My Best Friend's Royal Wedding

by Romy Sommer

  “I created a monster,” I mutter as Max sinks into the chair beside me, though I say it with fondness.

  “Your Galatea has done you proud.” He’s lost both his tie and his jacket at some point during the evening, and his shirt hangs loose beneath his waistcoat. “If you decide you don’t want to be a prince, you can always take up a new career as a makeover artist.”

  I shake my head. Khara is no Galatea or Eliza Doolittle. “I didn’t give her a makeover. She’s still the same person she always was. I just gave her some tools to boost her confidence. Besides, this was a one-time thing. There was only ever one Galatea for Pygmalion.”

  “Pygmalion also fell in love with his Galatea.”

  Ha. There’s no chance of that. I don’t fall in love. Can’t. Won’t. I’m not sure which verb fits best. Perhaps all of them. Instead, I say to Max, “You are such a nerd. You should have studied Classics instead of wine-making.”

  “Right back at you. But seriously, what’s going on with you and Khara? You’ve been dancing around each other figuratively as well as literally all week.”

  “Nothing’s going on with her. You’re the one who told me Khara would have my balls and eat them for breakfast. You have no idea how right you were.”

  He chuckles. “Must be a novel feeling to be turned down.”

  I blow out my breath. “She hasn’t turned me down. Quite the opposite. But she has made me want to be less of a bastard.” It feels good to be honest for a change.

  “Ouch. That’s got to be a real challenge for you.”

  I cast a dark glance his way, only to see that he’s laughing at me.

  “I want her more than I’ve wanted any other woman, but if I act on it I’m just going to prove to her that I’m exactly the bastard she thinks I am.” Was that Cristal laced with truth serum?

  Max shrugs. “Or you could act on it and not be a bastard.”

  I don’t answer, not wanting to admit I have no idea how to do that.

  “You’ll figure it out. Consider this an opportunity to try to be a better man.” He slaps me on the shoulder and rises. “I’m going to find my gorgeous wife so I can dance with her.”

  The ballroom lights have dimmed, and the music changes from an upbeat tune to a slower song. Khara is still dancing with the racing driver, and no way am I going to sit here on the sidelines and watch him put his arms around her. I drain the last of the Cristal from the bottle and stride onto the dance floor.

  “I believe this dance is mine.” I hold out my hand in invitation to Khara. She glances at her dance partner, who shrugs and turns away to join the group gyrating behind us. I feel no qualms about interrupting. Any man who can walk away from her that easily doesn’t deserve her.

  She takes my hand and I pull her in close, wrapping my arms around her waist.

  “Are you having fun?” I whisper against her ear.

  Her breath hitches. “More fun than I’ve ever had in my life. I even danced with the same rock star whose posters decorated my teenaged bedroom.”

  I don’t want to talk about the other men she’s danced with. All that matters is this moment.

  She presses closer against me, her breasts brushing against my chest, and this time it’s my breathing that stutters. It takes all the willpower I possess to keep my hands where they are, rather than slide them over her curves the way they want to.

  “You’re not going to take this opportunity to hit on the bridesmaid?” Her voice is low and husky, filled with temptation. “This is your last chance.”

  I clear my throat. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “What if I am?”

  I can’t resist. I’m not strong enough to resist. What can I say? I am a bastard. I slide my hand down to the curve of her ass, holding her so close that she can have no illusions about my state of arousal. With a laugh and a toss of her hair, which has tumbled loose around her shoulders some time during the evening, she spins away from me. But she doesn’t slap my face, or pin me with that icy glare I’ve seen too many times, so I pull her back against me. Her back is pressed up against my front, and we sway together for a long moment, our bodies pressed together, my hands on her hips. Then I drop my head to trail my lips down the curve of her neck, not caring who sees.

  Her skin tastes of roses and sweat and Champagne.

  “You’re not just the bridesmaid.” I nibble on her earlobe and feel her shiver. “You’re Khara Thomas, the most exasperating, desirable, intimidating woman I’ve ever met.”

