Page 21 of The Princess and Her Mercenary

And then he started to move. Long smooth glides inside of her. He moved his hips in a way that sent sparks shooting through her all over again. Each thrust felt like a magic wave of pleasure. God this man knew what he was doing. He lit up everything. She couldn't get enough air in her lungs. He was stealing her very breath. She could do nothing but wrap her arms around his neck and hang on for the ride. And it was a wild one.

He rolled them over and repositioned her, dragging her up his body so that she was sitting on him with her knees on either side of his hips. His cock was still inside her. It felt so fucking good. But this way, sitting on him, face to face, looking him in the eyes. It was so intimate. It spoke to her. He spoke to her, even when he wasn't speaking. His beautiful green eyes pierced her, held her in place while he continued to rock her body.

Ndari had never felt anything like this and didn't know if she ever would again. She clung to him. She arched her back as another orgasm hit. He didn't give her a chance to catch her breath, he didn't give her much of a chance to come down from her last orgasm. And then she was shooting off again, throwing her head back with a scream and digging her nails into his broad shoulders, as he thrust up inside her, his cock slamming home and hitting everything good. She didn't know which way was up, or which was down, and she didn't care.

Then he was repositioning her again. Flipping her over onto her hands and knees and sliding inside her from behind. And then she remembered. Oh shit, they weren't using a condom. She'd never done that before. She wanted to care, she really wanted to care. She wasn't ready for babies. She was too selfish to have a baby. She hadn't looked into Prada diapers, Vera Wang strollers, or jewel-studded soothers. Babies took a great deal of research. One shouldn't just go and have a baby without preparation.

Plus, Keane seemed like he could be a bit of a man whore. Who knew what kind of diseases he might be carrying around? They hadn't discussed his past. Or hers, though she was definitely clean. She was way too royal for an STI. So, this was a bad idea. But in that moment, no part of her cared. She just cared about the orgasms that kept coming, wave after wave after wave, until she was nothing but a shaking, sweating body underneath his.

Finally, he came, grunting over her as his semen spurt inside her. It was hot, and it was leaking out of her as he continued to slam himself home, curving his body over her back. His hot chest against her hot back. Normally, she would hate that feeling. She didn't like being messed up, she didn’t like being sweaty, she didn't like being covered in spunk.

Normally, after sex, she would roll off the bed and head for the bathroom. Not this time. This time, all she wanted to do was be held by him. He lay half on top of her and half on the bed, wrapped his arms around her and held her close. She could feel his heart beating, reaching through his skin, into hers and then beating in time with her own heart. Or so she imagined.

"Wow," she whispered.

"Wow," he echoed, his breath brushing her neck.

She laughed. Not because anything was funny, but because she was so damn happy. She wanted to cherish this moment forever. She was in Paris. She was in love. She was in Paris, in love, and making love. It didn't get any better than this.

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