CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE
H IS RESPONSE WAS a quick flicker of that mocking smile and then his head lowered. Slowly. Painfully slowly.
So slowly that she theoretically had plenty of time to rediscover her sanity. To push him away and tell him wild horses couldn’t make her want this. But she didn’t. Instead, she held her breath, impatience flaring in the pit of her stomach, her fingers tingling with adrenaline and need, until finally, his lips pressed to hers.
Not brushed. Pressed. With actual pressure. It was a kiss that showed, in that moment, his anger, and she felt it too. A spark, a whip, a burst of flame. But then, there was something else. He moved. Not just his mouth, but his body, closing the distance between them, and one hand came around to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the neat bun she wore, while his other hand pressed to the desk just behind her, forming a sort of cage with his big, broad frame. His powerful legs were on either side of her body and her bottom connected with the edge of his desk; she hadn’t even realised how close it was.
Of their own volition, her hands lifted, her fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, holding him, as he deepened the kiss, his mouth moving now in a way that was enquiring, as if he was asking her questions and her lips were responding in a way so much more meaningful than speech.
All controlled.
All bearable.
Until it wasn’t. Until something sparked in Sebastian, or perhaps in Rosie. Maybe in them both, simultaneously. It was signalled by a small groan, low in Rosie’s throat, as something he did with his tongue sent her nerves into a palpitation and she couldn’t help but say his name, pushing the three syllables into his mouth. He paused, his body stiff and straight, and then he kissed her hard. Much harder than he had at first. This was a kiss that was the culmination of every ounce of his strength and need; it was a kiss that shook Rosie to her core, because she’d never known one like it. There was nothing chaste nor civilised about this—it spoke of all the raw animalism she’d felt in her husband from the first moment they’d met. He kissed her as though she was something he wanted to taste, every single inch of. He kissed her as though it was the only way to save his life, or hers, or perhaps even the universe.
The weight of his body pushed hers backwards onto the desk. She felt things beneath her—pens, a notebook—she didn’t care. She just wanted to freeze time and hold on to this one single moment. It had nothing to do with Sebastian, and everything to do with Rosie, who hadn’t conceptualised pleasure could be so complete and all-consuming.
She moaned again, pulling at his shirt, holding him right where he was, but Sebastian had other ideas. He broke the kiss and she almost cried out, but it was not to pull away. Instead, he dragged his mouth lower, over her chin, towards her decolletage, and as if he’d been hardwired into her most private fantasies, his big, strong hands gripped the silk of her shirt and pulled at it, so the buttons flew across the room with an overly loud tinkling sound as each hit a surface. He grinned. Not sarcastic. It was the first time she’d seen something like a real smile, and it took her breath away for how beautiful it was.
‘May I?’ he asked, voice husky as his finger traced a line around the edge of her breast.
She wasn’t even sure what he was asking but she nodded, delirious and over-hot now. She writhed when he pushed the silk of her bra down. Not removing it, but rather liberating her breasts from the cups with that same rough need that had seen him destroy her shirt. She didn’t have time to feel self-conscious. Having consented to his touch, she submitted completely, as his hands roamed her flesh, pulling, feeling, tweaking, tormenting, and then his mouth followed suit, his tongue lashing her, his warm, wet mouth sucking at her nipples until she was incandescent with a need that fired her blood like a volcano might. She swore—unusual for Rosie—the curse tumbling from her mouth, as she lifted one leg onto the edge of the desk, the skirt she wore ripping at the seam. A hand moved from one of her breasts to the thigh that had been exposed by the split, only her stockings were a regrettable barrier. His fingers crept higher, to the elasticised waistband, and he glanced up at her, another smile, this one only just very barely mocking.
‘Why am I not surprised?’
She heard the hint of teasing and flushed to the roots of her hair, finding it hard to hold his eyes. She glanced away from him, her eyes landing on an ancient mirror across the room. The sight of them terrified her. She looked so wanton, so alive. So awoken by desire. Her skin was flushed, her breasts creamy white and her nipples taut, pale pink. Her stomach was bare, exposed to his touch, and yet he looked exactly the same, in his suit and shirt, unchanged by what was happening to them. To her. It was everything she’d promised herself she’d never be! Oh, heavens...
‘Sebastian...’ She said his name with uncertainty now. Everything felt strange, different. The world was tilting weirdly beneath her, with all her usual suppositions nowhere to be found. She wouldn’t let this happen to her! She was not like the women her father had destroyed.
