Page 13 of The Prince's Green Card Scheme

He holds my hand for a second, then kisses my shoulder as if in apology and shuffles away to grab a condom from the box. I smile, watching as he rolls it on. I love that I don’t even have to ask him. I guess I must just have bad taste in men because the last few relationships I had, asking them to care about me at all was like trying to teach a horse calculus.

It was worse than useless.

And then he crawls back onto the bed, and his fingers drift back to my sex, and my brain turns offline almost completely.

How many girls has he slept with in the past? Last night he promised me that he was clean, but he gave me some of the best sex I’ve ever had. I don’t doubt that that’s how this morning is going to go as well.

But that doesn’t come without practice.

I don’t exactly care right now, though. Wondering about his past and why the hell he could possibly have any interest in me is a thought for later, when we inevitably part ways and I’m longing for this ridiculous boy who’s brought a whirlwind into my life.

When we climax again, it’s together, each setting the other off as we tumble over the edge, clinging to each other like we’re all we have to tether ourselves to the earth. Without his hands on me, I’m almost scared that I’d float away.

Breathless, we flop down on the bed, our fingers twining together as we lie in the silent bliss of hormones flowing through our bodies.

“You’re too good at that,” I whisper. “You’re magic.”

“No more magic than you,” he says, pressing his lips into my cheek.

I can’t think of anything else to say to that, so I say nothing, relishing the delight of lying next to him.

How did I get this lucky?

Eventually, he rolls onto his side and asks, “Do you want to shower?”

“With you?”

“If you want.”

“Yes, I’d like that. I need to clean up.”

We lie for a little longer, neither one of us really wanting to get up, but eventually my stickiness and sweat are bothering me too much and I force myself out of bed. Paul follows me, and we step into the shower.

It’s a vast space, almost bigger than the entire bathroom in my apartment at home. We barely need to bump against each other as we rotate into the water, but we do anyway, unable to help pressing our wet bodies together.

It’s intimate and silly and we spend far more time in there than we really need to. By the time we get out, we’ve been clean for a long time.

But a shower is a good excuse to keep staring at his naked chest and back, both of which are very delightful sights.

The idea of never seeing this again makes me ache.

But everything ends eventually, and we get out with wrinkled fingers.

“Chloe,” Paul says as we’re drying off. I wrap my hair up in a towel and hum at him to indicate I’m listening. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

He takes a deep breath, and my stomach lurches like I’ve just jumped out of a plane.

And then he says the thing I’m expecting him to say least of all.

“Would you like to marry me?”

CHAPTER 7

PAOLO

“Marry you?!” Chloe half-shrieks.

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