by Vivian Wood
“Kit—” I hesitate.
I know I can’t just drop her off at some fucking hotel in the middle of the night, without a reservation or anyone to make sure she gets to her room. She’s not a royal heir, but she’s not exactly persona non grata either.
Shaking my head, I turn the car north, toward the poshest part of the city.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Kit says. I’m not sure how she knows, since her eyes are closed, but she’s right — if I was taking her to the Wemberley.
“You’re coming to my place,” I tell her.
“What?” She cracks an eye open. “Why?”
“I’m not leaving you sloshed downtown all alone,” I say.
“I can take care of myself, Rex.”
The sound of my nickname on her lips makes my hands tighten on the custom leather wheel and my jaw tense.
“We’re almost there already. Are you going to make me drive farther after I’ve been drinking?” I ask her.
In truth, I haven’t had a drink in almost an hour now, maybe more. I’m certainly below the legal limit, and would never drive if I wasn’t sure I was fully in control.
Not after I watched my best friend die in the driver’s seat, saw him breathe his last with no one else there to witness the moment. No fucking way.
Kit’s lips thin with dismay, but she just looks away out the window. Assent, of a kind.
I’ll take what I can get, I guess.
Soon enough we’re pulling into my building, parking, heading to the glass elevator that runs from the ground floor all the way to the penthouse — the level occupied solely by my sprawling flat.
“This is something,” Kit murmurs as we ride up the fourteen floors to the penthouse. “I didn’t realize you’d moved.”
“You wouldn’t know, would you?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and it sounds angry.
A horrifying thought occurs: Maybe Sophie was wrong. Maybe I’m not the jealous ex. Maybe I’m the bitter ex.
I don’t give Kit a chance to respond as we step into my place. I don’t want to hear it, if she’s even got an answer or a reason.
“Nice,” she comments from behind me.
And it is nice. The whole apartment is done in cream and mahogany, low furniture scattered about in a layout that encourages people to stay up till the wee hours, talking and laughing and drinking wine. It’s a party apartment, especially the gorgeous balcony and hot tub overlooking the Stanfeld Gardens below.
It’s a leftover from the old me, from my old life, but I haven’t been able to get rid of it yet. Like so many things from my past, like the leftover feelings for Kit that have risen to the surface tonight.
It’s been five years. I’m over it. I haven’t been that guy in a long, long time.
Pushing thoughts of the past out of my head for the hundredth time tonight, I head straight into my bedroom and open drawers, sorting through stacks of fresh laundry until I find a set of flannel pajamas for Kit. They’re going to drown her, they’re so big. Fine by me. Now that we’re here in my apartment, I’d rather her considerable assets be well-hidden than on display and within reach.
She saunters into my bedroom in her bare feet, her hair mussed and lipstick a little smeared. She sits on the edge of my bed.
“Here,” I say, tossing her the pajamas. “I’m the only one who gets to be naked in this apartment. There are three spare bedrooms and a nice couch, find somewhere to crash.”
Kit doesn’t move, just tilts her head. She bites her lip, her eyes traveling up and down my body, and in that moment I would give everything I own to know what she’s thinking.
“You look different,” she says, her lashes lowering to disguise her thoughts. “Taller, at least.”
“Kit…” I begin, but what is there to say? There’s too much left unspoken between us, old riddles and wounds, and this is just not the time to open that door.
Hell, there will probably never be a proper time for it. What good could possibly come of talking about that argument? The night she kissed my lips, crept out of my palace bedroom, and disappeared from my life?
Yeah, I am not in the fucking mood to unravel the mysteries of Kit tonight.
I unlace and kick off my Doc Martens, then pull my shirt off. I won’t say I don’t feel a rush of pleasure at the way Kit’s eyes widen when she sees the effects of all the hours I put in at the gym. Or maybe she’s more shocked at the fact that I’m dripping with tattoos, dark whorls of ink on my shoulders, pecs, arms, and sides.
