The Trouble With Princesses

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Chapter Eleven

  Ariadne’s head swam, but not from the surfeit of wine she’d drunk. It was Rupert’s kiss that made her dizzy. Rupert’s touch that left her intoxicated. She trembled and closed her eyes, pressing herself closer and putting everything she had into their kiss.

  She wasn’t really drunk—not like he thought—just loosened up enough to be bold, or rather bolder than she usually was. She sighed and followed his lead, opening her mouth so that he could slide his tongue inside.

  He had a wicked, wonderful tongue.

  Gifted, actually.

  He could do things that she’d never dreamed a man might do, silken, seductive things that made her heart stutter in her chest and her breath come in quick, ragged puffs.

  She knew this was a reaction she experienced only with him. During her kissing trials, she’d had one or two of her suitors try putting their tongues in her mouth, much to her great distaste.

  But there was no distaste with Rupert; quite the opposite.

  She liked this kind of kissing with Rupert—loved it, in fact.

  She moaned softly as he traced her lips, then tangled their tongues together in a dance that sent her senses spinning like a whirlwind.

  If she didn’t take care, she might soon find herself craving his touch like a drug, needing more from him than even she would be wise to take.

  She didn’t resist when he tumbled her backward and she found herself suddenly lying against the blanket. The sun that shone through the trees in dappled splotches lay warm against her eyelids and cheeks, but she barely noticed, too caught up in the luxurious bliss of Rupert’s kiss.

  His lips roamed over her face—forehead, temples, eyelids, cheeks, nose, chin—before traveling the length of her throat. He paused at the base and buried his face there for a moment, his thick golden hair brushing like silk against the underside of her jaw.

  Then he opened his mouth and drew against the flesh of her neck with a gentle, yet insistent pressure that tingled all the way to her toes. She shivered and angled her head so he could repeat the process on the other side.

  “It seems to me,” he murmured a small while later, “that you are far too buttoned up in that gown. Let’s remedy that, shall we?”

  Her eyes fluttered open, her lids heavy, as if drugged. “But we’re outside. P-perhaps we should go in the house.”

  Yet even as she made the suggestion, she had no great desire to go anywhere. She was much too relaxed, her insides as smooth and pliable as warm butter. Honestly, she wasn’t even sure she would be able to walk.

  “We’re completely alone out here,” he said, kissing a spot beneath her ear that she’d never before realized was sensitive. “The caretaker knows not to bother us.”

  “Does he?” she said on a husky sigh. “How convenient.”

  Rupert chuckled.

  His fingers slipped beneath her shoulders and sought out the row of buttons on the back of her gown. She offered no complaint as he deftly unfastened the first few, then pushed the short sleeves halfway down her arms.

  The tops of her breasts quivered where they swelled above her white silk chemise and stays. He lowered his head to brush his lips over the first plump curve in a tantalizing caress. He made a thorough exploration before moving on to her other breast to repeat the kiss in a way that was akin to slow torture, and yet utterly divine. His breath whispered over her skin, and she thought he was going to kiss her again. Instead he retraced his earlier path, only this time with his tongue.

  She gasped and burned hotter still, her eyelids falling closed against the exquisite pleasure as he laved a trail across the upper curve of both of her breasts, just above the edge of her undergarments. Then, without warning, he slid his fingers beneath her chemise and popped one breast free. Instinctively, she tried to raise her hands to shield herself, but found her arms trapped by her sleeves. He had her, she realized, utterly at his mercy.

  She forced herself to relax. After all, this is what she wanted—to be his lover—to explore this unknown, carnal side of her nature. She’d always been fearless, even on those occasions when she’d secretly quailed inside.

  Be fearless now. Give yourself over to the moment.

  And so she did, watching boldly as he studied her with the leisurely appreciation of a connoisseur admiring a piece of fine art. His eyes were extraordinarily blue and blazed with a heavy-lidded expression that she realized was desire. It was a curious sensation, being so openly regarded, exposed to both the elements and a man’s gaze—Rupert’s gaze.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “All soft pink and creamy white, just as I knew you would be.”