  She turns to face me, eyes wide. “I intimidate you?”

  “Yes. You don’t fall for any of my lines. That’s very intimidating.”

  She laughs, tipping her head back, and I take advantage of the move to trail kisses along her exposed collarbone.

  “You don’t need any lines to make me fall.” Her voice is nothing more than a caress beside my ear.

  “I wanted to prove to you that I’m not an entitled jerk who just wants to get into your pants, but it turns out you were right. I am that guy.”

  She pulls away to look me in the eye. “If that’s your way of telling me you’re not going to stick around until morning, then I already know.”

  “And you don’t mind?”

  She presses her lips together as if thinking about it. “This is nothing more than chemistry,” she says at last. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  My chest pulls tight, but I ignore the feeling. “Do you think anyone will notice if we leave the party early?”

  “Probably.”

  “But we’re going to do it anyway?”

  “Of course.”

  Chapter 22

  Khara

  He doesn’t lead me up to the guest wing as I expected. Adam snags a bottle of Champagne and two glasses from a passing waiter, and leads me out onto the terrace.

  It’s a balmy evening, the air thick and heavy with the scents of summer, fresh-mown grass and gently dying flowers. The air fills my lungs and clears my head, but I feel no less intoxicated, though I’ve stuck to virgin cocktails all night.

  “I’m not having sex with you out here,” I object, pulling him to a stop.

  “No, you’re not. But if I take you to bed right now, this night is going to be over way too soon.”

  That’s almost romantic. Then he grins, that same arrogant smirk I used to want to slap off his face. “I want to make out with you for a while before I make love to you.”

  Make love. Not have sex.

  But they’re just words. They don’t mean anything.

  I let him pull me along, down the wide steps and onto the broad gravel path that leads through the water gardens. The gravel is rough beneath my bare feet, grounding me. But at least I’m not in two-inch heels.

  The gardens are closed to the public now and there isn’t another soul around. It’s as if this magical fairyland has been lit up just for us. Fairy lights twinkle along the paths, and the blue fountain lights illuminate the jets of water surrounding the stone dragon. Adam doesn’t need to tell me where we’re going. We hurry down the avenue of fountains, which is dark and shadowy, the sound of splashing water loud in the still night air.

  When we near the secret garden, the one with the grotto, we see the bobbing flashlight of a patrolling security guard up ahead. Adam pulls me back behind a tree, pressing me up against the rough bark until the light weaves away past us. Then we step back onto the path.

  We climb the fence, Adam catching me just as he did the first time, then we dash through the waterfall and into the grotto. The cold water is refreshing after the oppressive heat of the warm night. We shake off the droplets, laughing breathlessly.

  It’s dark inside the cave, the only illumination a murky green light from the fountain beyond the curtain of water. I sit on the floor, my legs stretched out in front of me, and Adam sits beside me. I can’t see much more of him than an outline. His body is like a beacon to me in the dark, radiating heat. Or maybe that heat is coming from inside me, pulling me toward him.


  He opens the Champagne, the popping cork sounding like an explosion in the cave, then pours the frothing liquid into the glasses and hands me one.

  I raise the glass to my lips and sip. The Champagne is dark, with a taste that’s fruity and smoky. “What is this?”

  “Bollinger. Made from black grapes.”

  I empty my glass and set it carefully aside, then, casting aside every last excuse I’ve ever come up with to convince myself that this shouldn’t happen, I straddle his lap, cup his face, and lean forward to kiss him. I don’t need to see to know where to find his mouth. It’s as if his face is imprinted in my brain.

  It’s even better without light because I can concentrate on the glide of his lips over mine, the pressure of his hands against my lower back, the taste of the Bollinger, and his delicious, unique scent. His tongue licks over my lips, urging my mouth open to deepen the kiss.

  My hands are on his chest, on those same pecs I first touched right here in this grotto. But this time they’re hungry, roving, undoing the buttons on his waistcoat, pulling on his shirt to free it from his pants, then sliding up and under the soft fabric.

