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I bite back a moan as his palms glide outward from my breastbone, placing the flat of his palms directly above my breasts. The tips of his fingers are so far under the material of my shirt that they’re touching my sports bra straps. While massaging my chest, any onlookers would assume my husband is copping a feel in public.
As it is, he’s already making me delirious as moisture pools at my core.
I’m a pragmatic woman. I am obsessed with numbers, spreadsheets, rules, and policies. Helping nonprofits navigate international red tape gets me high. Fixing problems makes me giddy. I compartmentalize my life, and Etienne is supposed to fit into one perfect compartment. The one that I present to the world--the one concerned about image and propriety and being of service to my country. I’m supposed to get through this honeymoon, wait for the coronation, and split from the man amicably.
Exploring my feelings for him? That’s dangerous territory.
If I was another type of woman—a person more like Etienne—I suppose I could dive into this animal attraction. I could hop into bed and move on.
But that’s not who I am. If the sex is good, I could get as addicted to him as he seems to be to the bottle. And if that happens, that leaves me with hurt feelings.
I can’t cope with the idea of a one-sided obsession. My love for him at a distance is painful enough.
Get a grip, woman. It’s just sunscreen.
“Are you overheated?”
“A bit, yes,” I say, catching him staring at my mouth as his hands make quick work of coating my neck. “I…already got that part.”
I already got that part? Geez, I sounds as if I don’t want him to keep touching me.
I don’t. Do I?
His gaze lifts from my mouth to my eyes, and then he slides the tip of his finger down the length of my nose.
“There. Must protect those freckles.”
I am breathless, bordering on swooning when he hands me the water bottle.
Moments ago, we were giving each other shit, and now he’s acting out the jealous, protective, slightly overbearing husband a little too well.
I take a deep breath but do not detect any alcohol.
“Sober Etienne is very good at his job,” I say, hoping to build him up.
He looks offended, though, and I suddenly realize how condescending that was.
“Forgive me, Your Highness. I meant to say you’re so good at this that I almost believed you were truly jealous and flirting with me. And then I forgot my manners.” I cast my eyes downward, my mind finishing the thought: I forgot my manners because he made me feel like a wife concerned about his drinking.
Then, he touches my chin, forcing me to lift my face. He looks at me with an intensity that burns so hot I might need to re-apply all that sunscreen. “There is nothing to forgive. And you do not address me as ‘Your Highness.’ We are legally married. We are equals, under the law and as partners.”
A warmth floods through my body. “Partners,” I agree, giving a slight nod though it’s difficult with his thumb and forefingers still gripping my chin. Perhaps he still needs convincing that I understand. “Friends,” I add with my signature bright smile. The rehearsed one. The one that the regular media loves and the gossip rags love to pick apart.
His eyes darken at that word. “Then let’s give them something to talk about, friend.”
His gripping fingers anchoring me to the spot, Etienne kisses my lips.
I stifle the gasp of surprise.
But I cannot press pause on my need. No matter how impractical it is. The kiss is too good for that. I am not a woman who wastes her time or opportunities.
When Etienne pulls back from the kiss, I see the hunger in his eyes. I hook one arm around his neck, roll up on my toes, and pull him back down for another kiss. Deeper, harder. With tongue.
I barely have to nudge the seam of his lips with my tongue when he opens to me. But it’s Etienne whose tongue takes control, conquering my mouth. A growl escapes him, so low and barely controlled that I know it’s not for the benefit of anyone around us. There’s no one to hear it but me.
His hand finally releases my chin. In the next second, the prince’s arms circle my waist. He hitches me up, and I yelp and laugh against his mouth when my feet leave the wave-pounded sand.
My head is buzzing as he gives me sweet, short kisses in quick succession, angling his mouth over mine one way and then another. Having a taste of me from every angle, like he’s deciding how he would like to kiss me best. He tastes like mint, smells like fresh linen, and our bodies fit together delightfully. I am losing control of the situation, and I don’t care. This is a schoolgirl fantasy come true.
