Someday My Prince

by Christina Dodd

  It wasn’t his ears he covered.

  Bracing himself, he closed his eyes.

  The explosion blew his prized cigar to smithereens.

  But if he were alive to know it, he didn’t care. Plaster chips sprayed his face. His ears rang. He opened his eyes and looked at the wall beside him, and the bullet hole smoked from the impact. For the second time in his life, he lifted his eyes upward and said, “Thank you, Lord.”

  Then he turned to face Laurentia. He tried to speak, but found he had to swallow, first. “Nice shooting, princess.”

  “Yes.” Walking to the table, she placed the pistol on its surface. “You gave me two options—shoot you or bed you. I made a third option. Don’t ever try to corner me again.”

  The pride of the woman! He’d never valued arrogance in a noble before, but Laurentia deserved to be haughty. And she was his. He could scarcely contain himself for happiness. Pretending like he’d never wondered, however briefly, if she would miss, he swaggered forward to confront her again. “So now what? I’m still alive, and we’re still alone.”

  She lifted her chemise. She untied the ribbon that held her simple white drawers and let them fall. He caught a brief, far too brief, glimpse of her belly, the cup of her hips, and the neat black triangle of hair. Then, before he could drag in a single breath to assuage his shock, she let go of the chemise. She stepped out of her gown and followed, a princess in a full-length, peasant-simple chemise. With both hands, she shoved him and he staggered backward. When the chair bumped him in the back of the legs, she grabbed his arms. “You’re not going to force me or seduce me. If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it my way.”

  He didn’t know whether to chuckle or cower. He did neither, but sat down hard when she shoved at his shoulders.

  Her breasts were at eye level, and she was breathing hard.

  A week ago, for one glorious day and one glorious night he’d observed these breasts, he’d held these breasts, and since that time, he had dreamed about these breasts. The size, the shape, the weight. The tender velvet skin, the sensitive nipples tinted the perfect shade of rose, the way they fit in his mouth and the ripple of her body beneath him when he suckled. Now her breasts rose and fell, so perfect he wanted nothing more than to suckle them again, but when he reached out, she knocked his hands away.

  “My way,” she snapped.

  Lifting her chemise, she daintily placed a foot on either side of him, arranging herself above his thighs. She wasn’t tall, the position was awkward, yet... she was open to him, and his cock strained and shifted, reaching, desperate, wanting. If he weren’t inside her soon, he would go mad with desire and her revenge would be complete.

  Frustration brought beads of sweat to his brow, and he cautiously reached behind her. Intent on moving closer, she didn’t rebuff him or even notice when he caught the hem of her chemise and moved it up out of the way, and held it as he steadied her with his hands on her buttocks.

  Her muscles flexed in his palms, and she scorched him with a glance of rage. Or passion. Or... no matter, she didn’t object.

  “Your Highness.” His voice sounded gravelly, and he had to clear his throat. “With your permission, I would assist when you allow.”

  Her chin was up, firm, regal, and she lowered it only to give him a single nod.

  That was enough.

  The warmth, the roundness of her bottom cheeks had haunted him this past week. He hadn’t caressed them enough while he had the chance, nor had he had the light to truly examine them, to observe and to imprint the sweet female strength of them in his mind.

  Even now, he could only dream of what paradise lay between those buttocks.

  But he was a mercenary; he scarcely knew how to dream. He only knew how to get what he wanted.

  She began to lower herself to him, but she was almost a virgin. The way was tight and closed against him. Her pubis touched him randomly, swift little pats that had him grinding his teeth.

  “If you would allow me...” Sliding his fingers inward, he found her, opened her.

  At his first touch, she paused. Her eyes half-closed, her breath froze.

  This he had seen during that day and that night. This expression of yearning told him the truth. She wanted him. Even now, even after what he had done, she wanted him, and her rage could not disguise that.

  He’d declare a triumph, but first he had to get inside her. He had to possess her again. Then he would know she was his. “Laurentia,” he whispered as he opened her.

  She looked at him and licked her lower lip, moistening her pouty mouth.

  His gut gave a twist. That mouth. He’d observed that mouth every day that he’d been with her, watching her talk, smile, eat, frown, and all he’d wanted was to kiss those lips, soft, pink, generous. He’d imagined the taste of her, thought of the tongue-play they could have, considered how he would take her breath and give her his until they were one and alive with impatience.

  He’d done all that, and all he wanted was to do it again.

  “Your Highness.” He parted his lips, reached for her with his mouth.

  She drew back. “My way.” Catching his cheeks between her palms, she tilted his head up. She pressed her lips to his, and this time she opened him, probed him with her tongue, filled his mind with sensations of wetness, of warmth, of bodies and motion and ... He had to get inside.

  Below, he probed her with his finger, and tasted her tiny moan with his lips. She was ready. He was past ready. He removed his finger, guided her down to him. The mere contact of her, open on him, adjusting around him, sent his hips surging up.

  He was inside. If he could just push all the way in, have her wrapped around every inch of him, everything would be in order. She would remember whose woman she was and she would say she loved him again.

  She had to say she loved him.

