‘I wasn’t sure if you drink,’ he murmured, coming jarringly close, swinging the fridge door open and removing a dark-green bottle.
‘Only when I’m not working.’
His eyes probe mine and I realise—too late—what I’ve just admitted. That tonight isn’t about work.
My fingers twist at my sides but he doesn’t make a big deal of it, simply side-steps me to remove a couple of tall-stemmed glasses from the cupboard. He pours a little into each, a very reserved amount, before handing one of the glasses over.
‘What is it?’
‘A Godello.’
I lift the glass to my nose first, breathing in the aromas before taking a sip, closing my eyes to fully appreciate the floral explosion, perfectly balanced with tartness and acidity.
‘It’s gorgeous.’
His laugh is hoarse. ‘I am glad you like it. I have just enough grapes to make a small vintage each year. This is the two thousand and twelve.’
‘You make the wine?’
‘It’s a hobby of mine.’
I blink at him in surprise.
‘You didn’t expect this?’
‘Frankly, no.’ I take another sip. Somehow the fact this man has been involved in its creation adds even more depth to the wine, so it hums as it moves through me.
‘Why not?’
‘I suppose I see you as someone with more frivolous hobbies.’
One of us, or perhaps both of us, has moved closer; there’s barely any gap now. The air is thick.
‘You think I’m frivolous?’
‘No. I think you’re...’ I search for a word, shaking my head in frustration when one won’t come to me. ‘Your lifestyle is well documented.’
‘A few photographs of me on a yacht and you think you know everything about me?’ The question is light in tone, his manner seeming easy and amused, but I understand the depth beneath his question, and there’s a hint of something in his eyes that makes my skin prick with goose bumps.
‘Is that image wrong?’
His smile is laced with tension. ‘No, querida.’ Now it’s definitely Santiago who moves closer, his powerful body dwarfing me, framing me, making me feel whole and laced with adrenalin. ‘I like women.’ He takes a sip of his wine then places the glass on the counter top. ‘I like sex.’
I gasp at the truth of that statement, and the way it sets off a chain reaction of desire all through my body. Fascination spears through me.
‘I also like making wine.’
The final sentence comes to me as if from a very, very long way away. I nod, but I can barely focus.
‘And what are your hobbies?’ he prompts in a gravelled tone that makes me wonder if he cares what my answer is. After all, are words necessary now? Everything between us is sparking and my body is throbbing like the beating of a drum, its urgent tone pushing me forward.
‘I don’t have any hobbies,’ I say simply.
One dark brow quirks in surprise. Somehow he moves closer, and now we’re almost touching.
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘I’m not lying to you.’
‘Everyone has hobbies. Interests outside their work.’
‘My work is my life,’ I say softly. ‘Or perhaps I should say, my life is to work?’
He tsks under his breath. ‘That sounds very dull.’
‘Of course it’s not,’ I lie. ‘I take my responsibilities very seriously.’
‘As evidenced by your squeaky-clean reputation,’ he says with a nod.
‘Have you been googling me?’
‘Of course.’
My heart thumps. It’s been a long time since I’ve searched myself on the Internet but I can imagine what’s written there. Nothing. No speculation about my love life, no speculation about anything, because I never, ever stray outside the lines of the palace that have been drawn for me, lines my parents stressed the importance of observing.
‘You are an excellent princess, much loved by everyone.’
‘Yet you sound unimpressed.’
‘Because you’re living a lie.’
I gasp at the statement, so certain, so hurtful.
‘Am I?’
‘Your life is one of calm and measure, your smile cold, your dress so formal.’
My lips part, poised to ask a question, but I never get a chance to form it.
‘Yet you are not cold, you are not calm. At least, you are neither of these things when I kiss you.’
And, before I can guess his intentions, he does just that––dropping his head, his mouth claiming me, his lips pushing mine apart as our tongues clash, our bodies welded together. He kisses me until I’m everything he just said—the complete opposite of calm and cold.
My body is flushed with awareness, my nipples almost painful against the confines of my bra and my insides squirming with need, heat pooling between my legs. My feet refuse to stay on the ground; one lifts and locks behinds his legs, clamping him to me as my hands lift and intertwine behind his neck, pulling him to me. I’m half-terrified he might stop kissing me now he’s made his point, and that’s the very last thing I want.
His hands shift to my hips, holding me there, drawing me to him. I moan low in my throat, the power of his erection impossible to ignore, striking power and a hint of fear into me, because I’ve never done this before, and it’s all I can think of. Kissing him is sensual and perfect but it’s not enough. I want so much more.
Driven by an ancient rush of feminine power, by instincts that are an essential part of my soul, I pull up against him at the same time he lifts me, perching me on the edge of the bench. I have a vague recollection of his wine glass being somewhere nearby but I’m incapable of connecting the dots and breaking apart from him to move it. To hell with it. Other things are far more important right now. My fingers curl into the hair at his nape, pressing my breasts to his chest, and his hands at my hips find the fabric of my shirt, lifting it to reveal a bare stomach, then going higher to my bra. We separate, purely so he can rip the shirt off my head and toss it to the floor at his feet; it’s a momentary, necessary pause and then his mouth is back on mine, dominating me, awakening me...
