Page 100 of Bossy Wicked Prince
Cat lowers her hips so her core is flush against my cock. Even through the layers of our clothes, I imagine I can feel her heated pussy. I thrust up toward her, grinding my cock shamelessly against her.
“Feel what you do to me, Kitten?” My voice sounds rough and strained.
“Yes,” she rasps and kisses me again, gentler this time. Her body melts against mine, all her anger and frustration gone. I shouldn’t be surprised that someone so kind can’t hold onto negative emotions for long.
This time when she rocks her hips against mine, it’s not just a desperate motion for satisfaction. She moves with intent, showing me how it would feel if we weren’t clothed. For a second, I get to imagine what it would feel like to have her in my bed, completely naked and?—
The intercom crackles and we both jump, surprised.
“We have begun our final descent. Please take your seats, fasten your seatbelts, and prepare for arrival.”
Fuck. I was so lost in Cat, I forgot that we don’t have time to go any further. Reluctantly, I pull away from the kiss andguide her back to her seat. Kneeling in front of her, I buckle her seatbelt for her and tighten it.
Cat’s breath catches, and I notice her thighs pressing tightly together. She liked me tightening that strap for her. I bite my lip to keep from grinning. I plan to use that bit of information the next time she’s mad at me.
I never claimed I don’t play dirty.
32
CAT
There’s no price tag on the floaty blue dress hanging in the hotel closet. It’s probably for the best—I’m sure it’s hundreds of dollars more than I’d feel comfortable spending.
It’s also exactly my size. Stalker Nate strikes again—I have no idea how he knew that. His personal shopper probably doubles as a secret agent, sneaking into my closet to check the size labels while I’m asleep.
Still, I’m glad he bought me something to wear to dinner tonight. I don’t know how many meals on this trip will double as meetings with Nate’s clients, so I plan to enjoy tonight’s dinner fully, when it’s just the two of us.
We’ve only been here for a few hours, but Paris is already everything I hoped it would be. On our drive from the airport, we passed the Eiffel Tower and even caught a glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe. There were so many gorgeous bridges and cafés and parks to see, I barely knew where to look. I squealed so much, I must have sounded more like a teacup pig than a human woman.
I have to remind myself that this is a work trip. I’m sure I’ll find time to sneak out to a bakery for a croissant, but we’ll probably be too busy to do anything else. We’re only here fortwo full days, really. If I don’t get a chance to window shop the designer stores along the Champs-Élysées, it’ll have to wait until next time.
Because I’m absolutely coming back.
I slip on the blue dress, which feels soft and silky against my skin. I give a little twirl, watching my reflection in the mirror. I hardly recognize the beautiful, sophisticated woman looking back. Maybe it’s the dress, or maybe it’s how Nate makes me feel.
Reluctantly, I shrug on my worn fall jacket. It’s a shame to wear it over the gorgeous dress, but it’s too chilly to go out with my sleeves uncovered.
With a final glance to make sure my hair is smooth, I open the door and stroll into the beautiful suite. The walls are covered in pale blue jacquard wallpaper, set off by the antique woodwork. The view is to die for—if I walk out on the spacious balcony, there’s a view of the Eiffel Tower and the city rooftops. The sky is just starting to turn a dusky pink, and I can’t wait to see the tower once it’s lit up for the night.
Nate sits on an antique-looking couch, his long legs crossed as he skims throughLe Monde.He puts the newspaper down when I enter, looking me up and down with approval.
“You look stunning,” he murmurs. “But I have a different coat for you, if you don’t mind.”
He hands me a large white shopping bag with the outline of a fox drawn on it. I reach in and pull out a beautiful black woolen trenchcoat. It’s classic and sophisticated, but simple, not too over-the-top. I can tell from how soft the fabric is that he spent far too much money on it. Thousands of dollars maybe. I can’t help but think how many simple, inexpensive coats I could buy with that money—coats for people without anywhere warm to stay.
I shake my head. “I can’t accept this, Nate.”
“It’s too late. Jacques doesn’t accept returns.”
I raise my brows. “Jacques?”
“My favorite boutique coatmaker. I always buy a new coat from him when I come to Paris, so I ordered one for you, too.”
It’s such a thoughtful gesture that I can’t bring myself to say no. “That’s so kind of you.”
He takes the coat from me and holds it up. I shrug out of my jacket and he helps me slip into the new coat. It’s buttery soft cashmere wool, and now that I’m wearing it, there’s no way I’m giving it back. It fits me perfectly, both the size and the style.
When I look at the mirror inlaid in the wall, Nate and I are both reflected. It’s the first time I’ve ever thought we looked like a natural pair that belonged together, both of us in our elegant coats.
