Chapter Forty
CHAPTER FORTY
When they reached the foyer of the presidential suite, Gabriel wrapped his arm around his sister’s shoulders as Sophie sandwiched her from the other side and they bodily ushered Marion away from Michel’s suite. Emma raised an eyebrow at Michel, and his brilliant smile made her knees weak.
Yesssss. She finally had him to herself. Anticipation coursed through her.
He held open the door for her, and Emma walked demurely into the suite. But as soon as he followed her inside, she slammed him against the door and crushed her lips against his. His hands found her hips and pulled her to him as he moaned into her mouth. He spun them around and pinned her against the door, his tongue tangling with hers in a desperate dance. He slid his palm down the side of her thigh, and she wrapped her leg around his waist, reaching for his belt buckle.
“Emma, wait.” His voice was guttural and ragged as he gripped her wrist.
He didn’t put up a fight when she shook his hand off and drew him out of his boxer briefs. She pumped her fist none too gently over him, and he hissed, his hips jerking helplessly into her hand.
“No.” She smiled when he shuddered. “I don’t think I’ll wait.”
Michel surrendered with a helpless groan, kissing her as though he was claiming her. He hiked her dress up with unsteady hands and tore off her lacy panties. She was too turned on to lament the loss of her pretty lingerie. In one rough motion, he lifted her by the waist and drove into her. She wrapped both her legs tightly around him and hung on to his broad shoulders. The hard ridges on the door jabbed into her back, but she couldn’t have cared less. Having him deep inside her, filling her, stretching her… She needed this.
“Harder,” she demanded.
Cursing under his breath, he hooked his hands under her thighs and carried her a few steps to the living room. He withdrew from her as he lowered her feet to the ground. Before she could protest, he turned her around and bent her over the nearest chair.
“Hold tight,” he growled, and plunged into her just as she scrambled for a handhold.
She braced herself against the back of the chair as he pounded mercilessly into her. Her back arched as she lifted her ass, wanting him deeper. More, more, more . He cursed again and reached around to press the heel of his palm against her clit. They were lurching too wildly for more precision. But the pressure of his hand and his deep thrusts from behind sped her toward a blinding orgasm. She cried out his name as she came, and he pumped into her a few more times before he stiffened and shuddered against her.
As she drifted down from her climax, Michel’s desperate hold on her hips loosened, finger by finger. “Are you okay?”
“Mmmfinoofke.” Her face was buried in her arm, and she felt too limp to enunciate.
The silky lining of her dress felt cool sliding over her bare ass as Michel carefully set her clothes to rights. Then he lifted her into his arms as though she weighed nothing and carried her to his bedroom. He was still fully dressed in a dove-gray dress shirt and black slacks. She looked forward to watching him undress for her—slowly—once she got enough strength back.
After laying her limp body on his bed, he excused himself to the bathroom. Emma patted her hand on the nightstand and found a box of tissues for a hasty wipe down. She would clean up in the bathroom once her legs were fully functional. When Michel returned a few minutes later, she was already half-asleep. He sat down on the edge of the bed and tucked away a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Emma, darling.” He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Gabriel and Sophie are going to do their best to keep Marion away, but I don’t know how much longer we have.”
She managed to pout without opening her eyes. “We don’t get to go again?”
“We’ll see what we can manage.” Michel chuckled and dropped a tender kiss on her forehead. “But for now, we need to talk.”
Emma finally forced her eyes open to find him studying her with an expression that made her breath catch in her throat. “Michel?”
“I never wanted a fling with you,” he said as he studied her face with solemn, searching eyes. “You know that, right?”
“Right.” She nodded hesitantly, not knowing where he was going with this. “A fling implies something purely physical. I don’t think we’re capable of that.”
“No, we’re not.” He linked his fingers through hers and glanced down at their hands. “I never wanted this to be temporary either.”
Her heart fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird, but she kept her mind carefully blank. She sat up on the bed and tucked her legs beneath her. “What are you saying, Michel?”