He pulled up a little, eyes fixing to hers with an expression she couldn’t understand.
‘Not so prim after all,’ he said, with a hint of approval. She wanted to deny that, but how could she?
‘I’m as surprised as you,’ she admitted after a beat, her hands still curled in his shirt, as though she couldn’t allow this to be over yet despite her deepest fears. Her body thrummed with need, heat building between her legs. But Sebastian was as canny as he was skilled. He pulled away regardless of her obvious desire, looking down at her now with cool composure. Oh, how she envied him! Only the slight colour in his cheekbones conveyed any hint that he might also have been a little undone by their passionate encounter. Where was her control now?
‘Do you still think IVF is how we should conceive our child, Rosalind? Or have you had a change of heart?’
Her voice shuddered a little as she fought to find a thread of common sense. ‘We both know our hearts have nothing to do with what just happened.’
‘True,’ he agreed with something like approval.
He brought his body back over hers, his hands braced on either side of the desk, his eyes boring into her own. ‘Email me a list of your projects, and the funding you require, as well as any other terms. Once we’ve come to an arrangement regarding your requirements, we can decide the...how did you put it? Mechanics of conception.’ He leaned closer to her, then dropped his mouth to her breast. ‘My vote is for the old-fashioned way, but you’re welcome to convince me otherwise.’
Why had he stopped? he thought, as the ice-cold water of his shower pummelled his still rock-hard body. His state of arousal wasn’t helped by the images of Rosalind that kept flashing into his mind despite his attempts to keep her firmly in a box. No matter how much he tried to impose his usual sense of discipline, he couldn’t help imagining her in here with him, her back to the wall as the shower rained down on her.
He remembered the way she’d tried so hard to resume her prim exterior, turning away from him as she’d pulled her clothes back on. He’d felt a rush of adrenalin at the sight of her shirt, at the way she’d fashioned a knot to hold it together then demurely buttoned her blazer in place, concealing, to anyone other than him, the state of her outfit. When she’d left, hair neatened back into that bun, she’d looked so much like his prim, perfect wife once more that he’d wanted to grab her wrist and drag her back against his body and kiss her all over again. He’d liked the way she sounded when she moaned into his mouth, the way her body had trembled against his. He’d liked it, even when he’d been surprised enough to acknowledge he hadn’t expected it.
Sex was about chemistry for Sebastian.
Rosie had been right, when she’d accused him of indulging in wild and untamed sexual encounters. That’s how it should be. If he was attracted to a woman and she was attracted to him, and they shared the necessary chemistry and had no expectations of a deeper commitment, then he was all for no-holds-barred sex. Two consenting adults who felt the same way could have a lot of fun in the bedroom, or wherever they came together. At least, that’s how it had been in America, before he’d returned to this life, and his role as king. Before he’d spent six months without anything other than his own hand for relief.
What a pleasant surprise it was to discover that his wife was someone he actually did share chemistry with after all.
That she wasn’t untouchable and cold.
That she might even be a perfect match for him in bed.
What did it matter that they didn’t like each other? Since when had personality compatibility been a factor in choosing his lovers? He’d had sex with women he’d just met before, women he never intended to see again. All he cared about was that they were sober, single and consenting.
Rosalind had been consenting.
Sober.
And while she wasn’t single, she was his wife...
She wasn’t naive enough to pretend her dreams had nothing to do with her decision. Being tormented for two nights in a row with memories of her husband’s touch, the weight of his body pressing down on hers, the feeling of his mouth on her breasts, had stirred Princess Rosie’s blood to a fever pitch, and seen her waking each morning with pink cheeks and an almost unbearable sense of disappointment to find herself alone in bed. She’d never craved someone in her life; she’d always avoided that. But just a taste of the fire Sebastian could stir in her belly, and she found herself wanting more. Much, much more...
It suddenly seemed incredibly silly to even contemplate using IVF to conceive their baby.
They were married, for goodness’ sake, and they were two adults, well able to decide who they slept with and why. For Rosie, desiring someone as she did Sebastian was just about as good a reason as she needed, but the only way she’d allow herself to give in to that desire was if she remained committed to her determination not to lose herself to him.
Rosie had seen firsthand how destructive unrequited love could be. Watching her father seduce woman after woman after woman, looking for someone to fill a whole in his bed whilst never relinquishing the grip Rosie’s comatose mother still had on his heart. She’d seen these women fall hard for her father’s charms and be badly burned in the process. As a teenager, Rosie had started to realise just how one-sided these affairs were, with some disastrous, devastating consequences. For some reason, her father had managed to hold all the cards, with each and every woman, and when the relationship no longer suited him, he’d abruptly ended it, somehow forgetting everything about his one-time lover, even her name.