  His skin is hot and smooth and solid. As my hands slide higher, they hit the roughness of a dusting of chest hair, and then a rigid nipple. I tweak it ever so slightly with my fingers, and he moans into my mouth.

  “I feel like you’re objectifying me,” he whispers.

  “Of course I am. It’s only fair turnabout for all the times you’ve ogled my breasts.”

  “And don’t forget your legs. And this gorgeous arse.” His hands move lower, and I giggle.

  He nibbles at the corner of my mouth and I sigh, opening up to him.

  His hands rock me closer, his erection hard against the apex of my thighs, and it’s my turn to moan. The friction feels so unbelievably good, and I’m already wet and needy.

  The kiss could last five minutes or it could last an hour. I lose all sense of time. I could do this forever, lose myself in him, because … Oh. My. God. This is the best kiss I’ve ever experienced and I never want it to end. It’s long and slow and passionate and teasing.

  Our hands explore each other and he nuzzles my breasts through the silky fabric of my dress until I’m a writhing mess of desire. I rock against him until he stops me with his strong hands. “I’m going to come in my trousers like a horny teenager if you keep doing that,” he groans. “And I don’t want this to end just yet. I want to be inside you when I come.”

  ***

  We take the Bollinger and the Champagne glasses back with us into the palace, though I suspect it’s going to be flat before we get around to drinking the rest of it. The party is still in full swing, with loud music pumping from the ballroom. There are at least two other couples in the gardens now, in the shadows, and they’re just as careful to avoid being seen and recognized as we are. Adam leads me in through a side door and up a narrow flight of stairs I’ve never seen before.

  “The servants’ staircase,” he explains. It opens into the corridor close to my room. I swear when we reach the door to my room. My key is in the tiny purse I left downstairs at the coat check. Adam reaches into the pocket of his pants. It’s so unfair that his wedding suit has pockets.

  “You have a key for my room?”

  “No, I have a key for my room. But the locks in this palace are ancient, and one key pretty much opens all the doors in this wing.”

  I don’t want to know how he found that out.

  He unlocks the door and we slip inside, tearing off one another’s clothes as we stumble toward the bed across the moonlit room. We leave a trail from the door to the bed: his shoes and socks, his waistcoat, his shirt.

  It’s only when he’s pulling my dress over my head that I remember what I’m wearing underneath, and it’s not pretty.

  Do you know how to make a curvy figure look good in a clingy silk bridesmaid dress? Spanx.

  I’m about to get naked with the hottest man I’ve ever been with, and I’m wearing Spanx.

  It’s Adam’s turn to swear and I don’t blame him. They’re a bitch to get out of. We squirm and wriggle together on the bed in the most decidedly unsexy way to get the damn things off. We lie side by side; I’m breathless and Adam’s chest is heaving.

  “Don’t you dare laugh!” I warn.

  He presses his lips together, but doesn’t manage to hold it in. His laughter is infectious, and I bury my face in his bare shoulder, trying to stop the laughter that bubbles up. He wipes my crazy hair away from my face and gently cups my cheek. My laughter dies, replaced by something else, something far more primal.

  This time his kiss isn’t slow. It’s wild and furious. And while we kiss, his clever fingers unhook my bra and pull it off me. I’m completely naked to him now, and I wait for that moment of insecurity to kick in, but it doesn’t come. My hands are on his belt, fumbling to get it undone, then the button on his pants.

  “Screw this,” he says, placing his hands over mine. He rips the button, yanks at the zipper, then I help him slide the pants down his thighs. My breath catches.

  I’ve always been attracted to jocks, to athletic builds and broad shoulders, but Adam’s body is by far the most heart-stoppingly gorgeous I’ve ever seen. All lean, solid muscle. I glide my palms down over his bare chest, his torso, over those washboard abs, taking my time to admire and explore, to commit every plane and angle of his body to memory.

