Royal Treatment

by Tracy Wolff

  “Garrett, please,” she gasps, voice hoarse and thready.

  “Please what?” I ask as I press kisses down the backs of her thighs.

  “Please fuck me. Now.” It’s a demand if I’ve ever heard one and it revs me up even higher.

  With a groan, I pull her hips up and back, until she’s kneeling with her torso pressed against the sheets. Then I reach between her legs, sliding a finger deep inside of her to make sure she’s still warm and wet and ready for me.

  She is—God, is she ever—and, combined with her words, it’s all the invitation I need.

  I take a moment to fumble myself out of my pants and into a condom before kneeling behind her on the bed. Then, with my hands shaking and my stomach knotted with lust, I sink slowly, carefully, inexorably inside of her.

  She feels amazing, smooth and silky and so hot that for a second I fear she’ll burn me alive. Or maybe that we’ll burn each other. It’s a risk I’m willing to take, though, because nothing has ever felt this good. With her wrapped around me like a fist, her sleek body trembling against mine, I want nothing more than to stay like this forever. Nothing more than to be inside her and come and come and come.

  “Garrett,” she gasps, her hands clutching at my hips. “Please.”

  I press forward, thrusting deeper, then rest my cheek against her temple. “Is this okay?” I ask through gritted teeth, breath coming in harsh pants and heart beating wildly as I try to take it slow. Try to make sure Lola is as into this as I am.

  “Yes!” she cries out. “Yes, yes, yes.” The words are a series of tortured gasps as she presses back against me. She’s trembling, shaking, her face moving back and forth against the bed as she rocks forward and back in an effort to get me to go faster, deeper.

  It’s all the confirmation I need. I begin to move with slow, careful thrusts that have me gliding in and out of her. She feels so good, this feels so good, that I can barely keep it together as the pleasure builds and builds and builds.

  “I need—”

  “What?” I demand, sliding a hand beneath her hips to stroke her stomach, her mons, her clit. “What do you need?”

  “You,” she gasps even as she reaches around and grabs my hips. She pulls me forward, hard and deep.

  It’s unexpected and amazing, and combined with the way her voice goes all low and husky when she says, “You, you, you,” and comes one more time, it shatters the last vestiges of my control. I slam straight over the edge, ecstasy swamping me, dragging me down, tingling along my every nerve ending until all I can think of is Lola. Until all I can smell and touch and taste is Lola.

  It’s the first time since the kidnapping that nothing hurts—not my body, not my head, not my soul. It’s a glorious feeling and one I don’t want to let go of, any more than I want to let go of her.

  Chapter 18

  Lola

  When it’s finally over, when our breathing levels out and our bodies stop shaking, we doze a little. It’s actually more like lying pressed against each other in a total stupor, but what can I say? After what just happened, we’re both a little shell-shocked. Or at least, I am.

  I mean, sure, I guess I knew—on a purely instinctive level—that being with Garrett would be good. But what just happened wasn’t good. It wasn’t great. It’s so far beyond any superlative I can think of that it’s as if I need a whole new language to describe it.

  La petite mort, like the French call it, maybe. The little death. Except it felt a whole lot more like living—really living—than it did like dying. Even if, fifteen minutes later, I still can’t move. Still can’t do anything but lie here and think about how good it feels to have Garrett’s long, lean body pressed against mine from shoulder to hip.

  I know I should probably be alarmed at just how good this feels, but right now I’m too wrung out to care. And too satisfied, my body little more than a pile of warm, happy goo.

  Garrett recovers before I do. Big surprise there. The man is like a machine—in the best possible Terminator kind of way (but without the intent to wipe out the human race, of course). He rolls over, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me against him. Normally, I’m not a spooning kind of girl, but there’s something about being the little spoon to his big spoon that just feels right.

  Because the thought sets off yet another warning blip inside of me, I choose to ignore it. I’m too blissed out right now to worry about the future, or getting in too deep, or any of the other things that would normally send me running for the hills after sleeping with a guy. But no other guy has ever given me four orgasms in an hour, either. And while I enjoyed all four of them while they were happening, they have kind of zapped my will to ever move again.

  At least until Garrett’s stomach rumbles. Loudly.

  It’s pretty much the most unromantic sound ever, but it turns out to be exactly what we need. We both crack up and the tension I was barely aware of dissolves.

  “Can I make you something to eat?” I ask. “And by ‘make,’ I mean assemble a sandwich, as that’s pretty much all I’m equipped to do. Well, that and scramble a couple of eggs.”

  “I’ll take the eggs,” he tells me after he drops a long, smacking kiss on my cheek. “But I’ll make them. You stay here and rest.”

  “This isn’t the old days, you know. I promise not to have an attack of the vapors at the sight of a naked man in my kitchen.” I shoot him an amused glance over my shoulder.

  “I feel like if you were going to have an attack of any kind, it would have been three orgasms ago.” He gives me another kiss—this one more sweet than smacking, and I can’t help melting into it a little. Can’t help melting into him.

  “Nobody likes a braggart,” I tell him even as I pull his arm more tightly around my waist and hang on.