“See something you like?” I ask. Just for a second, I want to make her as tense as I feel right now, want to see if I can make her blush.
Kit’s eyes leave my chest to lock with mine. They’re a little darker than usual. I wonder if it’s just the alcohol, or if she’s feeling as twisted up and curious as I am.
“Rex…” she says. She shifts on my bed. Her dress hitches up, flashing her black lace garter.
That’s all it takes; I’m hard as a fucking rock, thinking about how the sweet, innocent Kit I used to know has changed. The girl who was so wholesome that it nearly killed her to ask me to fuck her the first time, to take her v-card.
And yet here she is on my bed, garters clinging to her thighs, looking at me with those big doe eyes. In two strides, I’m standing over her. In another beat, I’m trailing a fingertip over that garter.
She’s not wearing stockings, so the garter must connect to something else she’s wearing.
“Rex,” she says again. I don’t look at her, though. I look at the garter, slip my finger under it and test its elasticity. I pull it and let it bounce back against her bare skin with a snap.
“Kit,” I say. “You really shouldn’t be here tonight.”
Her cheeks are flushed this delicate shade of pink, her lips redder than fresh blood.
“You brought me here, Rex.”
I have to touch her; I think I’ll die if I don’t touch Kit, right this second. I can’t seem to stop myself from reaching out and pulling the silky blonde curtain of her hair back over her shoulder.
Her lips part on a soft gasp when I run my thumb over her collarbone, when I tug her earlobe, when I brush the sensitive underside of her jaw.
Her intake of breath is audible. She’s either about to moan or protest, and I can’t stand either, for very different reasons. Her protest won’t make any difference now, not when I’m so close to her.
And her moan, well… Kit’s moans still play in my dreams, sometimes. They’re that powerful, and I don’t want to lose control like that.
Not here. Not with this girl, the one fucking girl I shouldn’t have and certainly shouldn’t want.
So I don’t let her respond. I lean down and press my lips to hers. Her lips are just as warm and soft and perfect as I remembered. The male hunger in me is already thinking about just how those lips would feel wrapped around my cock.
One of many things that I never got to find out, before. Two fumbling teenagers desperately in love, sneaking away once or twice a month during palace functions to fuck in a broom closet.
It’s a miracle she ever let me have her more than once, little as I knew about pleasing women back then.
Kit’s hand comes up to close over mine, which is when I realize that I’ve been cupping her full, heavy breast through her dress. She looks at me, our gazes lock, and suddenly I know that if I don’t get the fuck away from her, we’re going to end up in serious trouble.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I tell Kit. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She leans back, lipstick smeared, chest rising and falling against the thin fabric of her dress.
For a second, I almost give in. For a second, I know that we’re going to fuck, that it’s going to be amazing. I lean closer, closer, until my lips brush hers again, our eyes locked, neither of us able to look away.
I know that she will fill the void inside me, the black hole that’s been eating away at me since the day of the accident. Longer, maybe. Si
nce the day she left.
She will take all of this away, if I put it all on her. If I’m enough of an asshole to do that…
“Fuck,” she whispers against my lips, tears welling in her eyes.
What the hell is she thinking now?
I don’t find out out, though. Kit blinks and looks away, and the spell is broken.
I drag in a breath I didn’t know I desperately needed and step back, shaken.
I turn and storm to the ensuite bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I strip and get in the shower, feeling angry at what I almost did, at the fact that I’m still hard for her.
If she hadn’t pulled back…
She may have just saved us both, more than she can know. I am ashamed now, embarrassed at my lack of control.
Around the one person in my life…
Fuck, the one girl who’s made me feel like this before, right before she ripped my heart out and stomped on it.
Our parents, the royal bullshit, none of that need factor into it. Our own history is reason enough.
I can’t go around snogging fucking Katherine Saville.
I can’t want her, not like this. Not so fucking desperately.