“Yes, whatever am I saying? I’m not doing a very good job of it, am I?” He dragged his free hand through his hair and huffed out a nervous laugh. After a deep breath, he met her eyes with his face stark and vulnerable. “I love you, Emma.”
“Oh, Michel,” she whispered and pressed her trembling fingers to her lips.
She wanted to tell him that she loved him, too. More than anything. But what did any of this mean when they couldn’t be together? It would only make things harder when it came time for him to leave. Why was he doing this?
“I… I can’t tell if you’re upset or happy.” His voice dipped nervously as his hand tightened around hers.
“Both. I’m both.” Her eyes filled up with tears and the words she’d kept hidden deep inside tumbled out of her. “I fell in love with you despite my best intentions. I fell in love with you knowing that I could never have you.”
“No, no, no.” Michel reached out to cup her face with both his hands. “Emma, you can have me. All of me. I love you. I’d do anything for you.”
“I don’t understand.” She blinked in confusion. “You would move to LA?”
“And leave Rouleme?” He drew back, startled. “No, I can’t leave my people. I am to be their king.”
“Then… what?” Fear and confusion sharpened her words. “What are you saying, Michel?”
“Marry me.” The words rushed out of him like he’d been holding them back for a long time. “I want you to be my wife.”
Emma nodded slowly like she understood the words coming out of his mouth, then scooted past him to get off the bed. She walked over to the bathroom and calmly locked herself inside. She pressed both her hands to her mouth as a warbled sound rose to her throat. It could’ve been a laugh or a sob. She couldn’t tell for sure.
She stood in front of the sink, gripping the cold marble of the counter until her knuckles turned white. A future with Michel. The words resonated in her soul. She wanted it. So much that she couldn’t breathe. She had wanted it desperately ever since she realized she loved him. She’d just never allowed herself to admit it. But in her heart of hearts, she’d wanted to sink to her knees and beg someone to let her please have a lifetime with him. She hadn’t wanted to think about what it would cost her. She didn’t want to think about it now. But how could she not?
Michel was a prince. There was no avoiding that fact. And she knew next to nothing about being a princess. Me? A princess? Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her but faded away just as quickly. Why not? Why can’t I be a princess?
She was a hard worker, and she could adapt to any situation life threw her way. She could learn to be a princess—a damn good one if she put her mind to it. Etiquette and decorum were her jam. Fashion? Forget about it. But more importantly, caring for people came naturally for her. She could learn to love the people of Rouleme as much as Michel loved them.
Emma had become a culinary instructor because she wanted to touch people’s lives and make a difference. She loved cooking and teaching, but her passion lay in helping others nurture happiness in their lives. Couldn’t she make a greater difference at Michel’s side as a princess… as a queen?
But there was so much more than that. What about her dad? Auntie Soo? What about… everything ?
Emma stared at herself in the mirror—at her dark hair, dark eyes, and the other features that made her decidedly not white. She didn’t know much about Rouleme, but she was fairly certain that its people had never envisioned someone who looked like her as their princess… their future queen.
Even living in Los Angeles, she was no stranger to racism—from blatant slurs to constant microaggressions. Her favorite was when people asked her where she was really from. Because she couldn’t really be from LA even though she was born and raised here. It was like they wanted to force her to acknowledge that she didn’t belong in the US with the real Americans. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be Asian and American in Rouleme, with no claim to their heritage or history, especially as their princess.
What could Michel possibly be thinking? Dating a young professor in LA was one thing. But marrying a prince in Rouleme was something else entirely. Did he know what he was asking of her? Did he expect her to leave everything behind to face an uncertain future with him? Someone who was different from her in so many ways? After everything she’d done to secure a safe, stable future? Her brain couldn’t even process all the other impossibilities that stood between them.
“Emma?” There was a soft knock at the door. “Are you… are you all right?”
