Chapter 18
Eighteen
AURELIA
God, that wink. Yep, definitely a panty-melting look.
Because, my word, do I want to feel him in my panties again.
I can’t think of a time I’ve ever even remotely thought that about a guy, and yet here I am, in an isolated mansion in the mountains with a man that can never be mine and yet has my mind envisioning all kinds of impossible scenarios.
I stop myself before I ruin a perfectly good day with such concerns.
This arrangement with Prince Friedrich is supposed to be fun.
No strings, no attachments, no feelings.
Just pure enjoyment of our bodies, a time for me to explore what that even means.
And however long that lasts will have to be enough.
Because, good night, do I enjoy that man enjoying my body.
The shirt he left for me is a bit too small, and I’m guessing the others in the wardrobe will be too.
I hear a door click down the hall and a few moments later, another one farther down.
I wrap the towel around me and, seeing the coast is clear, slip down to a room I instantly know to be his because his smell still lingers.
It strikes me how well his choice in cologne fits this setting, wood and smoke and earth.
This is a man who loves the solitude of the countryside and carries it with him, even when he’s stuck in the capital.
There’s a wardrobe on one wall, and it feels wrong to snoop in his most private residence, but I see a few long-sleeve button-down shirts hanging and pull a white one down.
This is sexy, right? I think every romcom has a scene with the love interest in her man’s shirt, a few buttons undone at the top and the tails hanging down around her thighs.
I throw it around my shoulders, and my stomach does a flip-flop at the trace of him reaching through the detergent.
My bare feet make almost no noise on the carpeted hallway as I make my way to the library.
I can hear the fire still crackling from outside the door.
I knock softly and let myself in. The smell of smoke and aged paper wraps around me like a cozy blanket.
From the doorway, I can’t see the prince, but when I come closer to the fire, I spot him lying on the floor, propped on one arm with a heavy-looking leather book on the floor in front of him, a glass of amber-colored liquid in the other hand.
He looks up at the sound of my approach. A wide smile breaks across his face, and I note the beginnings of fine wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. They only appear when he gives a true smile, and I long to see it more. “That shirt is rather becoming on you.”
I blush, though the intended effect is made. “Do you like it? The other just didn’t feel quite right.”
“No? In fact, I believe it looks far better on you than it ever did on me.”
He motions for me to join him by the fire, and I oblige, adjusting the too-large shirt as I sit cross-legged on the ornate rug.
“I see you did a little touring of your own?” He holds up his glass in offering.
“Only a little.” I accept the glass and sip. It warms my insides as the fire does the same to my skin. I could get used to his incredible selection of whiskeys.
“Mm-hm. And did you find anything of interest?” he asks, taking the glass back from me.
“Sadly, no. And I searched high and low for your collection of nudey mags.”
He barks out a laugh that makes my heart soar. “No, I keep those at the summer cottage by the sea.” We both fall into a fit of giggles.
I peer at the book open in front of him when we regain our composure and raise an eyebrow. “Shakespeare? Not exactly light reading.”
He nods. “A collection of poems and monologues. Mother loves the Bard. We were instructed in Shakespeare extensively as children. I never did understand much of what he said. But this one,” he runs a hand down the open page.
“She asked me to learn this one for her. I drilled and memorized until I could have delivered this monologue in my sleep. But that wasn’t exactly what she wished for.
Mother told me I must hold it in my heart; that it would serve me well one day. ”
His striking blue eyes hold mine as he begins to recite:
“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath, it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice.
We stay in the moment a while longer, his words turning over in my head.
I am transfixed by the intensity of his gaze as the words pour from his soul.
I don’t notice how close we’d moved until I feel his breath against my mouth.
Our foreheads meet, and his hand is warm and strong as he cups my cheek.
“Queen Jacqueline was right,” I whisper as I close my eyes against his ardent stare. “It is a fitting passage for the future king.”
He tilts my chin with his thumb and forefinger, bringing my face closer, our noses touching, lips a breath away.
“Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;
Their beauty shakes me, who was once serene;
Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen.”
I crash my lips to his, giving into the fire between us, stoked by Shakespeare and Chaucer. Shocked at my boldness, I pull away quickly.
“No,” he whispers, his hand still on my face and drawing me back to him.
He presses his lips lightly to mine, once, twice, seeking permission.
My sharp inhale must be enough of an invitation, and he presses harder.
His tongue teases the crease of my lips, and they part almost of their own accord.
The taste of whiskey and rain sets my insides fluttering; warmth greater than that from the fire burning before us settles low in my stomach.
