Page 23 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

They headed down the aisle together, her heartbeat going into overdrive as she spotted the tall man standing alone at the altar, his broad shoulders, lean hips and long legs perfectly displayed in the expertly tailored morning suit.

The eyes of the congregation—made up of everyone from European royalty and heads of government to tech billionaires, supermodels and Hollywood stars—followed the bridal procession, the hush somehow pregnant with purpose, but Isabelle couldn’t detach her gaze from the back of her groom’s head, even as she struggled to keep the wave of panic and yearning under strict control.

Then he glanced over his shoulder—and their gazes collided.

Her breath became trapped in her lungs as she found herself marking each minute difference in his appearance since Sariyelva.

He’d had a haircut, she thought inanely, recalling those silky locks against her skin while they’d devoured each other in the café.

His gaze glided down her body, searing and intense—and with a sense of entitlement that made her panicked heartbeat plunge between her thighs.

Did he like what he saw? Why should it matter? When this whole circus was simply for the benefit of their onlookers?

His gaze landed back on her face as she reached him, potent and provocative. Her lips buzzed—almost as if she could feel his mouth branding hers again.

Rene presented her arm to Travis and murmured, ‘Here you go, Lord, you lucky bastard.’

The Prince stepped back. And she forgot all about him as Travis folded her fingers over his arm and brought her to his side. Her constricted lungs filled with the clean, spicy scent of cedarwood and man. And suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Had he got taller? How could he seem even more overwhelming now than he had that afternoon?

He adjusted the collar of his shirt, loosening the grey silk cravat at his neck.

‘I hope to hell that dress is more comfortable than my monkey suit,’ he murmured.

She smiled at his mocking tone—which reminded her of those irreverent texts—not easy given her breathing difficulties and the nerves that were now threatening to strangle her.

‘You lose,’ she whispered back. ‘I’m wearing a corset.’

His gaze raked over her cleavage, which pressed against her décolletage. His eyes darkened and she wanted to bite off her tongue. Why had she said something so provocative? So flirtatious?

He lifted her hand to his lips—watching her as if she were the only person there—and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

She jolted, the firm pressure like a lightning bolt to her already overwrought senses.

‘You win this round, Belle,’ he said.

But as the surge of awareness rioted through her body on a wave of need and panic she suspected she was not the winner of this round.

Because she suddenly felt like that reckless girl again, the girl she had glimpsed again in the forest clearing with him... The one who had once yearned to be loved and cherished, but who had ended up unable to control anything in her life, at all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Eight hours later

IFIHAVEto listen to another damn speech, I’m gonna lose what’s left of my ever-loving mind.

Travis Lord tapped his foot under the banqueting table, in the four-centuries-old hall the size of a football field filled with hundreds of people, the vast majority of whom he didn’t know from Adam, and tried to control the frustration, and the energy overload, that had been driving him nuts for hours.

He’d never been good at sitting still for long periods—even in high school he’d been thrown out of class more times than he could count because of the adrenaline that hurtled through his veins when he had to focus on any task for more than thirty minutes straight.

He’d trained himself to stay focussed for longer than that over the past decade—because being the CEO of a multinational brand meant attending a ton of really tedious meetings. Plus, he’d known getting through today’s schedule was going to suck from the outset, but he’d thought he’d prepared—by working out for three hours in the palace’s gym this morning before getting trussed up in this monkey suit.

What he hadn’t factored in, though, and he should have, was being close enough to touch his new bride for eight solid hours without a break. Having to breathe in that tantalising aroma of flowers and female musk, feeling her delicate shivers—every time he pressed his palm to the small of her back, or held her hand for the benefit of their audience—had been bad enough. But for the past two hours, he’d been less than five inches away from her—during ten never-ending courses of cordon bleu cuisine—forced to watch as she took delicate bites of the fancy food or judicious sips of the vintage bubbles, unable to forget exactly what it felt like to have those lips on him.

He stole another glance and took a swift hit to the gut, ramping up his frustration even more... But he couldn’t seem to look away, even for his own sanity.

The embroidered silk gown emphasised every one of her subtle curves, while her blonde hair was piled on top of her head in an artful array of jewelled clips and combs that he’d been itching to pull out for hours. He stared again at the single curl that dangled down and caressed the graceful curve of her neck every time she moved. He imagined placing his lips, right there, to lick the spot where her delicate skin pulsed, then sucking it until she moaned. His gaze glided back to her cleavage, her full breasts plumped up against the neckline of her gown, and imagined the corset she’d mentioned at the altar, eight long hours ago, which he’d been obsessing about ever since.

He tore his gaze away and stared at the crowd of guests.

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