And above all else, I absolutely fucking cannot actually have her.
I shower in frigid water, standing under the icy spray until my heart stops pounding, until my cock ceases its demand that I bury myself inside Kit and fuck her senseless.
When I come out, she’s dressed in the flannel pajamas and sprawled across my bed, snoring softly. Her dress is on the floor, along with a pile of silky lingerie that I refuse to let myself examine.
Too far, I tell my libido, getting creepy now.
Though I usually sleep naked as the moment of my birth, I pull on a pair of boxer briefs. Better not to tempt fate, not where Kit’s concerned. I walk around the bed, trying to figure out how to get in without disturbing Kit.
Unfortunately for me, she’s passed out squarely in the middle.
Figures.
With a sigh, I turn out the lights and push back the covers, then adjust Kit until she’s not quite so in the way. She stirs in her sleep as I situate myself, turning and wrapping herself around me in a majorly unfortunate way.
Mostly unfortunate for my hard-on, which has returned in full force.
She mumbles something in her sleep. I shift, trying to get comfortable, and she giggles.
“What’s that now, Kit?” I ask, amused.
“Rex is back,” she whispers. “Did you see him?”
“That I did, Kitten,” I tell her.
She burrows into the crook of my arm, happy as a fucking clam, and goes to sleep.
Me, on the other hand? Good thing I have a lot of training functioning on very little sleep, because I don’t see any happening for me.
Not tonight, not with Kit in my arms.
6
Kit
The first thing I see when I open my eyes is a steaming mug of fragrant coffee, hovering in front of my face.
The second thing I see, once I sit up, is Rex’s smug fucking face.
“Oh, god damn it,” I immediately say. Ignoring the coffee, I flop back on the bed and pull one of the pillows over my head to block him out of my vision.
Except, when I inhale, it smells unmistakably of him.
“FUUUUUUCK!” I scream into the pillow, thrashing a little for good measure.
When I’m done, I heave a big breath and sit up again.
Rex’s smirk has morphed to an expression not unlike that he’d give a misbehaving child.
“Do you want the coffee or not?” he asks, growing impatient.
I reach out and take it from him. I glance at it and wrinkle my nose, but I don’t say anything. I sip it and let the warmth wash through me.
“What?” he asks. “You don’t like coffee anymore?”
It was one of the things we bonded over in school. We both used to sneak off school grounds and run into one another at the closest coffee shop, both jiving for some caffeine.
“I do. I just… I drink it black, usually.”
Rex’s dimple flashes.
“I seem to remember you drinking the girliest, sweetest lattes they had. Triple peppermint mocha frappa-whatsits,” he teases.
“You remember that?” I ask, frowning when I realize that he’s fully dressed. Not just dressed, but wearing a vest, dress pants, and a button up with a tie. Damn, he does clean up nicely. “Where are you going?”
“Not me, we. We have been summoned to the palace. I called Marj and had your suitcase brought over,” he says, glancing at me. “Much as I like you in my pajamas, Kitten.”
“Rex…” I growl.
“Don’t fucking call me that,” he says, doing an unflattering imitation of me. “Get dressed. Actually, take a shower, Grandmother will be livid if she gets within a foot of you. There’s vodka coming out your pores, Kitten.”
I close my eyes and take a big sip of the coffee. It’s super sweet, but at least it’s coffee.
When I open them again, Rex is shoving a towel into my free hand.
“We have to be at the palace in an hour,” he says. “Get fucking moving.”
I set my coffee on his bedside table, jump up, and grab my wheeled suitcase. As I head for the bathroom, he stops me.
“Go to the guest bathroom,” he says, looking at me with derision. “This is my flat, not your university dorm. Jesus.”
I flush, but I’m not about to give him the fight he’s so clearly angling for. I don’t have time for it. No one, and I mean no one, is late to see the King and Queen.
