by Pippa Grant
I watch her neck arch back, the deep flush overtaking her skin while I coax her higher with a thumb to her engorged pearl. “That’s it, love. Come for me.”
Is she always this sensitive?
Or is she merely this sensitive for me?
Her grip on my shoulders is tight enough to leave bruises. The feel of her pussy milking my fingers makes my cock throb in desperation, and the sheer bliss on her face as her climax fades into softer, irregular spasms makes me mad with desire to shag this woman every hour of every day for the foreseeable future.
“Ohmydog,” she whispers reverently.
I flick her clit once more.
Gooseflesh erupts over her entire body, and her channel squeezes again. “You’re magnificent,” I murmur.
I pull my fingers from her pussy and lick at her come. “And delicious.”
Her eyes have barely focused, but they go dark once again. “The party,” she whispers.
“We’re not done, my lady. Are you always so sensitive?”
She shakes her head, a bit of pride sneaking into her smile. Still with that blacked-out tooth. Those ridiculous beer-can curlers.
I’ve never in my life been quite so raging hard for a woman so very bloody improper and yet so perfectly cute.
Cute.
Cute is for lambs and schoolgirls and my nephew learning to swing a stick. Cute is not for the women I bed.
Yet I very much love how very bloody cute Gracie Diamonte is.
“I wish to bend you over my table and bury my cock so deep inside you that I’m unable to tell where I end and where you begin,” I tell her.
Color rises on her cheeks. “You talk dirty,” she whispers.
“What would you have me do?” I ask as I nip at her shoulder.
She slowly licks her lips, her gaze dipping to my aching cock, and I can’t decide if she’s gathering courage to say what’s on her mind, or if she’s drawing out the suspense.
“First?” she asks like a bloody minx, her fingers trailing down my chest. “Or do you want a list?”
I swallow. “Your choice, my lady.”
Her fingers follow her gaze, down down down to the very prominent reminder of my own arousal. “I’d have you laid out on this table so that I could ride you like a cowgirl.”
The image of her breasts bouncing above me while she pumps her hips over my swollen cock nearly makes me go cross-eyed.
“Or maybe I’d rather you fuck me against the wall,” she whispers. “Or eat me in the shower. Or take me from behind on all fours in your bed. Or maybe I’d like you to stand absolutely still while I give you a blow job.”
Black dots are dancing in my vision, because all blood flow has ceased except to flood my raging hard-on. She grabs my bollocks in one hand while she grips me about the base with the other and strokes me to the tip, and I nearly come all over my table.
I grab her wrists. “Gracie.”
She twists to capture my mouth with hers and pulls me down as she shifts back and spreads herself on the table. “I want you inside me,” she whispers. “I want you inside me now. Just you. Please.”
I’m not one to make a lady ask twice. I lift her beneath her knees, scoot her back, and follow her onto the table. She spreads her legs wide, giving me a glimpse of her sweet glistening pussy, ready for me, wanting me.
I settle between her legs and kiss her as I press my cock to her entrance once more. She grips my arse and tilts her hips into me, taking me deeper inside, her hot silky flesh welcoming my aching cock. We glide together, skin to skin, and I find I’m unable to hold a steady rhythm.
I want her.
I need her.
She’s the only thing in the world that is mine and mine alone. “I can’t be smooth, love,” I tell her. “I can’t be slow. I need you hard and fast.”
She whimpers and moans, pumping her hips up to meet my every slam into her body. I should slow, go easy, but she’s driving me wild, pushing out rational thought in my desperate attempt to imprint her forever with the feel of my cock in her pussy, the reminder that she is mine, that I’m giving her a piece of me that no other mortal being shall ever have.
“Gracie—”
“Manning,” she cries.
She clenches and squeezes my cock deep within her, her eyes lock on mine, and I swear I glimpse the heavens as her climax overtakes her again.
I thrust once, twice more, and join her, unable to tear my gaze from hers as we ride wave after wave of pleasure together, me spilling into her, her body welcoming me and spurring my release harder, hotter, higher.
I’ve traveled the world. I’ve stood on an Olympic podium with the team of my nation. I’ve been cheered in parades and arenas, stood atop glaciers and helicoptered through dormant volcanoes, and yet nothing—nothing—compares to the thrill of pleasuring this woman.
And it’s not merely a thrill.
It’s also peace.
As though I’ve finally come home.
I spend my last and catch myself before I fall atop her. My muscles are lax rubber bands, my bones as sturdy as jellyfish, my throat suspiciously thick as I watch the last of her aftershocks leave her body.
Her head is tilted, her beer-can curlers askew, her breath coming rapidly. And she’s giving me a soft, sweet smile that I do not deserve. I stroke a hand up her side, wishing to kiss her and stroke her and to stay here in our private cocoon, the rest of the world carrying on without us.
“You shall sleep in my bed the remainder of your visit,” I inform her.
“No.”
Confounding woman. My grin easily finds me, because how could I not relish the opportunity to spar with this woman over which of us will care for the other? “Yes.”
“No—mmph!”
I clamp a hand over her mouth, because there’s a sound from outside the wall.