Oh no. She glanced frantically around the luxurious bathroom. What was she doing? Looking for an exit? Someplace to hide? The enormous clawfoot bathtub seemed like a good place. She scrunched her eyes shut. Get a grip, Emma.
“I have to pee,” she yelled to buy herself time.
“Yes, of course.” Michel sounded as though he wasn’t sure whether he believed her. “My apologies for the intrusion.”
She hated lying, so she sat down on the toilet. It was always a good idea to pee after sex anyway. She wouldn’t want to deal with a UTI on top of this mess. Once she was done, she washed her hands for twenty seconds, humming a nursery tune under her breath. Even when she ran out of ways to stall, she couldn’t make herself go out and face Michel. Especially since what she wanted more than anything was to throw herself into his arms and say, Yes, yes, yes. But that would be beyond unwise.
“Emma,” he said in a soft, gentle voice after a few minutes had passed. “Emma, please come out.”
“No, thank you,” she said, facing the door with her palm pressed against it. She wanted to run to him… run from him.
“I don’t think I handled that very well.” He sighed. “I didn’t even take out the ring.”
“You have a ring?” She blinked back a rush of tears.
“Yes, it’s… it’s my mother’s ring. It’s rather old—passed down through generations—but I think you would like it. It’s beautiful and unique. Like you.”
“Your mother’s ring?” she croaked, sliding down to the floor with her back against the door. “How do you have it with you?”
“I brought it with me from Rouleme…”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a hopeless romantic.” His chuckle sounded sheepish. “Because I hoped that I would meet you. I think I knew that I would meet you, darling Emma.”
“Michel?” she whispered.
“Yes?” There was a soft scraping sound. He must’ve put his palm against the door. Maybe right where she had hers a minute ago. “Tell me what you need.”
She muffled a sob with her hand tight over her mouth. When she was certain she could speak without crying, she said, “Can you ask Sophie to come?”
“Sophie?” He sounded bewildered but quickly recovered. “Of course. Let me go get her. I’ll be… I’ll be right back.”
Emma wiped her hands across her wet cheeks and blew out a long, shaky breath. Her heart was beating way too fast. She wanted to remind herself she needed to stay in America, her home, but it took more effort than she’d thought possible. All she could manage to focus on was that her dad needed her. But what did she need? She dug the heel of her hand into the center of her aching chest. She shook her head and composed herself the best she could.
“Emma, it’s me,” Sophie said from the other side of the door, her voice as soothing as a cool hand on a feverish forehead. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.” Emma forced the words past her sandpaper throat. “Is… is Michel there?”
“Yes, but…” Her friend sounded torn.
“Can you ask him to leave?” Emma turned her head so her cheek rested on the door.
There was a murmur of voices—Sophie’s gentle and calm, Michel’s confused and hurt—then her friend said, “He’s gone now, but he’s frantic with worry. It’s hard to see him… and you… like this.”
Emma somehow got to her feet, grabbing on to whatever she could, and opened the door. After one look at her face, Sophie gathered her into her arms. Emma made no attempt to stop the flow of tears. She wouldn’t have succeeded anyway.
“He…” She hiccupped. “He wants to marry me.”
“He does.” Sophie rubbed her back, trying to ease her shivering. “He loves you, Emma.”
“I know.” She let her friend lead her to the sitting area and fell weakly into an armchair. “And I love him. I love him so much, but…”
“It’s overwhelming,” Sophie finished for her, tucking a blanket around her.
“It’s too fucking much,” Emma wailed.
“I can only imagine.” Her friend settled on the opposite armchair, her brows furrowed in sympathy.
“I would be leaving everything and everyone I know behind.” Fresh tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.
“It’s not an easy decision,” Sophie murmured and reached across to squeeze her hand.
“And… and I’m Asian.” Emma didn’t know how to put all her apprehension into words.
“Yes, and they’re so very white.” A wry smile curled her friend’s lips. “But the king and the rest of the royal family… they’re good people.”