  “You thought about this? About me, like this?”

  His eyes flashed. “Of course. And a great deal more. This, my sweet, is only the beginning.”

  He stroked the edge of one thumb over her nipple, sending a ripple of sensation through her. The flesh of her breast tightened in pleasured agony, drawing into a hard nub that reddened as if it were blushing.

  Smiling, he flicked her nipple again . . . back and forth, then back and forth again before circling it so the tip puckered even more.

  She groaned, a deep ache lodging low between her thighs, the sensation growing more intense with each stroke.

  His fingers slid around to cup the underside of her breast, holding her as if testing its weight and shape. He had large hands, so she didn’t overflow his palm, yet he seemed well satisfied, rubbing his thumb over her sensitized bud again and smiling when she shuddered.

  Then he bent and took her into his mouth, savoring her as if their picnic were still taking place and she was the dessert. Her back arched, pressing her breast harder against his eager mouth as if begging for more. Clearly he was not loath to comply, drawing on her with a sweet suction that was all but her undoing.

  She shifted restlessly, trying to lift her arms again, suddenly desperate to touch him. She longed to bury her fingers in his hair, to stroke his face as he pleasured her. But she was trapped and despite her faint struggles, he seemed in no mood to release her.

  “Shh,” he hushed her, his breath warm against her moist flesh. “Just let yourself feel, Ariadne.”

  “B-but I want . . . I want . . . Ahh—” She couldn’t speak, her words forgotten as he raked his teeth over her tender nipple.

  “Good. Wanting is exactly how you should be. Now let’s see what else you may like.”

  He slid her other breast free of her chemise and stays and began working his dark magic on her again, his tongue warm and wet against her aching flesh. Her body responded more forcefully to his new ministrations, as if it had already learned what pleasure to expect and could not wait to enjoy more. He suckled harder, wringing a long cry from her throat, while he kneaded her abandoned breast with gentle, rhythmic strokes.

  She ached, her entire body aflame.

  “Do you like this, Ariadne?” he demanded, his tongue moving to press her nipple briefly against his teeth before suckling her again in a way that drove her half mad.

  “Y-yes.”

  “Do you want more?”

  She nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “Oh, yes, p-please,” she cried.

  “Please what?”

  “Please. More.”

  He laughed softly. “I rather like hearing you beg. Let’s see if I can make you beg some more.”

  Is that what I’m doing? Begging?

  The idea ought to have outraged her. In fact, she knew that under any other circumstance, she would be throwing such words back in his face. But at the moment she couldn’t seem to muster the will to do anything but feel. She needed him, wondered if she might die if he didn’t continue. No matter the consequences to her dignity later on, she couldn’t conceal that knowledge from herself or from him.

  He lifted his head from her breasts and moved to capture her mouth, taking her with an ardor that was a ravishment of sorts. Wildly, she kissed him back, frustrated again at her inability to free her arms and touch hi
m. He forced her mouth open wider, their tongues tangling in a frenzied mating that made her breath come in quick, ragged pants.

  He wasn’t immune to the power of their kiss either, his own breathing rapid and unsteady. Without breaking the kiss, he slid his palm in a slow glide over her body.

  Across her bare breasts. Along the flat plane of her stomach. Over the curve of her hip and thigh, all of which were still demurely clothed.

  He stopped when he reached her knee. Lost in a haze of passion, she was only half aware of his movements as he began pulling up the material of her skirt, gradually exposing her ankle and stocking-clad calf.

  Then his hand disappeared beneath.

  “And what do we have here?” he murmured against her mouth as he boldly explored. “Are you wearing drawers, Your Highness?” His fingers plucked at the thin silk, the undergarments secured by nothing more than a simple tie at her waist.

  She nodded, her heart racing madly. “They’re all the f-fashion these d-days.”