She attempts to bite my fingers.
“Sshh,” I warn, unable to hide a smile at her spunk even as I twist to watch the closed entrance to my secret chamber.
The noise comes again.
My name.
On a woman’s lips.
In my private quarters.
Elin.
Fuck.
25
Gracie
I freeze as the consequences of what we’ve done hit me.
If Elin finds us in here—
Dammit, I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen if Elin finds us in here. I can’t remember why Manning is supposed to marry her in the first place. Did I ever know?
Or did he just give me some story about doing it for country and duty?
I briefly wonder what it would be like to have Elin as a princess of my country, and decide that even at twenty-seven, and even growing up in Goat’s Tit, I’ve lived long enough, seen enough political news here, and watched enough of my celebrity crushes marry the wrong person to actually understand.
The people of Stölland will be horrified.
Or at least a good portion of them. Probably half, at a minimum. Or so I’d hope. She’s really unpleasant. And everyone did look so happy to share in the king’s joy on his wedding day that I’d like to think the royal family is popular.
“Manning?” Even muffled by the wall, there’s no mistaking the clipped irritation in Elin’s tone. “Where the fuck are you?”
I tell myself she won’t find us—especially like this, with Manning’s cock still half-hard and buried deep inside me—and I hiccup.
His gaze shifts back to me, and I simultaneously pick up the are you alright? question, the do be quiet glare, and the careful with squeezing the goods, love, I’m not quite ready for the next round wink.
I hiccup again, and this time it comes from so deep within me that my entire stomach caves in with the pressure, and a half-burp carries out of my throat along with the hiccup noise.
Manning’s cock stirs harder against my sensitive walls.
“Manning?” Elin says.
I clap my own hand over my mouth and pinch my lips togeth
er. Another hiccup is coming. Dammit. I didn’t even eat that much. Or drink anything.
There’s silence for a moment, followed by the chirp of a phone and—
“Hello, darling. I was just thinking of you.”
I blink. Manning blinks. Our gazes collide, and I hiccup again.
His pupils darken, and when his perpetual smile grows, there’s nothing innocent or friendly about it.
It’s pure carnal delight, with the evidence of his interest growing within me.
And no, I’m not talking about the baby.
“I know,” Elin says. “I’m bloody well doing everything I can. He was out of town all last week.”
Guilt socks me in the gut. And where guilt goes, apparently hiccups follow.
I spot my tank top on the table, and I shove the fabric in my mouth to stop the sound.
Also, my neck’s starting to ache from holding my head up. These beer-can curlers aren’t exactly the most comfortable pillow.
Also also, some of the paint I used on my teeth is in Manning’s beard.
And there’s something sticky on his chest that’s making our abdomens make a weird slurpy-slidey noise whenever I hiccup and our skin peels apart.
This has to be the most hilariously terrible predicament I’ve ever found myself in, and I once almost got arrested for mooning the local Baptist preacher because I was hyped up on too much caffeine and sugar after Tammy and I bet the geek busters we could out-drink them.
Yes, it was last year. And yes, I still got out of it by telling the deputy Joey would kill me if I got arrested.
I hiccup again, Manning’s eyes go darker and linger on my lips, and he hardens even more inside me as though he intends to go again.
My pussy gives me a high five, because either pregnancy has made me incredibly horny and sensitive, or he’s just that good.
“One more week, darling. Surely he’ll cry off by then.”
I’m ignoring Elin, because Manning’s fingers are creeping down my breast to tease my already over-stimulated nipples. And my already over-stimulated nipples demand that I arch up into his touch.
Dog, the warmth in that smile when his hooded gaze locks on mine again.
Elin’s saying something again, but her voice is going more distant. I hiccup again, a giant, dorky, completely unsophisticated hiccup barely stifled by my tank top, and there’s no mistaking the effect on Manning.
His cock thickens hard, and he gently rocks his hips against mine.
Dog help me, he feels so fucking right inside me.
More words on the other side of the wall, but they’re so far away. So far away.
I hiccup.
Manning squeezes his eyes shut. “Gracie,” he mouths, my name barely audible on his lips.
“I can’t stop,” I whisper.
“Thank god,” he replies. “That feels wonderful.”
I giggle, a mixture of pain and pleasure dances across his features, and I give my hips a tentative pump.
“You’re going to bloody kill me,” he breathes into my ear.
I don’t reply.
Instead, I hiccup. He moans softly and thrusts again.
We lay on the table like that, listening for any sounds outside the room, me hiccupping, him moving his hips just so, igniting my raw nerve endings and making me want so badly.
Just want.
Want to stay here. With him. In his bed. His home. His life.
I tell myself this was necessary sex. That I had to seduce him so that he’ll help me understand why he has to marry Elin, because problems are so much easier to solve when you can get to the root instead of treating the symptoms.
And once more, I hiccup.
Once more, he groans and thrusts into me, and suddenly I don’t care why I’m lying here on this table, because that desperate release is spiraling deep inside me, hovering on the brink of explosion again, my tender, wrung-out flesh pulsing with desire, and ohmydog I’m coming.