  His erection is tall and straight, flat against his stomach, the silky skin stretched, veins throbbing. Oh my word. I wrap my fingers around him and, slowly, I glide my hand up and down his length. He drops his head, his eyes closed.

  Then he shakes his head. “Not now.” His voice is rough. “Later.”

  He flips me onto my back, and moves to kneel between my legs. It’s his turn to explore, his hands roving over my body, taking his time until I’m nothing more than molten need, wet and hungry and desperate for him.

  His fingers trace taunting patterns across my skin, and I want to hurry him up, want to grab his hand and move it between my legs so I can have relief from this torment, but I don’t. If all I have with him is this one night, then I want to make it last.

  Finally his fingers dip between my thighs, circling excruciatingly slowly around my clit until I can’t bear the torture another moment. I throw my head back, close my eyes, give myself over to the sensations coursing through me.

  It’s both a shock and a relief when he dips his head between my thighs and places his mouth on me. Every single part of my body is focused on that tiny spot where his tongue flicks over me. Then his fingers are inside me.

  I have never known pleasure so exquisite. My entire body has become one massive erogenous zone, the scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs, his tongue, his expert fingers.

  I come apart as spasms jerk through me, and I cry out his name, over and over.

  He slides back up my body, feathering my skin with kisses, circling his tongue around my taut nipples, nibbling my neck. My body wants more, so much more. For someone as self-centered as I’ve always believed Adam to be, he’s a very considerate lover. Every part of my body feels alive from his touch.

  As the shockwaves ease, I open my eyes. His gaze holds mine. His pupils are so dilated his eyes seem to have no color. They’re burning, fierce, alight with all the passion I’ve always sensed in him, those pent-up emotions he hides beneath that cool, detached exterior.

  I draw in a shuddering breath. “I don’t have a condom,” I say apologetically, because without protection this can’t go the way we both clearly want it to go. But he leans over toward his discarded pants and a moment later he raises his hand in triumph. Not just one condom, but four.

  Pockets. Right.

  “You come well prepared.”

  With a sideways grin he tears one open and stretches to lay the remaining three on the nightstand, while I unroll the precious latex over him until he’s sheathed.

  Then he rolls over me, his weight heavy between my legs, and
he rocks against me. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks.

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  His gaze holds mine, his eyes so dark and intense that I can read nothing in them but need. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I want you inside me. Deep inside me. Now.”

  And he obliges. With his arms on either side of my head, holding his weight off me, he presses his erection against my entrance, still sensitive from my orgasm. He nudges tentatively against me and I raise my hips to meet him. He slides in, devastatingly slowly at first, a fraction of an inch at a time, filling me, waiting for me to accommodate his size, until he’s buried deep. I close my eyes on a whimper.

  “Look at me,” he demands, and I force my eyes open.

  He holds my gaze, unblinking, as he pulls out, then slides back in, moving harder and faster until we’re both panting, both desperate. My hands claw at his shoulders, his back, trying to drag him closer, deeper. We rock together, sliding, slick, frantic, and all my inner muscles clench around him. His body stiffens, his back arches, and then he comes inside me and my own climax grabs hold and I can see nothing, feel nothing, but that place where our bodies are joined, the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that tears at me, turning me inside out.

  When we’re both spent, he rolls away off the bed to discard the condom. I pull down the rumpled bedsheets and slide under them, stretching luxuriously, feeling every inch of my body as if for the first time.

  So that’s it. The best moment of my life and the worst. Because now he’ll leave. This is all over.

  But then the bed dips beside me and Adam slides under the covers too. He rolls up against me, his chest against my back, his hand slack on my naked breast.

  For one long moment my body pulls tight with tension. This can’t happen. It shouldn’t happen. If he stays, I can’t convince myself this is nothing more than sex. But the chemistry is overpowering. It dulls my brain, won’t let me think. My body relaxes against his and my eyes drop closed.

  These hormones are really good drugs. But what will I do when the high wears off?