‘This is who you are.’ He pushes the words into my mouth at the same time he unclasps my bra, so my breasts spill out, only to be caught in the palms of his hand. There’s pleasure in his possession, a thousand arrows darting through me at the intimacy of this contact. I have never been touched like this but it doesn’t feel strange. On the contrary, it feels perfect and right, those same instincts removing any hint of uncertainty. This is who you are.
I can’t analyse his statement, I can’t read into the truth or otherwise of it, because I am only capable of feeling right now. But, yes, every feeling in my body convinces me of what he’s said. This is who I am. I have never felt more authentic, more real, than right now, laid bare and vulnerable to this man, yet powerful too, because the fabric of an ancient ritual is overtaking my soul.
His fingers glance across my nipples and I groan, pleasure spreading through me, a desire unlike anything I’ve ever imagined, much less felt, eliciting a drugging sense, like the beating of a drum over and over and over again.
He drags his mouth from mine, lavishing kisses on my collar bone then shoulders, before taking a nipple in his mouth and flicking it with his tongue until my breath becomes laboured, my breathy cries filling the room. I feel him smile against me, then his stubbly jaw shifts sideways, his mouth tormenting my other nipple as his hands cup my bottom. He lifts me effortlessly from the kitchen counter and carries me through the suite, his stride long and confident. His mouth finds mine again and his kiss obliterates thought.
This is his hotel, his presidential suite; he finds his way to the master bedroom easily, shouldering open the door and crossing the plush carpet to the bed in the centre. He lays me down gently,
his body coming with mine, barely breaking the kiss. It’s only when he shifts to remove our clothes completely that we pull apart, but there’s not enough time for reality to fully intrude. I’m glad. Reality might bring with it caution and sense, reasons to avoid this, but the truth is, I can’t.
I’ve never known this heady rush of longing before. I’ve never felt desire, chemistry, sexual need. I’ve never felt a spark of attraction, let alone this. One day soon I’ll be Queen and I’ll be formally engaged to a man I barely know and certainly don’t desire. My future has been laid out for me from birth with no room for deviation. A reality I have long accepted suffocates me now, and the only relief is in this tiny act of defiance, a small, inconsequential indulgence of my own needs before I assume the duties of a kingdom.
Santiago is a man who takes women to bed without much forethought. This means nothing to him, and it will mean nothing to me either. It’s just sex. But it’s sex with someone I choose. It’s all my choice. Not the requirement of my country, the will of my parliament or the sensible need for a royal heir.
A spirit of revolution hardens my resolve, so I know now that wild horses couldn’t draw me away from this.
As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, he hovers above me, standing. His chest has a tattoo of a bird flying just above his heart, and there’s more cursive script running across his hip. His chest moves with the ragged drawing of his breath, his eyes probing mine. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’ It’s a husky, hungry acceptance of what will and must be.
His eyes glitter as he spins away from me. Rustling his trousers from the floor, he flicks open his wallet and removes a condom. ‘I never take chances,’ he explains.
I amuse myself with what he’d say if I told him I’m a virgin, that sex with me is completely safe––before the penny drops and I realise he’s alluding to children, an unintended, lifelong consequence of a reckless night of passion.
‘No baby del Almodovárs on the horizon for you?’ I murmur as he rips open the foil square and rolls the condom over his arousal. My eyes cling to the action, and I’m jarred out of my slumberous, all-encompassing desire because of his obvious size.
His smile tilts the earth off its axis. ‘Definitely not. I never intend to have children.’
I’m curious as to his reason. I have never given this issue any thought, for the simple reason that having children is yet another purpose of my existence. As a royal—the sole surviving royal of my house—I have been aware for a long time that I must have babies, and several of them. I don’t know if it’s what I would have chosen otherwise, but a cursory examination shows that I like the idea. I’m more excited about being a mother than I am about being a wife.
There is no more time to analyse this. He brings his body over mine, his smile gone, his expression hauntingly beautiful as his knee nudges my legs apart, his body weight on mine a pleasure in and of itself. His kiss is slow at first, his tongue languorously exploring my mouth, my breasts tingling beneath his hair-roughened chest, my fingers tracing his tattoos by memory, a question in every strike of my touch. I am lost, buried under the weight of need, full of wanting him. I’m unable to think, breathe, talk so that, when he nudges the tip of his arousal against my sex, I can only groan in the base of my throat. There is no time for anticipation or fear; he drives into me, his full, powerful length hard, strong and dynamic, pushing past the invisible barrier of my innocence, his body possessing mine for the first time.
He freezes, bracing himself on his elbows. His eyes meet mine, surprise obvious on his face, a question in his gaze.
‘Freja...’ My name is squeezed from between his teeth. Is that an accusation I hear? Anger? Briefly, darkness eclipses my pleasure, but then he begins to move again and any hint of discomfort his first thrust invoked dissipates, leaving only pleasure in its path. Intense, soul-destroying pleasure.
