Page 21 of Heart of the Summer Queen

“It’s stuck to the metal, so shattering it will also break the bathtub.”

“Is that a problem? It’s just a tub, and if the water leaks out everywhere, all of it will just freeze, anyway.”

“I’d rather not break this bathtub,” he mumbles.

Considering how similar it looks to the one my maids bring me, I’m not sure what’s so special about it. Curious though I am, I don’t stop to ask the question. Otherwise the frost will spread further through the water.

“All right,” I say, pacing around to the other side. “I’ll try to pull you out.”

I loop my hands under his arms and around his chest and do my best to concentrate on the task at hand rather than the fact I’m practically hugging a naked man. When he starts tomove out the water, I grit my teeth and pull, but the king is by no means light. Not with his tall, broad-shouldered stature and all those well-sculpted muscles. Muscles which I’m currently holding and trying not to think about.

Our first few attempts have no effect and his foot stays stuck, and I wonder if he’ll have to shatter the water and break his beloved bathtub after all. But then, with one last heave from us both, he bursts free and tumbles out. The force is so great it knocks me off my feet.

We crash to the floor, landing in a messy heap of limbs.

eight

The surprise of the fall dazes me. I don’t realize I’m lying atop him until I blink.

And he’s naked.

His skin is still wet, though the water droplets glitter in the morning light from the balcony windows.

The next thing I realize is that my hand is resting on his abdomen—much lower than is safe—but I don’t move it. Heat surges through my stomach.

We haven’t been this close since . . .

I can’t let myself think of that night. Of all the deliciously wicked things his tongue can do, of how good he felt inside me.

I know I mustn’t react, but it’s impossible to stop warmth from rushing across my cheeks, burning so hot I’m certain it’ll melt away all my freckles.

No. None of that night was real.

I was acting. It isn’t my fault my body doesn’t understand the difference. It doesn’t mean I feel anything for him.

And if I do, it’s just lust.

I tell myself this over and over, wanting more than anything to believe it.

I don’t dare to look anywhere except his face.

The only saving grace is the way I landed means I’m lying halfway across him and am not entirely straddling him.

His eyes burn into mine, and he doesn’t so much as blink. Like me, he stays unnaturally rigid, not daring to move.

I’m the one to break our trance, snapping my left hand carefully up from his lower abdomen and then whirling around so my back faces him. Drawing my knees to my chest, I stare out at the bleak gardens beyond his balcony and imagine myself being repeatedly doused in a bucket of cold water.

Not that it helps.

We stay there, the tension so thick I can hardly breathe.

What would happen if I turned around and yielded to the relentless desire burning within me? What if I pressed my lips to his and kissed him as passionately as we kissed on our wedding night? Would he think me mad for desiring him and push me away?

Or would he kiss me back as frantically and drag me over to his bed where we could once more experience all those pleasures I dare not think of?

I squeeze my eyes shut.

That final question may drive me to madness.

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