  “Looks like you do,” he answers. “And, by the way, telling the truth isn’t bragging—one should never be ashamed of excelling.”

  “Spoken like a true prince.”

  “Better than a fake prince,” he shoots back. His breath is warm against my cheek and he’s tracing small circles on my stomach with his thumb. It somehow feels more intimate than the sex we just had, this easy touching and relaxed pillow talk.

  It’s that thought more than any other that gets me up. I sleep with men when I choose to, but I never talk to them. Not like this, with my defenses down and my mind still cloudy from an overload of pleasure.

  Rolling out of bed, I grab my robe off the floor and shrug into it. “Two eggs coming up,” I tell him as I tie the belt. “How do you like them?”

  He gets up too, rolling out of bed and pulling me into his arms for a long, tender hug that leaves me equal parts melting and alarmed. Then he puts a finger under my chin and tilts my face up to his for a slow, sweet kiss that has my knees trembling in a way that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the shaky, scared feeling deep inside of me.

  Damn it. What kind of idiot am I, anyway? I’m the queen of keeping business and pleasure separated and yet here I am, swooning like a fifteen-year-old with her first crush.

  I pull away as soon as he lifts his mouth from mine, determined to put a little distance between us. But Garrett isn’t having any of it. Instead of letting me go, he sweeps me into his arms and then carries me into the kitchen. As he does, the fact that he’s warm and hard and still very naked is far from lost on me.

  He deposits me on the kitchen counter next to the stove, with a firm, “Don’t move!” Then he’s turning on the old radio on top of the microwave and bopping his way over to the fridge, where he rummages through the remnants of the various meals that I’ve collected in the week I’ve been here.

  It’s a surreal sight, Prince Garrett of Wildemar shaking his naked ass to the Chainsmokers’ “Closer” as he assembles ingredients on the counter next to him for what I’m rapidly beginning to fear will be the world’s stra
ngest omelet.

  I want a better look—at his beautiful body and what he’s planning on feeding me—so I reach over and turn on the overhead light. We both wince a little, since we’ve been operating on the lights filtering in from the living room and hallway since we woke up. But as my eyes finally adjust to the brightness, I realize that Garrett is doing more than wincing. He’s stiffened, his whole body ramrod straight despite the carton of eggs he’s still holding.

  It takes a moment for me to register what I’m seeing, but when I do…when I do, it’s all I can do to keep from crying out. He was wearing a rash guard when I met him at the lake the other day, and combined with his board shorts, the outfit did a good job of covering up the damage three months in captivity wrought on his body.

  And oh my God, there is. So. Much. Damage. It makes me want to cry, makes me want to vomit just looking at it. Looking at Garrett and thinking about what he must have endured, what must have been done to him to create scars like these.

  I start to say something, to tell him how sorry I am—how can I not?—when my eyes meet his. There’s a vulnerability in their blue depths that has never been there before, a plea I didn’t even know this proud, proud prince of a man was capable of. But it’s there, clear as day, along with a wariness, a resignation, that gets to me even more than the vulnerability does.

  And so I stay where I am instead of rushing across the kitchen to pull his brutally battered body against mine. Though I don’t know him well, though this is just an interlude, it’s still one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

  Long seconds pass, tense and silent, as he waits for me to ask about the scars…and the captivity that caused them. When it finally registers on him that I’m not going to do that, that I’m just going to let him—and that whole horrible mess—be, I can all but see the relief pouring off him in waves.

  He turns to the counter that he’s filled with everything from mushrooms and peppers to prosciutto and four kinds of cheese. “So,” he says as he rummages through cupboards looking for a bowl. “I have this theory.”

  “Do you?” I concentrate on the beauty of his eyes and cheekbones and razor-sharp jaw, doing anything—doing everything—not to look at the scars below his neck. Not because they disgust me, but because I don’t know if I’m strong enough not to offer comfort. And since he obviously doesn’t want that, I need to find a way to be that strong. “And what exactly is this theory about?”

  “Women,” he says with that ridiculous Boy Scout grin of his. “And omelets.”

  Now both my brows are up. “You have a theory about women and eggs?” I don’t try to keep the incredulity from my voice.

  “Not eggs. Omelets.” He cracks an egg into the bowl for emphasis.

  “Excuse me. Omelets.” I wait for him to expand on this so-called theory of his, but he doesn’t. Instead, he concentrates on adding four more eggs to the bowl.

  Curiosity gets the best of me—as it always does—and I hop off the counter and cross the kitchen to peer over his shoulder. Or, more precisely, to peer around him, as my head barely reaches his shoulder. Being short bites on a good day. When I’m dating a man who is literally a foot taller than me, it bites way more than usual.

  “So, what is so special about this omelet you’re making?” I ask.

  “You tell me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He reaches for one of the pans hanging on the ceiling rack. “What do you want in your omelet?” He grabs the butter, puts a generous pat in the pan, then sets it on the stove.

  I look at the ingredients, but the truth is I can barely concentrate. Not when I’m standing this close to him. Not when I’m dying to trace his scars in some belated and fucked-up effort to take away just a little of his pain. “You choose.”