For Rosie, it hadn’t been so simple.
She’d met the women too. She’d gotten to know them. When their hearts had broken, hers couldn’t help but be touched, softening with sympathy and pity. Sometimes, she’d even tried to warn them away from him, but they’d never believed her—he was too charming.
Rosie had watched their hearts break and sworn to herself that she would never put herself in such a foolish position. If she got married, it would be a totally rational arrangement. A friendship, or a business partnership. No children, just a satisfying arrangement where neither herself, nor her husband, could be injured.
She frowned, reflecting on the engagement she’d entered into, before notions of marrying Sebastian had been on the cards. She’d liked Robert, had even thought she loved him, but not enough to meet his demands that she give up her career to support him in his. What an arrogant pig! Or perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps what he wanted was his version of a partnership, but it had terrified Rosie. There were two things that mattered more to Rosie than anything else: her career, and her independence. Robert had wanted to take away both.
She’d run a mile.
Straight into the arms, metaphorically at least, of Prince Sebastian, who’d barely given her a second glance since their wedding, except on the handful of public occasions when it had been necessary to pose as a happy couple.
Had they touched? She found herself pondering, as her hand idled down her flat stomach, towards her sex, hunger building in the pit of her belly. They must have touched at some point. A brushing of hands, shoulders, bodies. But try as she might, she couldn’t imagine any physical contact beyond their wedding day, and other feelings had overwhelmed her then, making it impossible for her to recognise the desire that must have been wrapping around her and squeezing tight.
Perhaps it had been squeezing her this whole time, and she’d instinctively been running from it, out of fear of being just like one of her father’s mistresses?
Nothing could have prepared her for their encounter at his home.
She hadn’t expected his touch nor kiss, nor anything else, but she wasn’t sorry it had happened.
Maybe Rosie and Sebastian had simply found a way to have their cake and eat it too...
‘Laurena, would you please get a message to my husband?’
‘Of course, Your Highness. What would you like me to say?’
‘Ask him to join me for dinner this evening.’
‘Dinner?’ Laurena almost spluttered, then caught herself, reverting to the professional visage she usually represented. ‘What time?’
Rosie’s cheeks flushed. She opted for eight o’clock. Late enough to increase the likelihood he might spend the night.
‘At the palace?’
She considered that too. It would make sense for him to come here, yet something inside of her rejected that idea. He’d said he hated it here—his home was therefore an easier option. And deep down, there was a part of Rosie that relished the thought of being somewhere other than here too.
‘On second thought, tell Sebastian I’d like to join him for dinner.’
‘Of course, Your Highness. Shall I lay out any particular outfit for you?’
Rosie considered that. He’d called her prim, and it had raised her hackles, but what choice did she have? There were strict protocols around how to dress as a princess of Cavalonia. She could hardly turn up at his house in a slinky dress and stiletto heels.
Unless...
A smile tilted her lips as she shook her head absentmindedly. ‘Leave it with me. Thank you, Laurena,’ she dismissed, wondering at the way her pulse was suddenly erratic.
Sebastian was torn. He didn’t particularly like being dictated to by anyone, let alone Rosalind, and yet, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to seeing her again.
He poured himself a small measure of Scotch and cradled it in the palm of his hand as his clock struck eight. His body tensed in anticipation. His mind raced.
Dinner was not a proposition, and yet it was promising.
Promising?
How had his feelings towards his wife changed so much in seventy-two hours? He had disliked her three days ago. And he still did. She was manipulative, power hungry and worshipped the ground his grandfather walked on.
Or was it that his grandfather clearly loved Rosalind, whereas he had dropped Sebastian like a hot potato? Probably a bit of both. He wasn’t someone to give in to jealousy, and yet he’d felt it. Rejection. Surprise. That he’d been so clearly usurped, the place of beloved grandchild taken by someone who was not even related to the king.
He still despised her, he reassured himself. He just desired her, as well. And desire he was familiar with; desire he could control—he had many years of experience with that.
None of this was a problem.
With that reassurance, he threw back the Scotch and allowed himself to enjoy the anticipation of seeing her again, and stripping away those defences of hers, one pleasurable encounter at a time, until she was eating out of the palm of his hand...