“How about the rest of the country?” Emma asked, even though she remembered Michel telling her that they were an open-minded, hardworking people.
“ Most people in Rouleme are fair-minded and progressive.” Sophie didn’t have to add the obvious—that some people were very much not. “The prince will not stand by and watch you get hurt. You’ll have the entire royal family on your side.”
Emma cradled her head in her hands. It was the vocal minority who always brought the vitriol, wasn’t it? Hate was such a brutal weapon—it could wear down the bravest souls. But wasn’t the love and support of the people who mattered stronger than hate? She covered her face with her hands. It was too much to digest all at once—maybe ever. She needed to think, but the tangle of contradicting emotions inside her overwhelmed her logic.
“Can you take me home?” she asked in a small, exhausted voice.
“Of course.” Sophie hesitated. “I’ll let Michel know. He’s worried sick.”
Emma grabbed her hand as she walked past her. “Please tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I just need some time to think.”
“Don’t worry.” Her friend gave her a reassuring smile. “He’ll understand.”
Sophie was back in a matter of minutes to drive her home. But once they were in the lobby, she stopped to have a quick word with the hotel manager.
“No one goes in or out of the presidential suite,” Sophie said in her take-no-prisoners voice. Emma scooted a few steps away from her. The woman was hella intimidating. “ No one .”
“Understood.” The pale-faced man nodded vigorously. “I will personally make sure of it.”
Sophie was back by Emma’s side in an instant and guided her to Michel’s car in the parking lot. As her friend drove them out to the street, Emma looked sightlessly out the windshield. Michel and she loved each other. Despite their many differences, they fit . She could admit that now. But how could she trust her own judgment when she was so hopelessly, so helplessly in love with the man? And how could she turn her back on her life here? She couldn’t leave her dad.
“How could he ask me to marry him?” Emma blurted, angry, confused, and frustrated. “How could he unload this on me? He spiked the ball into my court, and now I have to decide?”
“Would you rather he didn’t ask you?” Sophie said in a sad, quiet voice that stopped Emma mid-rant. “I know it’s bloody hard. But at least he’s giving you a choice. Gabriel… he just left.”
“Maybe he couldn’t ask you to sacrifice everything for him.” Emma placed a comforting hand on her friend’s arm and wondered if sacrificing their love had been the kinder choice. “Besides, I thought you said your duty lies with your country.”
“Yes.” Sophie gave her a teary-eyed smile. “But my heart lies with Gabriel.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Emma whispered, her heart breaking for her friend. Sophie would’ve left Rouleme to be with the man she loved—she would’ve sacrificed everything for him—but she never got the chance. Maybe it hadn’t been the kinder choice at all. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll think it over,” her friend urged. “Say you’ll make the choice that will make you the happiest.”
The happiest… While she wanted to help people create mo ments of happiness in their lives, Emma had never thought about her own happiness. She’d been so preoccupied with building a secure, stable life for herself. But rather than settling for a safe life with moments of happiness, shouldn’t she strive for a happy life, even with its ups and downs?
“I will.” Emma swallowed the tears clogging her throat. “Thank you.”
Soft classical music filled the car as Emma tried to breathe away her panic. She needed to think with a clear head, but a part of her wanted to stare blankly out the window and not think at all.
Despite her brief rant, Emma wasn’t really angry at Michel. How could she be angry with him for telling her he loved her? That he wanted to marry her? She was just overwhelmed by his proposal. What normal human being wouldn’t be after receiving a proposal from a prince? But overwhelmed or not, Sophie was right. Michel wasn’t being selfish by asking her to choose. He was respecting her right to decide what she wanted to do with her life.
“Will you still be coming to Marion’s farewell brunch tomorrow?” Sophie asked, pulling into the driveway.
“Oh… yes,” Emma stammered, surprised to find herself home. “I’ll be there.”
And when she saw Michel tomorrow, they would talk and maybe… just maybe… they could figure out a future for themselves.