  “And yet many still consider them fast. I confess that I can see why.” His hand stole around to the open placket in the center of the garment to stroke the bare skin of one thigh.

  She trembled and bit her lip.

  “I suppose,” he mused as he continued his daring survey, “that I shouldn’t be surprised to find you wearing something so brazen, even if they are not ordinarily meant to be seen.”

  He glided his fingers along her right leg from knee to inner thigh, then back down again. She began shaking, suddenly unable to speak.

  “I find myself wondering, however . . .”

  Wondering what? she thought, letting the pleasure radiate through her body.

  “. . . what they look like,” he finished, as if she had spoken aloud.

  He reached down and tugged her skirt higher, flipping it and her thin summer petticoats up so they pooled at the top of her thighs.

  She stiffened, then twisted up to cover herself. But it was impossible, trapped as she was by her damnable sleeves. Her bare breasts jiggled with her efforts, drawing his gaze there for a long, heated moment before he looked lower once more.

  Instinctively, she drew her legs closed, her most private areas covered now by nothing more than a few wisps of cloth.

  He chuckled and kissed her mouth before moving to whisper in her ear. “Where’s my bold girl? Surely you aren’t afraid to let me see?”

  Her gaze locked with his, his eyes the color of a twilight sky.

  Is he right?

  Am I afraid?

  She’d never been a coward, had thought herself ready to delve into this new, unexplored world of physical craving. Yet it would appear that she was still fettered by some natural inhibitions. But he was her lover now—of that there could be no more doubt—which meant that she had given him a certain claim upon her body. Of course he expected not only to touch her and kiss her but also to look upon her naked form—no matter how unnerving that might seem to her at the moment.

  Perhaps her unexpected shyness stemmed from the fact that she was lying practically naked while he was still fully clothed—he didn’t have so much as a wrinkle in his cravat! Then too there was the fact that they were outside in a garden, leaving her exposed in ways she had never imagined she might ever be.

  Merciful heavens, what have I gotten myself into?

  She plucked futilely at the side of her bunched-up skirt, trying to push it down. It barely moved. “Are you sure we are absolutely alone?”

  “Of course. You know I would never do anything to put you at risk.”

  And she did know that. She could trust him, remembering again why she had decided that he, above all other men, should be her first lover.

  With that thought, she gave in and lay back again. She considered closing her eyes, but realized that she wanted to watch him as he looked at her.

  Will he like what he sees?

  He kissed her again with a fervor that set her atremble. She moaned, relishing the dark bliss of his mouth as it moved against hers. Then he was inching her skirts even higher, exposing her completely to his gaze. A breeze rose just then, sliding over her skin like a caress.

  He leaned up on one elbow. “Hmm, I do like these drawers of yours.” He smiled and ran one finger under the tie at her waist. “They’re quite . . . evocative.”

  She shivered, her breath coming faster again.

  His eyelids grew heavier, his expression rapt with hunger and masculine approval. “You’re every bit as lovely here,” he said, moving a palm over one quivering thigh, “as you are here.” Bending down, he nuzzled her breasts again, kissing them both before playfully taking one nipple between his teeth and giving it a light nip.

  She arched and cried out, pleasure raking through her like a violent storm.

  His hand roved onward, exploring again at his leisure, as if he had all the time in the world, his eyes following the progress of his hand. Up one thigh he went, then down the other, stroking her in a tantalizing dance that set her teeth on edge. He caressed her stomach too, teasing her, before he began the tortuous pattern again.

  She ached deep in her core, becoming uncomfortably aware of the moisture gathering at the juncture of her thighs. Squeezing her legs tighter, she fought the sweet agony.

  Yet, as if he knew exactly what she was feeling, he stopped his roaming and lifted his palm, only to lay it directly atop the triangle of pale curls that grew between her legs.

  “Spread your thighs,” he commanded, his fingers playing lightly on her.

  A jolt shot through her, the traitorous wetness between her thighs turning into a slow weeping. But as much as her body urged her to obey, she hesitated.