And yet, somehow, when we step into the anteroom where we’re supposed to wait… we are late. I run a hand down my white peplum dress, the only thing in my suitcase that was presentable enough for being called to stand before Courtland’s sovereign rulers.
It’s not my fault we’re late, not really. The water ran cold, the dress had to be de-wrinkled, my makeup took forever. Then we had to stop for gas…
None of which the queen will care about, I’m pretty sure.
Then there was the silence in the car. I can tell that there’s something on Rex’s mind, something other than our being summoned to the castle.
That bit can’t be new to him; I admit that I’ve stalked him a bit online here and there, and it seems like he’s been in trouble just about every minute since I left. I imagine that his grandparents have given him more than an earful about it, not that Rex seems to have paid a lot of attention.
Still, he snapped at me repeatedly on the way to the palace, so now we’re sitting in uncomfortable overstuffed chairs, glaring at the golden wall paper in this tiny sitting room. Waiting to be called into the queen’s sitting room.
Sometimes it hits me suddenly: my life is really fucking weird sometimes.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re mad?” I ask, staring straight ahead.
“No. I’m not mad.”
I glance at him, he’s gripping the arm of the chair so hard that I can see every vein popping out of his hand and wrist.
“Liar.”
He doesn’t respond. I wait, but nothing. There’s this horrible tension between us, sucking up all the air, strangling us. I wonder if it’s like an infection, that we need to purge and cleanse in order to heal.
Then again, what do I really care? My story with Rex ended a long time ago. It’s over and done. I need to start a new chapter…
What, with a new beau? Alone, traveling the world?
Am I going to Eat, Pray, Love myself into being a better, happier version of me?
I give an amused snort.
“What?” Rex sighs.
“Nothing. Having my own private thoughts, over here.”
He scowls, sinking lower in his chair.
“You are insufferable,” he tells me, completely unamused.
I cant my head, watching him for a moment.
“That’s what it is,” I say, my lips pulling into a frown. “You’ve lost your sense of humo
r.”
“That’s not true,” he says, pressing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose.
“It is. What little you have left is morbid.”
He looks up at me, his sapphire eyes flaring with rage.
“Well, Lady Katherine, maybe if your best friend had died in your arms, you’d be morbid too.”
“Oh, Rex, I didn’t mean—”
“Stop. Talking.”
I pull up short at his tone.
“You’re a dick, Alasdair Westwood.”
He flashes those perfect teeth in a dangerous smile.
“Now you’re getting it, Lady Katherine.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“There’s no making you happy, is there? I already knew that, though.”
My mouth opens in outrage, but at that moment the Queen’s secretary sweeps the doors open.
“The Queen awaits you,” he says, giving us a little bow.
I snap my mouth closed and rise, trying not to fidget. I’ve done all I can to be impressive physically, now I need to dazzle with my personality.
Assuming that the regents aren’t about to announce that I’m being beheaded, or something.
Can that still happen in modern-day Courtland? I don’t think it can. I hope not, anyway.
Rex trails behind me as I sweep into the Queen’s sitting room. To my shock, she’s dressed in a nearly informal steel-gray pantsuit, sitting and waiting…
With my mother and Prince Archie at her side. Prince Archie is dressed in his usual drab suit, his bald head gleaming in the morning sunlight. Mum is dressed in a conservative navy skirt suit, her hair in a low knot and her makeup subdued.
It’s a far cry from her usual vibrant sundresses and colorful accessories, that’s for sure. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen her without her trademark faux eyelashes.
She looks like a stranger.
I rub my bare arms as I continue into the room, already overwhelmed. The King is nowhere to be seen, presumably too busy for an audience with the likes of me and Rex.
“Katherine,” the Queen says, giving me a downright regal nod. “Alasdair. Sit, please.”
I know that I’m twenty four years old and by this age it shouldn’t thrill me to be so close to the Queen herself, but I can’t stop myself from grinning like an idiot as I take my seat.