  “Nope.” He pops the P and it sounds so American compared to the perfectly formal English I’m used to getting from him that, for a second, I can’t help but stare. “That’s not how this works. You have to choose.”

  “Why?”

  “Because those are the rules.”

  I start to argue with him—I don’t like rules in general and I really hate them when someone arbitrarily applies them to something stupid. Like making a stupid omelet. Garrett holds up a hand before I can say that, though.

  Then he says, “Please?” in such an entreating way that I can’t say no. Not without feeling like a total bitch, anyway. And while normally that doesn’t bother me, tonight I’m going for a softer vibe.

  “Fine.” I glance at the ingredients once more, than choose at random. “Onion, pepper, parsley, tomato, Kalamata olives, and cheese.”

  “What kind of cheese?”

  “All the kinds.” I shoot him a look that says he’s nuts. “Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” he mimics with a grin that is decidedly less Boy Scout than usual.

  I watch as he haphazardly tosses everything but the cheese and eggs in the pan and stirs it around. “What can I do to help?”

  “There’s a bottle of blanc de blancs in the fridge. Why don’t you pour us a couple of glasses?”

  I do as he asked, then pop a couple of pieces of bread under the broiler. By the time they’re done, Garrett’s sliding the halved omelet onto two plates and carrying them to the small café table in the corner.

  Seconds later, I carry over the wine and toast. As I slide into a chair, I can’t help saying, “You know, it’s pretty crappy to make a big deal out of your theory and not share it.”

  “It’s really not a big deal.”

  “So you say. But I still want to know.”

  He pauses for a second, like he’s reluctant to get into it. But then he gives a what the hell kind of shrug and says, “I just think you can tell a lot about a woman by the omelet ingredients she chooses.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I take a big bite, then try to hide just how much I like it. It comes from years of being taught never to let my father know how I felt about anything because then he would use it against me. “So what do these ingredients tell you about me?”

  “That you’re a nontraditionalist.”

  I snort. “Didn’t need an omelet to tell you that, buddy.”

  He shoots me an admonishing look. “I’m not done yet.”

  “Oh, right.” I wave the fork in a “carry on” gesture. “By all means.”

  “You’re a hedonist.”

  “Umm, pretty sure the four orgasms told you that better than any omelet ever could.”

  “I’ll give you that one,” he says with a grin. “Though the cheese is a dead giveaway.”

  “Maybe I just like cheese.”

  “More like you enjoy coloring outside the lines.”

  “It makes a prettier picture,” I tell him with a shrug. “So far, none of this is exactly earth-shattering. I pretty much wear who I am on my sleeve.”

  “You do,” he agrees. “The sense of adventure, the willingness to try new things, the fascination with the off-beat. But there’s another side to you—the side that refuses to ever do something the same way twice. Not because you like to experiment or because you like trying new things, but because you don’t trust the status quo. Most people find safety in routine and the familiar, but getting comfortable—being comfortable—is terrifying to you.”

  I have to fight to keep my hands relaxed and my smile steady, because holy shit. That last little bit didn’t just hit close to home, it blew home off the fucking map. I don’t like the status quo and I’ve never trusted routine—why should I, when the second you get comfortable it gives someone a chance to come along and yank the rug out from under you. I may not have been a great student when I was young, but that is a lesson I learned often and well. “You got all that from an omelet?” I ask, keeping my voice light because there’s no way I’m going to talk about this with Garrett.

  “I got a lot of
that from the omelet—and how you chose the ingredients. The rest I got from watching you these last few days.”

  I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth. “From watching me?”

  He laughs. “You don’t have to look so horrified—I didn’t mean that in a creepy way. I just meant that I’ve paid attention in the time we’ve spent together.”

  I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that he’s been studying me—or that I’m so transparent to him—so I take my time putting the bite in my mouth and chewing. Slowly.

  I go through life working hard not to let anyone get too close, not to let anyone know the real me. It’s easier that way—easier to hide and easier to walk away when the friendship/relationship/whatever has run its course.

  “I’m sorry. Did I freak you out?” Garrett reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “You didn’t freak me out.” It’s only a partial lie and those barely count in the grand scheme of things, right? I mean, this whole “relationship” we’re playing at is the real lie. That’s what I need to focus on. That’s what I need to remember. Well, that and the fact that in real life, away from this idyllic little town, this guy is totally out of my league. “It’s just, you’re a prince. I thought…”

  “You thought what?”

  “I thought you spent all your time being watched as opposed to the other way around.”

  “I do spend an inordinate amount of my life on display,” he says, tilting his head a little ruefully. “But that just gives me more time to observe everyone else.”

  “Yes, but why would you want to? Why does it matter?” He’s so different than I thought he was that first day at the lake, so different than I expected him to be.

  Still, I expect a flip answer from him. Something quick and easy that doesn’t reveal too much and helps get this romantic interlude—which suddenly feels way heavier than that—back on track. Instead, it’s his turn to take his time chewing and thinking. Finally, he takes a sip of wine and says, “There’s a difference between just being a prince and being the man who will one day be king.”