Page 16 of His Perfect Princess

Without looking away from me, he spoke to the wedding guests nearby. “Excuse me, Chancellor, Minister, and ladies. I believe my wife requires a dance from me.”

I required all sorts of things from him, but we could start with a dance.

I took his offered arm and neither of us looked at the guests as we took to the center of the ballroom. His hand on my back was perfectly proper, and I could feel the heat through my perfectly fitted pale blue gown as he swept me across the palace’s ballroom floor.

My hand might’ve been at its perfectly proper placement on his shoulder, but that didn’t stop me from occasionally brushing the side of a finger against the hair at the nape of his neck.

And I swear I saw him shiver.

But it wasn’t until a particularly large group of dancers made us push a little closer together that I finally—finally!—got to feel the thick bulge in his trousers press against my belly. I didn’t bother to tamp down the urge to wriggle against it, and was rewarded by his groan.

He leaned his mouth close to my ear. “Wife, if ye dinnae stop tempting me, I’m going to have to do something about it.”

I kept my gaze on the perfect column of his throat, because I knew if I looked him in the eyes when I said what I needed to say, I’d lose all my words. “Yes,” I whispered. “I think I do need to be taught a lesson.”

“What?” His strangled whisper sounded like he was choking.

I worked up my resolve, and peeked up at him from under my lashes. “I very, very much want to be taught a lesson, my prince.” I smiled slightly. “Hopefully one involving your cock and my cunny and finally being able to feel you inside of me. Do you think that might be arranged, sir?”

He groaned again, and pulled me flush against him, so I could feel how much he wanted me too. “Ye ken I love it when you use those words, don’t you?”

“Which words? You mean cock? And cunny?” I stood on tiptoe to whisper into his ear this time, reveling in how onlookers clearly wondered what we were saying. “I love that you taught me to say them. They make me feel very naughty, and I love feeling naughty for you, my prince.”

“Clarissa,” he rumbled, “Ye’re making it verra hard to wait for tonight.”

I smiled up at him. “Is there a rule which says a wedding night has to be at night? My cunny is already so wet, I am worried it is dripping down my thighs. I am ready to lose my virginity now, husband. Take it.”

Well, that did the trick.

With a low growl, Rickard grabbed my hand in a grip that told me he wasn’t going to let go for anything, and glanced around us.

Conveniently—or maybe it was on purpose?—all of the reception guests nearby seemed to be looking in another direction, which was all the encouragement Rickard needed.

We ducked out a small side door and practically ran up three flights of stairs to his chambers. Our chambers. My new home.

I stood, breathing heavily—from our run, and from the promise in Rickard’s eyes—and eyed the sofas and the little table under the window. This was where we’d had lunch that first day.

This was where he’d introduced me to my real self, shown me how incredible letting go could really feel.

And just like that first day, he locked the door and turned to me, his cock hard in his trousers and his intentions clear on his face.

“Take off that dress. Now.”

His command—oh Heavens, I loved his voice when it got all hard like that—set my heart to pounding and my hands reaching for the buttons. When the gown was being designed I’d insisted it be easy to get out of, and from his approving little nod, he appreciated my foresight.

He stood there with his hands at his side, watching me strip out of the elegant silk concoction. It wasn’t until I stood there before him in just my stockings, garters, and earrings—perfect teardrop sapphires from the royal vault—that he nodded slowly.

His hand was curled around the back of a chair, knuckles white against the dark wood, and I loved that he was able to maintain his control. I loved that he seemed so close to losing control, because of me.

“You are exquisite, Clarissa.”

A month ago, I might’ve ducked my head or blushed at such a compliment. He’d taught me to be proud of myself, and what I could do to—for—him. I ran my nails down my breasts and smiled at him.

“I have missed you,” I said simply.

And that was all it took. With a growl, he threw off his jacket and ripped off his necktie. He didn’t bother with his shirt, but popped the buttons from his trousers as he pulled out his cock, already hugely engorged in his appreciation for me.

He didn’t have to tell me what he wanted; I knew. It was my job to know how to please him, and I reveled in it, in how good I could make him feel.

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