Page 3 of Twelve Nights In The Prince's Bed

She lifted a finger, pressing it to his lips. ‘I don’t want to listen,’ she murmured. ‘I really, really don’t want to talk about this. For three years I’ve wondered what the heck happened between us, and I’ve wondered why you stopped. I’ve never understood why all of a sudden we were kissing, and then we weren’t, but I’ve had time to reflect on the whole kissing side of things and I liked it. So I want you to kiss me. Again.’

‘And not to stop,’ he growled, and despite his mind knowing this was an utterlyterribleidea, that things were far more complicated than she believed, his hand lifted and pressed to her hip, holding her there, and his body was suddenly so close that they were pressed together.

‘Not to stop,’ she agreed with a small nod and a tilt of her head so her face was close to his and they were staring at each other. He felt as though he might tumble off the edge of the balcony if she kept looking at him like that.

‘It was right to stop that night,’ he said, as if he needed to grab a lifeline.

‘Was it? Why?’ There was an intensity to her question and he was reminded of how razor sharp her mind was, how impressive her intelligence. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her, all those years ago, when she’d arrived in Stomland as a shell-shocked orphan and he’d felt an instant desire to protect her from any more harm. But even broken by the loss of her parents, she’d been insatiably curious and unabashed with her curiosity.

He compressed his lips and expelled a sharp breath. ‘Because you’re like a sister to me.’

She made a scoffing noise he regrettably found irresistible.

‘A sister? Really?’

No, not really. He sighed again. ‘Poppy—’

‘Tell me you don’t want to kiss me,’ she challenged directly, and he was grateful for the darkness on the balcony, and the fact she wouldn’t be able to see the tell-tale part of his anatomy that showed just how badly he wanted what she was suggesting. But then, whether by accident or design, she swayed forward, and brushed against his arousal. The moment they connected, her eyes widened and her lips parted on a soft exhalation. There was no longer any denying it. There was no longer a war to wage.

‘It’s a mistake,’ he groaned, but he wasn’t sure if she heard: the words were buried in the kiss, in the swift, urgent claiming of her mouth, in the beginning of something he wasn’t sure he could control but that he could no longer fight. Hell, it was a mistake, but so was the kiss on Poppy’s twenty-first. He’d simply have to live with the consequences in the morning. And in between now and then? He intended to enjoy every damned moment.

CHAPTER TWO

HE’DKISSEDHERonce before and it had rocked her world, shaken it to the very foundations, but this was something else. Something entirely different. She saw now that his first kiss had beenchaste, if such a word could be applied to a moment that had switched everything on inside her and made her fully aware of her desires and needs as a woman. But this was different.

This was so raw, so real, so visceral. One hand came behind her back, pulling her hard against him, and his mouth took hers with a rush of desperate hunger, his lips separating hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth as if he wanted to taste every inch of her. She whimpered because it was so incredibly overwhelming, because she felt as if she were drowning, and there was no saviour in sight. She lifted her hand to the back of his head, tangling her fingers in his hair, making a small moaning sound that was swallowed by their kiss.

Desire flashed through her, heavy, hot, urgent, so now she didn’t hear the ocean or see the stars, she felt only the tightening of her nipples against the fine lace of her bra, and the warmth between her legs, and the way her stomach was twisting, wanting, needing more.

She didn’t ever want this kiss to end. She knew it would lead to complications, but his passion was a drug and she was high on it. Rational thought was no longer possible.

Pressing up onto the tips of her toes, so her breasts crushed against his chest, her body moulded to his, she felt the full force of his arousal and almost pulled back, because it was so confronting and real, such undeniable proof that he was awash with the same desire she was.

Something, somewhere, snapped through the waves of eroticism to steal Poppy’s focus, and Adrastos was aware of it too. They both pulled away, staring at each other, chests heaving. Adrastos looked around, frowning.

It had been a flash of light. Lightning? The air smelled of salt and thunder; a storm had been forecast for the following day.

It had also been a wake-up call she desperately didn’t want to hear; she couldn’t have history repeat itself! The last time, they’d stopped because there’d been a sudden noise, and she’d always lamented that, and wondered what would have been if they’d kept exploring, kept kissing, kept tasting... Staring up at him, she knew the hammer was about to drop, that he would walk away from this and leave her and all her fantasies for the next few years would be fed by those wild, passionate moments of abandon.

‘We shouldn’t do this,’ he said with a shake of his head, but he continued to hold her tight.

Disappointment seared Poppy.

‘Anyone could walk out here and see.’

Her heart lifted. She felt as though she were on the fastest roller coaster in the world. His eyes pinned hers as if he was trying to wade through the madness, to find his way back to the shores of sanity. She held her breath, incapable of speaking, too scared to say anything that might shatter the moment.

‘Come with me.’

The words were issued like a command, ringing with his trademark authority, the same authority she’d been aware of when she’d first come to live at the palace in Stomland as a heartbroken fourteen-year-old. Eleanor had been a balm to her soul, but nineteen-year-old Adrastos, home for the weekend from military college, had been something else entirely. She’d quickly learned that the sun and moon revolved around him. Not just because he was the heir to this small, rich country, but because he had been born as a true king amongst men—second in line to the throne until his older brother’s death, but Adrastos had always been possessed of qualities that made him rare and impressive. Confident, fiercely intelligent, unfairly handsome, educated, strong and athletic, he had been like some kind of god, and to be in the same room as him was to be aware of his gifts. She saw it again and again—the way people were awed by him, totally cast under his spell, just by being near him.

He drew her closer, hand on her back, guiding her across the balcony, every step taking them further away from the party, towards their own intimate celebration. It was a large penthouse, and they walked around the corner of the balcony before reaching a door. With one last, piercing look at Poppy’s face, Adrastos pushed the door inwards and gently ushered her inside, the hand on the small of her back almost the only reason she could remain standing.

He flicked on the lights as he shut the door and locked it, offering privacy in what was a sumptuous bedroom. Poppy spun to face him now, dislodging his hand and jacket, which she’d worn loosely draped over her shoulders. It dropped to the ground without her realising it, because she couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

A twenty-four-year-old virgin, in a bedroom with the Prince she’d secretly fantasised about for years...

Happy birthday, Poppy.

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