He moans into my neck, sparks shower across my skin, and I don’t care if anyone can hear me gasping and panting as shockwaves of pleasure roll through my body once again.
This can’t be normal. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.
My body’s entirely too satisfied to complain about anything, even if this last orgasm is short and pushing the boundaries of what my body is capable of.
But I still manage another hiccup.
Manning winces as he pulls out, pressing a kiss to my forehead as though to compensate for leaving an empty void inside me. “Magic hiccups,” he says, still softly, I assume in case Elin is lying in wait, hoping to catch us when we walk out. He touches one of my can curlers. “These can’t be comfortable.”
Now that he mentions it, there’s one on the side pulling my hair weird. I must be a mess. A sexed-up, satisfied, utter mess.
He pulls me to sitting, steps back, and stifles a howl.
Legos.
Legos all over the floor.
“Oh, no,” I whisper.
“Quite worth it,” he tells me with a grin. His real grin—easy, friendly, and happy—not the smile that comes with the twitch in his cheek or hard glint in his eyes when someone’s being a pain in the ass.
He touches my hair again. “I’m afraid I’m quite useless at fixing this.”
“And you need to get back to your party.”
He blinks as though he’s forgotten he has guests. “Quite right.” A brief break in his smile makes his brows furrow. “Gracie—”
“If you’re planning on telling me anything about honor and duty without telling me the real reason you’re betrothed to Elin, I’m going to sneak in here and dismantle every last one of your Legos and steal your shoes and hide pieces all over your apartment.”
His smile widens, and he bends to press a quick kiss to my swollen lips. “Quite bloody terrifying when you want to be, aren’t you?”
“I learned from the best.”
He brushes a thumb over my cheek as though he can’t get enough. I can relate—I’m stroking his arms, the thick cords of muscle beneath hot skin, and I don’t want to stop.
“Stay.” He waves a hand about the room. “Play to your heart’s content. I must get back downstairs. I’ll have someone bring up food. After the party…”
He pauses.
“We’ll make a real plan,” I say.
There’s that look again.
The look that says he’s just going to humor me, because he thinks he can solve this all by himself.
Sweet man. Misguided and wrong, but sweet. I’ll let him think he’ll get away with it.
But only until the party’s over.
Then, he’s going to find out just how stubborn I can be.
26
Manning
As soon as the last guest has left—carrying a case of mead, because his Instagram profile has half a million followers who love seeing what he’s drinking every day, and free publicity is golden—I take myself down the hall to the guest chambers and knock at Elin’s door.
No, I don’t bloody well care that she retired two hours ago, that I’m due for morning skate in six hours, or that her monkey is making faces at me as he follows me along.
I care that we find a solution to the mess our parents have gotten us into.
And we shan’t find that solution if we don’t talk.
Her conversation finally penetrated my brain somewhere between Panther’s impromptu concert in my living room sometime after I returned from making love to Gracie and before Viktor murmuring that the monkey had gotten stuck inside the penis costume.
Elin has a boyfriend.
She’s trying to get me to call off.
I knock again, and this time I hear her voice. “Go the fuck away.”
Such a winning personality. I open the door and stick my head in, finding her not in bed, but bent over a laptop in the stiff round chair in the corner. “Thank you, I’d love to come in,” I say with a smile.
She snaps the laptop shut. “Go. The fu
ck. Away.”
“You don’t wish to marry me.”
A ruddy hue creeps unevenly into her cheeks. “Of course I do,” she says flatly and without any feeling. “You’re so strong and studly and gorgeous and important.”
I tighten my biceps, and the lady makes a face as though she’s attempting to keep her dinner down.
“You forgot my winning personality.”
“So bloody irresistible.”
Can’t be comfortable walking around with her face pinched like that all the time. She must constantly battle headaches. “Nothing’s stopping you from calling off.”
Her blood-red lips purse, and unless I’m quite off the mark—and I’ve had more alcohol spilled on me than I’ve consumed this evening, so I very much doubt I’m off the mark—that’s panic making her eyes widen. “Obviously something is,” she mutters.
“It strikes me that a common goal would make us better allies than enemies.”
Ah, yes, the old the Prince of Morons has entered the building eye roll. My favorite.
“’So your beloved is an inappropriate match for a lady?” I surmise.
Her eyes flare wider, her flush deepens, and she grips the edges of her laptop so tight I fear she might crush the device. I briefly wonder if she’s ever tried to do damage with a hockey stick, because with a grip like that—right.
We were discussing our betrothal and her boyfriend. Not Elin’s potential prowess on the ice. Though I do think she could be bloody terrifying. Pity she wasn’t born a man.
More the pity we don’t live in a time when she could play hockey as a woman.
“No shame in having feelings for a person,” I tell her. “Merely a shame our relatives saw fit to remove the opportunity for the two of us to allow our hearts to lead us.”
“Just because you found yourself a whore—”
“Tsk, tsk, my lady. Your instructors at princess school would be horrified to know you’ve resorted to name-calling.”
There’s a decent chance I won’t leave this room alive if that temper spouting is any indication.