  “If there’s anything you don’t like, I promise to stop,” he said.

  But that was the problem. She wasn’t afraid she wouldn’t like it. She feared she would—too much. She was already on the verge of losing what little control she had left. If he touched her as she suspected he was about to touch her, she would have no free will left at all.

  “Let me, Ariadne,” he whispered. “Let me in.”

  Her whole body trembled, her pulse racing as if her heart might burst. Then she did as he asked, forcing her muscles to unwind, her thighs to edge apart.

  His fingers slid down, parting her before delving into her slick heat. She gasped, her eyelids fluttering as he eased a single finger in up to his knuckle. But she didn’t close her eyes. Instead, she watched him as he watched her.

  Slowly, gently, he began to stroke with a deep inner massage that heightened the ache rather than alleviated it.

  “You’re so wet,” he said, sliding deeper.

  She groaned. “I-is that b-bad?”

  He gave a quiet laugh. “Not at all. It only means you’re passionate. But then, we knew that already.”

  He stroked faster, in and out, then in and out again.

  She bit her lip and dug her nails into the blanket, her breath coming in rapid little pants.

  “That’s it,” he said encouragingly. “Give in. Just let yourself feel.”

  She ought to have been embarrassed, but she wasn’t, his touch doing things to her that she had never thought possible, not even in her wildest imaginings. Her eyelids drifted down, her sight glazing over from a surfeit of unbridled pleasure.

  He used his thumb to some devilish new purpose, flicking it over a highly sensitive nub of flesh that sharpened the ache to a knife’s edge. She moaned and opened her legs wider, inviting him to go deeper. He did, quickening his strokes, making her gasp and moan and burn.

  Need built higher, a craving that she didn’t understand but sought desperately to relieve. He held her quite literally in his palm, her whole world poised on the brink.

  Then he pressed a little harder, moved a little faster, and sent her flying over the precipice. A keening cry sang out from between her lips, the sound drifting away on the breeze. She shook as rapture exploded within her like a sunburst, golden and glorious, warming her inside and out.

 
; She collapsed, the earth spinning wildly around her even though she’d never left the ground.

  With a giddy smile on her face, she let herself float.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rupert watched her, relishing the play of emotion that flickered over her face, savoring the dusky pink flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun shining through the trees above. She looked stunned, but blissfully so, as though the world had been tilted off its axis and she was trying to set it right again.

  Her body lay warm and wet against his hand, her tender inner flesh clamped around his finger with a sweet suction. Her muscles twitched sporadically in the aftermath of lingering bliss.

  He knew he ought to break the connection, but he stayed where he was. He wasn’t entirely sure that he trusted himself, with his shaft hard and begging for relief. It would be far too easy to unfasten the buttons on his falls and take her. She wouldn’t resist; he knew that much as well. But he’d promised himself he would leave her a virgin—or at least enough of one to still have an intact maidenhead for her future husband to claim should she ever change her mind about marrying.

  By damn was he tempted, though, her luscious feminine flesh spread before him like some decadent feast ready to be sampled. But even if he couldn’t indulge in a full meal, there were still ways to satisfy himself.

  And truly he was enjoying himself in spite of the savage ache in his balls. Watching her take her pleasure for the very first time had been a satisfaction all its own. He could think of few experiences he’d ever found more beautiful, or more memorable.

  Her inner muscles flexed lightly against his finger again, reminding him exactly how vulnerable and at his mercy she still was.

  Should I? he wondered, a slow, wicked smile curving his mouth.

  She opened her eyes, her expression dreamy and replete, but returning to rationality.

  Suddenly he didn’t want her to return. He wanted to keep her in his thrall, to drive her mad with desire.

  Sliding his finger out, he added a second and pushed them back in, careful but insistent. Her eyes widened, her body stretching to accommodate this new intrusion. She was already wet, but she grew suddenly wetter, her channel slick and clearly anxious for this second round of pleasure.