  She pulled away from the kiss they shared. She placed her hands on his shoulders. She looked into his eyes.

  And authoritatively she propelled herself up.

  Not all the way, but far enough to make him grab and try to force her back down.

  “My way,” she said, and before he could grab again, she languidly sank back down. But not all the way.

  Her feet rested on the floor. She had control. Maybe she wanted revenge.

  As slowly as she was moving, she already had it. But—oh, God—she twisted her hips a little as she lifted herself again, and the friction inside her brought tears of delectation to his eyes.

  And why? Could it be that the rage and frustration that drove him goaded her, too? Had the lonely nights been too long, had her fears been too painful?

  She leaned against him, stroking him with her whole body as slowly she rose, and deliberately she fell. Each time a little more of him entered her, and each time it wasn’t enough.

  Her nipples brushed his chest. The fabric between them snagged on his chest hair. He wanted to strip away the chemise, remove any barrier from between them, make this agony a pure indulgence . . . but he didn’t dare take his hands away from her buttocks. He kept hoping she would tire, she would let him take over, and he could drive into her again and again...

  “Take all of me.” He was begging. He could force her. Of course he could. But he was a fair man. She had the right to torment him as he had tormented her.

  Only this was too much. His balls were pulled tight against his body, he needed his release now, and still... still she tantalized him. “Please, darling. Your Highness. Please.”

  “Darling Your Highness,” she echoed. “I like that.”

  She was still talking. She’d reduced him to babbling. But he didn’t make the mistake of thinking her unaffected. As she moved on him, he felt the walls within her flexing, a counteraction to the stroke of her breasts along his chest, to her sheath around his cock. With just a little encouragement, she would be twisting in his arms, moaning in that soft voice, tightening on him until he fought his own orgasm to allow her hers.

  He knew how to bring
a woman to climax with a single caress. He’d been trained to pleasure a woman until euphoria carried her beyond the physical and into a place of pure sensuality.

  Now he knew why. He had found a design in those years of servitude. Fate had prepared him for Laurentia.

  So he touched her. He slid his hand down her thigh, cupping it in his palm, and lightly touched that sensorial bit at her front.

  She arched back, up, cresting like a wave. That single touch would have been enough, but for her he wanted more. He grazed her, small, rhythmic motions of encouragement. With each stroke, she tightened her grip on pleasure, loosened her grasp on control. The sounds he worshiped broke from her, small, untutored, primitive. Her features became the face of love, classic and timeless. Each undulation brought her higher, straining, reaching for pleasure, contracting on him.

  She was wild with purpose, demanding without words that he satisfy her, and he took savage joy in obeying.

  When her body had been overwhelmed, and she thought there could be no more, he took her beyond. . Carefully, firmly, conclusively, he pressed his fingers against her.

  She dug her nails into his shoulders. She cried out, “Dom!” She shuddered and convulsed, a living flame in his arms.

  He could bear no more restraint.

  He assumed control. Clasping her hips, he stood, driving her all the way down on his shaft.

  She cried out again, wrapping her legs and arms around him, holding all of him. He took three long steps to the door. He placed her back against the smooth surface and held her there, leaned hard between her legs. As he knew it would, the contrast of the coolness of the wood at her back and the heat between them brought her to consciousness for one long second.

  She looked into his eyes.

  In his softest, most domineering voice, he said, “My way.”

  Dom was drifting off to sleep at last when he felt Laurentia’s shoulders shake. At first he diagnosed a nightmare, but the narrow bed didn’t allow for such a mistake.

  She was crying. Her head rested on his arm, and tears trickled over his skin and onto the pillow.

  Lifting himself above her, he whispered, “My brave girl, what’s wrong?”

  “I love you,” she said.

  Such an enormous sense of relief filled him that, for a moment, he thought himself too vulnerable. Love, according to all the sages, was supposed to give him a sense of security, not twist his heart into a knot at the sound of a sob. “I know.”

  “You don’t understand.” She took a wavering breath. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to, and it’s almost more than I can bear.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Dom woke slowly, knowing Laurentia had already risen, stretching and feeling the aches she had inflicted. He counted them well received. They were together again. They had spent the night making love: her way, his way, her way. Now he would explain what he had done and why. Now she would be reasonable.

  Opening his eyes, he looked for her.

  Looked again.

  Sat up and stared, then stupidly leaned over and looked under the bed.

  He leaped to his feet, not conscious of his nakedness, and slammed into the door. It was locked. He looked up toward the window. Nothing. Nothing had changed; the room was the same.

  But Laurentia was gone.

  How had she done it? Hell’s fire, how had she escaped?

  He gathered his clothes as quickly as he could, donning them in a frenzy, then scrambled around the chamber, touching the walls, moving the bed, trying to find a secret exit.

  Nothing.

  At last he shoved the table up against the outside wall, put the chair on top, and climbed up. He held his breath as he balanced himself and straightened; the furniture which seemed strong enough while on the floor now seemed deceptively fragile. But it supported him until he could shove the curtain aside and grasp the bars at the small slot of a window. He found himself hoping they were sturdy and could support his weight. They were and could. And he realized—Laurentia hadn’t escaped this way. She couldn’t have piled the furniture while he slept. He wasn’t that sound a sleeper. The top of his head brushed the ceiling of the cell, even with his knees bent, but for the diminutive princess to haul herself up and out—no.

