  Elsa reappears in the doorway, her luminous face reflecting all the concerns brewing inside me. “Did you hear any of that?”

  I fold back the covers and pat the empty space next to me. “Yes.”

  She slips into the bed. “He is hiding something. I’m sure of it.”

  “You’re wearing too many clothes. And yes, I agree about Mat.”

  When her hands drift to the robe’s sash, her head tilts to the side in a way that nearly distracts me from what we need to talk about. “You two are friendly, correct? Do you have any idea what it might be? Why he insists I must try when they—whoever they are—are watching?”

  “Let me do this.” My deft fingers unwrap the knot and slide the silky robe off her shoulders all within two seconds. As shafts of dust-sparkling sunlight filtered by gauzy curtains fall down upon her, I marvel at how my lungs forget how to instinctually work all too often when I’m with this woman.

  I force myself to focus on the problem at hand. “What has he told you of his past?”

  She takes the initiative to toss the robe across the bed and onto the floor. “Probably as much as I’ve told him: little to nothing.”

  I drop a kiss on a pale, smooth shoulder. “Nothing exchanged during those teas you two shared?”

  A hand drifts onto my thigh. “What were you and my sister sharing during yours?”

  “Not a damn thing.” No. That’s unfair of me. I clarify, “Actually, she shared an excessive amount about horses and the weather.”

  Soft laughter curls around us, instantly leaving me wanting much more. “Point made. You were saying? About Mat’s past? Something I apparently don’t know about?”

  My lips trace the sloped curve where neck and shoulders meet. Ah, yes. We were discussing
Mat. “When he lived in America, he was involved with a woman named Kim.”

  She sighs softly, leaning into me, but the moment my words register, I lose her. Elsa leans back, bottom lip pulled once more between her teeth. “When did they break up?”

  When I tell her I haven’t a clue, she presses, “Is she American?”

  I nod. “The last I heard, his family didn’t know about her.”

  She smacks the bed. “He told me he’d been in love before.”

  “Ah, so you two were sharing.”

  A dismissive hand waves between us. “There were no details other than he’d been in love before. This must be who he was referencing.” She glances around. “I asked Charlotte to look into his past, but I’ve yet to hear from her, thanks to Her Serene Highness’ supervision.”

  “Mat’s relationship with Kim wasn’t public knowledge,” I inject. “He went to great lengths to keep it quiet.”

  “Yet you knew.”

  “Well, there were a select number of us who did, yes. It wasn’t like I was going to spill his secrets to the press, though. I had a hard enough time ensuring my own business was kept under lock and key. That said, Mat was very protective of Kim. He didn’t want the press hounding her movements as they do with so many others that our kind get involved with.”

  She takes all of this in quietly. “Did you know her?”

  I nod. “You’d have liked her, all things considering.”

  “Why did he never tell his family? Is it because she is American?”

  I choose my words carefully; no matter what, this is still not my story to tell. “Partially. It also had a lot to do with the fact that Kim came from an exceedingly violent neighborhood riddled with crime. Two of her siblings are in gangs; one of those is—or was at the time—in jail, the other has been in and out of prison for years. That wasn’t the kind of life Kim wanted, though. She worked hard to become a doctor. There was genuine fear on both their behalves, I think, that his family would disapprove. And hers, too.”