He threads his fingers in my still-damp hair and gives the slightest tug, making me arch into him more.
He teases and explores, slowly, gently. He’s so tender, I think my heart might crack in two.
A hint of him remains on my tongue even as he pulls away, our lips parted but still sharing the same breath.
A knock on the library door rouses us from the moment.
“Enter,” he calls, running a hand through his hair to straighten the bits I had mussed.
The same woman from earlier, Nina, opens the door, pushing a cart with her. “The coffee you requested, Your Highness.”
“Yes, thank you, Nina.”
I’m again shocked at his ability to remember the names of everyone who works for him and the respect he has to call them by those names. She leaves the coffee service at the end of the sofa behind us and bows before leaving again. I start to rise, but he puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Allow me.” He stands and pours us each a cup of coffee, adding only cream to mine and a few healthy spoons of sugar to his. He arranges an assortment of biscuits on a plate and balances it on his arm as he brings it all back to the rug in front of the fire.
“I hope you like gingerbread,” he says of the cookies on the plate. “It’s a favorite around the palace.”
I beam. “It’s also my favorite.”
“Miss Aurelia, the more I get to know you, the more I’m certain you would fit right in with my family.”
“That is perhaps the highest compliment I’ve ever received, Fritz.”
His eyes go wide at my use of his nickname.
I don’t know what made me say it, but it felt so right in the moment.
He sets his coffee aside hastily and grabs the back of my head, crashing his mouth to mine with a fervor I haven’t experienced yet.
I gasp, the pounding in my veins reaching new levels as he groans into my mouth.
Our hands are desperate, clawing at any part of each other we can find.
He grabs my hips to pull me closer, settling me in his lap as he leans back against the leather sofa behind us.
I can feel the rumble of his ragged breathing, and I curse the padding of my bra as I remember how flipping good it felt to have his hands on my breasts.
I don’t have long to be disappointed, though, as he starts fumbling with the buttons on the borrowed shirt before making an aggravated grumble and pulling it over my head instead.
The room is warm with the fire casting its radiant energy, and the loss of clothing is no problem.
I tug on the hem of the shirt he still wears, and he reaches one hand behind his head and pulls it off in one smooth motion.
My bra is gone, and I don’t even try to suppress the moan that escapes me as he takes my breasts in his strong and demanding hands. I arch into his touch as he runs his thumbs over my nipples.
“These are perfect,” he murmurs as he buries his face between them, licking and sucking, his beard the best kind of scratchy on my sensitive skin.
“Really?” I barely manage to ask. “I think they’re rather—”
But my protest is cut off by my sharp inhale as he takes one nipple in his mouth and sucks, hard.
“Oh-oh, my god,” I stutter as his tongue flicks and rolls, sending shocks of pure pleasure down my spine and straight to my core.
“Think they’re rather what, mi’ lady?” He moves to the other and gives it the same treatment, and I swear I can feel my panties getting wet. “Because I think you have the most succulent tits.”
Heat rises to my cheeks and creeps down my chest. He kisses my reddened skin and gazes up at me from between my breasts.
“Did I embarrass you?” His words sound concerned, but the sly grin on his lips tells me otherwise.
I lick my lips and roll them between my teeth, unsure how to respond, but knowing I don’t want him to stop what he’s doing. God, I don’t want him to stop.
A tremble runs through him as I trail my fingers through his beard, running up the side of his face and into his thick, dark locks.
His hands back on my waist, squeeze hard, and I think I wouldn’t mind if he left finger marks there.
Wrapping my legs around him, I bring him as tight to me as humanly possible and pull his head back to my chest. He groans his approval.
In this position, me sitting between his legs with my own around his hips, I can feel his hardness against me.
Something scratches at the back of my mind, but I push it away because this is Prince Friedrich and holy moly, he makes me feel so flipping good.
I begin to move against his erection, and he makes a deep guttural sound that I feel in my core.
“Fritz.” His name is more of a moan on my tongue, and now I know what using that name does to him. I’ll be using that to my advantage in the future.
“Aurelia.” Hot breath ghosts across my breast. He moves his arms from my waist and pulls me against his chest. His heart hammers against my bare skin. “I want to do so many bad things to you when you do that.”
The pounding in my ears nearly blocks out the rain pattering on the windowpanes as my mind runs through the few scenarios I can imagine with my newfound knowledge gained from Margaret and Aunt Sarah’s books.
His beard is rough on my neck as he places sucking kisses just below my ear.
A keening sound I didn’t even know I was capable of making slips through my lips.
“I want to show you,” he breathes against the hollow of my collarbone.
“Show me, my prince.”