  Yet this was his best chance. Shiny bolts held the bars in place, but he twisted at them anyway. They didn’t move. He jerked at the bars. He succeeded only in almost overbalancing.

  The bottom of the window was at street level, and when he peered out he found himself gazing on a side street. It wasn’t busy, but merchants and housewives hurried past, some right by his nose, some across the street. An ox-drawn cart rolled along at a tedious rate. By craning his neck, he could see the end of the street; guards loitered there, but by their attitude Dom knew they considered this boring duty.

  Damn it, he had an army marching into town soon. He had to get out to meet Danior.

  So he started yelling. “Hey! I’m down here, get me out! Hey, come on, I need to get out! Hey!”

  No one paid any attention; indeed, most people increased their speed. The guards grinned, but they stayed at their posts.

  “Hey!” Dom shouted.

  One brown homespun dress came to a halt by his nose, and he snatched at the hem. “Lady, I need help.”

  She knelt by the window and peered inside. “I would say you do.”

  “Brat.” Relieved, he rested his forehead against the cool bars and looked into her thin, amused, and welcome face. “Where’s Ruby?”

  “Safe.”

  “Can you get me out of here?”

  “Maybe.”

  He lifted his head. Brat was behaving oddly. “What do you mean, maybe?”

  “You’ve made a mess of things, Dom.”

  “Not that again.” He glared at her. “I got the money for Ruby.”

  “Not for Ruby,” she corrected him. “For you. And in the process, you’ve destroyed a country.”

  Owning a pair of breasts obviously sapped the mental processes. “It’s not destroyed,” Dom snapped, “it’s just damaged a little, and I’m going to help put it together.”

  “Do you think when something’s broken you can just stick some glue on it and it’ll be as good as new?” Brat rested her hands on her knees like someone prepared to stay a while. “Even Ruby knows better than that.”

  Dom craned his neck and checked the guards. They were passing a bottle and laughing. “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Then where’s the princess?”

  “She escaped.”

  “Without you?”

  “Don’t be such a wiseacre.” Without you. The phrase echoed through the hollow corridors of his soul. Without you. Laurentia had left without him, without even a backward glance.

  “She’s gone,” he repeated. How? His gaze sharpened on Brat’s face. “You know her well now.”

  “Oh, yes. The princess and I speak every day.”

  He had an uncomfortable moment of wondering what Laurentia had thought when she discovered his one remaining mercenary was the woman she had met and to whom she had been so kind. And did she know about the cart? He’d never had his lies catch up with him, because he’d never before planned to stay.

  None of that really mattered, though. All that mattered was—“Then you know how she got out of here.”

  She smiled.

  He straightened and cracked his head on the ceiling. “Damn!” He rubbed his skull, but the blow put his mind to working. “That Chariton person found you.”

  “Days ago, Dom.”

  “So he’s helping Princess Laurentia?” His voice rose in disbelief. Princess Laurentia would rather have someone else help her?

  “Better ask what the princess is doing to help herself. She’s organized the whole revolt from her cell.”

  “Revolt.” Dom glanced back at the barren room.

  Laurentia had organized a revolt, and from here? Why hadn’t she told him?

  His military mind went to work. “How? When? Give me a r
eport.”

  Brat responded to his commander’s voice as she always had—coldly, efficiently. “Five years ago, the king and the princess concocted a plan in case an invasion occurred, and this last week they’ve been putting it into action. The princess has been passing and receiving notes through the window, and apparently the letters she received from her father were in code. At this moment, Bertinierre’s army is gathering outside the capital. The king has escaped from the palace. The princess has been taken to her command post.”

  “Will she be safe?”

  “Only if they win back their kingdom.”

  They would win back their kingdom. Dom himself had guaranteed it. “Sereminia’s army will be here by tonight. Brat, I need to get out.”

  Brat scrambled just out of arm’s reach, and considered him. “Was the princess glad to see you?”

  “No. She was angry.” If Brat had been talking to Laurentia, she already knew all the answers. “But I made things better.”

  “Which is why she went off and left you locked in a cell?”

  Brat, the old Brat, was truly gone. She questioned his judgment; she called his feints. The wounded, rebellious girl had grown up, and he didn’t like the change. “Can you get me out or not?”

  “Not until I tell you a few things, Dominic.”

  He groaned and dropped his head to the bars again. “Not now!”

  She grabbed his hair and pulled his head back to look in his eyes. “This is the only way I know to make you listen.” She shook him. “Her Highness loves you.”

  “I know. She told me.” He didn’t tell Brat what else Laurentia had said.

  Brat seemed to know, anyway. “But she hates herself for it.”

  “She told you that?”

  “No, but I know. Do you think I’ve gone through all these years of battle and passion without learning anything about being a woman? And I’ve been raped, Dom. I know about bitterness and shame.”

  “I didn’t rape her!”

  “No, you made her ashamed of herself. That’s worse. Dom, love should make you proud, and I know loving you could make a woman proud.”