Page 55 of Wild Prince

Her hard clit is swollen and begging to be touched. I cover it with my mouth, dousing it in the wine.

“Your Highness…I’m coming apart.”

Between messy kisses to her sensitive flesh, I have to ask, “What happened to the woman who takes all day to come?”

Stasi laughs and says, “I slowed you down, and you sped me up. Your tongue makes me crazy.”

“My dirty, sweet, perfect queen.” I punctuate every word with a kiss to her folds, to her thighs, to her clit. I repeat random licks, kisses, and nips until she writhes under me, her nails clawing my shoulders.

“Want your skin,” she says with a grunt, tugging at the fabric of my shirt.

But that will require letting go, moving her legs off my shoulders. I can’t help the quiet snarl that rips from my throat as I back away to reach back and tug my shirt off.

Before I can dive back down between her thighs, she cuts me off, demanding a kiss to her sweet mouth. Our tongues battle it out; that’s the only way I can describe this feeling. We are both overcome with the urge to own the other, to lay claims and leave our marks. And that’s perfectly fine with me. She’s mine. She was always meant to be mine.

When I pull back from one final gorging kiss, I tell her, “Spread for me, baby. I’m not finished yet.”

The way this fierce female does what I say is a wonder and a blessing.

As if reading my thoughts, she replies, “Only for you. Only ever for you.”

I feast on her pussy until her thighs clamp against my ears and her fingers thread into my hair. My licks on her hard clit are relentless, and she comes apart with a sharp cry and an arch of her spine.

She shudders through her release as I lick her clean everywhere. What remains of the chocolate, the Nutella, the wine—it’s all mine, and it’s all gone by the time she’s finished to the point of limp.

“Where are we going?” she asks when I pick her up in my arms to take her to the shower. “Aren’t we going to take care of you?”

“My queen, you always take care of me.”

And now I understand the purpose of long, hot showers.

23

Stasi

The smell of a clean man nearby wakes me before the sun does.

Opening one eye, I see Sigurd perched next to me, looking fresh and delicious in a flannel shirt, his meaty hand holding a cup of steamy goodness.

“What time is it?” I croak.

“Time for me to go do a thing,” he says, with a note that says he’s preparing for me to insist I come along.

I lean forward, and we share a kiss; then, I look down over the edge of the bed and spy his feet. There, his big hairy toes are still colored a pretty mermaid turquoise. I smile. Of all the things we did together, I think simply hanging out with him, talking, and painting his toenails was my favorite. Don’t get me wrong, the orgasm stuff was spectacular. The “I love you” stuff…I’m getting used to it.

Looking at this giant, gruff, wild-bearded man, one would never think of him as an “I love you” kind of guy.

But the more time I spend with him, the more he shows me what he really is. The sweetest, most protective, and doting teddy bear.

I would be an idiot not to let him love me.

My mind keeps coming back to the “baby” thing. Am I ready for that kind of commitment? Will I ever be?

“You kept your pedicure,” I say.

Sigurd looks offended. “Of course, I kept it. You gave it to me.”

He has this way of making me swoon when I’m least expecting it.

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