He is skilled and intuitive, driving me to the brink of ecstasy many times before drawing me back, tormenting me with his easy mastery of my body, showing that he can control my pleasure with ease.
I don’t know how long he does this for, but it’s long enough for me to feel delirious with desire, a heat building inside me that is crazy for release. I plead with him over and over, his name on my lips a garbled cry until he kisses me, weaves our fingers together and finally tips me over. He drives me over the edge of awareness, heaving me from this earthly plane so that I’m in freefall, conscious only of surrender—his and mine—as his body is racked with breaths, his strength throbbing inside me. A guttural cry rents the air before he kisses me once more, murmuring Spanish words I don’t understand into my mouth.
Tears burn my eyes and I can’t stop them. The sheer perfection of what I just experienced defies explanation. I know people talk about sex, and I got that it’s meant to be amazing, but I had no idea it could be so completely earth-shattering.
I blink to clear the tears, not wanting him to see them, needing a moment to gather myself even as he’s still buried within me.
He pushes up onto his elbows to look down at me, scanning my face and, I’m sure, seeing far more than I wish to expose.
‘And so the Princesa was a virgin,’ he murmurs, a hint of something in his face I can’t comprehend.
‘Was it that obvious?’
‘To me.’
My heart stammers. It occurs to me that I must have been pathetically boring after the women he’s used to sleeping with. He kisses the corner of my mouth, taking my self-conscious fears with him. ‘Did I hurt you?’
I shake my head. ‘At first, a little. But no. That was...’ I search for the right word, then smile.
‘Freja.’
I blink, because it’s unusual for him to use my name rather than my title. I like hearing it on his lips, in his accent. ‘If I had known, I would never have pursued you.’
‘Why not?’
His own features tighten. ‘Because a one-night stand is a very different consideration than being someone’s first lover. I have very little interest in the latter, generally.’
‘Then I’m glad you made an exception for me.’
He doesn’t respond to my quip.
‘The reason I like one-night stands is that there are no expectations beyond great sex.’
His logic baffles me. ‘Whereas the fact I’m a virgin means I must now be expecting a proposal?’ I tease, smiling to show how wrong he is.
His eyes are wary. ‘Or at least a relationship of sorts,’ he clarifies carefully.
‘I can’t have relationships,’ I say simply, the words hiding a pain buried deep in my heart, a pain born of jealousy for what I see as ‘normal’ for most of the world.
‘That makes less sense to me now than when you first said it.’
‘Think about it, Santiago. My life is an open book. Where would I meet someone? How would I date them? Break up with them? Heaven forbid I dated several men. My country is conservative, and the royal family is seen to be perfect, beyond reproach. I could never expose myself to that kind of gossip. I would never disgrace my parents’ memory.’
‘But surely behind closed doors...?’
‘There are very few closed doors in my life,’ I say wistfully. ‘I live in a palace that has hundreds of servants. They are good people, but still people, and people gossip. If a boyfriend snuck into my apartment at night, word would quickly get out, and before long articles would appear in the press.’
‘And would that be so bad?’
‘It’s easy for you,’ I say with a sigh. ‘You don’t care about stuff like this. Look at the stories that are written about you! The press loves to report on your lifestyle, your over-indulgences, on the fact you’re a “bad boy”.’ I smirk, because it’s such a perfect description of this man. ‘You could never understand how much I would hate that.’
‘I don’t love it,’ he replies, surprising me wit
h his honesty. ‘But nor do I give it much thought.’
‘But my job is to be the Queen my people deserve. That’s incompatible with the lifestyle you’re suggesting.’
‘I’m not suggesting you roll from one wild party to the next, but only that you might have dated from time to time.’
‘It’s not possible.’ If it’s strange to have this conversation while our bodies are still joined together, it doesn’t occur to me. ‘And particularly not now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because next year my coronation will take place, and directly afterwards my engagement to His Royal Highness Heydar van Anjers will be announced. It would be highly inappropriate for me to date anyone right now. So please don’t think that this...’ I run my fingers down his side ‘...is going to complicate your life in the slightest—virgin or not.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘YOU’RE ENGAGED?’
It’s not the reaction I’d expected, and nor is the darkening of his face; there is a look there I can’t interpret.
‘“Betrothed” is a more accurate description,’ I explain as he pulls away, shifting to lie on the bed beside me, a frown etched on his lips.
‘What is the difference?’
‘Well...’ I consider that a moment. ‘To say we’re “engaged” makes it sound like we’ve been dating and decided to get married. Whereas I’ve only met Heydar a couple of times. Our relationship isn’t—and never has been—romantic.’
‘Obviously.’ He pushes up onto one elbow so he can see me better. His scrutiny is unnerving. ‘So why the hell are you marrying him?’
‘Because we’re betrothed.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that, a long time ago, his parents and my parents, who were very dear friends, entered into a contract binding Heydar and me. The terms were crystal-clear. On my twenty-fifth birthday, our engagement would be announced, with the wedding to take place no more than three months later.’
He says something under his breath, something Spanish, and I guess from his tone that it’s a swear word. I blink up at him, unsure of his reaction.
My Forbidden Royal Fling Page 6