Chapter 9 #2
He plates the food with focus, glancing at me between each movement. I sip my wine, trying not to let him get to me tonight. I have to stay strong.
Louis lays seared beef on a plate with a glossy sauce drizzled over the top. On the side is a large serving of roasted veggies that probably came from the royal garden. He carries our plates to the table.
“Please sit,” he says, pulling out a chair.
“I’ve never been served by actual royalty before,” I say, pushing off the counter and sauntering toward him.
His eyes travel from mine down my body before settling on my lips.
“Stop looking at me that way,” I say, shaking my head.
“Impossible.”
He gives me a wicked grin before I take a seat. Once I do, he pushes my chair forward. Louis sits beside me, and he’s closer than I expected him to be. The candlelight makes this seem romantic, and maybe that was the point.
“What were you thinking about?” he asks, and I almost hate that he noticed.
“You,” I say. The truth falls out.
He licks his lips. “Care to elaborate?”
“Nope.” I cut into the tender beef, then swipe it across the demi-glace.
I pop it into my mouth; the flavor combination is hearty and perfect.
“Wow,” I breathe out after I swallow.
“I take it that Wagyu is a winner?”
“It’s delicious. Honestly, if this royal thing doesn’t work out for you, maybe you should consider opening a restaurant.”
“You’re flattering me,” he says in that sexy accent, and his finger brushes against my skin.
I hold back the urge to rub the goose bumps away and let my arms drop to my sides, but I think he notices.
Shit.
He laughs. “You’re terrible at hiding it. Your eyes give you away.”
I glare at him. “You’re bold as fuck.”
“So are you,” he quips. “Or you wouldn’t be here. Tell me, Addison, where do you think this is going?”
He picks up his wine and takes a drink.
“To hell in a handbasket.”
He gulps it down before he spews it everywhere. “I can never predict what you’ll say. I enjoy that.”
“You can thank my brothers for that,” I tell him.
“I’d rather not,” he says. “Would hate to have to fuck them up.”
I scoff, then notice the definition in his arms and shoulders. The T-shirt barely leaves anything for the imagination.
We finish dinner with conversation that flows easier than it should.
He tells me about the time he tried to make croissants and ended up with what he calls “angry biscuits.” I share how I threw up in the bathroom of my first gallery because I was so nervous.
He laughs in the right places, and I catch myself leaning closer each time he speaks.
When our plates are empty, he stands and clears them before I can offer to help.
I refill our wineglasses, and he leads me to the couch. With a click of a button, the gas fireplace roars to life. I sink to one end, and he settles right beside me, close enough that our legs touch. The jazz has shifted to something slower—a saxophone weaving through piano chords.
“In this game, we both lose, Addison. Neither of us wins. Do you understand?”
“I know you’re hiding something. I know you can’t tell me what it is. I know this probably ends with both of us broken to shreds and me getting on a plane to New York, wishing I’d never met you.” I turn to him. “For some reason, I don’t give a fuck about that.”
His jaw tightens, and he stares at me for a long moment. The worried prince disappears. What’s left is a hungry man, looking at me like I’m his last meal.
Maybe, in a way, I am.
“We cannot cross the line,” he says, but his hand reaches out, and his fingers trail along my jaw.
“Then stop,” I say.
“I can’t.” His thumb sweeps across my cheekbone, and I lean into his palm. “You should go. You should get up and walk out that door.”
“I should,” I say, my eyes fluttering closed.
The sound he makes is almost pained. “You make me weak.”
“I want you so fucking bad,” I whisper, and it comes out like a confession.
He moves so fast that I don’t have time to react.
One second, we’re sitting side by side; the next, his mouth is on mine, and his hand is in my hair, and I’m being kissed like he’s been searching for me for years.
I grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer.
He tastes like wine and want. I open my mouth to let him in deeper.
His tongue slides against mine, and I make a sound I don’t recognize.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my lips.
Louis groans into the kiss, and his hands find my waist, lifting me onto his lap like I weigh nothing. I straddle him, my dress riding up my thighs, and when I settle against him, I feel exactly how much he wants me too.
I roll my hips, and his head drops against the couch. The desperate, wrecked look on his face makes me feel powerful.
“You’re going to destroy me,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, knowing I probably will.
He lays me on my back, his body pressing mine into the leather. The weight of him between my legs feels better than it should. His lips trail down my jaw to my neck. His teeth graze my pulse, and I arch into him, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Louis.” His name comes out broken.
“I want to worship every inch of you.” He kisses the hollow of my throat.
“Do it,” I tell him.
He laughs against my skin, and the vibration travels through me.
His fingers find the top button of my dress, and he pauses, meeting my eyes, like he’s memorizing me.
He undoes the first button, then the second.
His mouth follows, pressing hot kisses to every inch of skin he reveals.
By the fifth button, I’m trembling, so needy for him.
By the tenth, I’m pulling at his shirt, needing more.
He sits up long enough to yank the fabric over his head, and I press my palms flat against his chest. Hard muscles trail down to that V. He kisses me deep and slow while his hand slides up my thigh, pushing my dress higher.
“We have to stop,” he murmurs against my mouth.
His fingers trace the edge of my underwear, and my hips lift toward him.
“Don’t make me beg …” I lose the thought when his thumb presses against me through the fabric.
He does it again, and I whimper.
“We’re losing control,” he whispers, kissing me softly.
Moans escape my lips, and if he keeps going, I will crumple under his touch. As if he can read my mind, he pulls his hands away. The lack of him makes my body ache. I hold his stare, begging him with my eyes. It’s not enough to convince him to give me what I need.
“We can’t,” he mutters against my ear. “Your brother and my parents—it’s a bad idea.”
“Who cares? What do you want?” I breathe, needing more of him.
He stares at me with an intensity that makes me feel completely exposed—not only my body, but everything underneath. The crown prince of Montclaire is watching me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“You’ve thought about this,” he says. “What it would be like …”
“I have,” I confess. “And so have you.”
He has me under his spell. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. All I can do is feel the heat of his body close to mine as his mouth trails up my neck.
“Why do you keep tempting me?” He kisses along my neck as his hand slides between my legs, adding enough pressure through the material of my panties to make me squirm.
“You want this as …” The words dissolve into a moan.
He lifts his head to watch my face as I rock against him.
My vision blurs, the sensation pure ecstasy. If he keeps going, he will bring me straight to the edge.
I reach forward to touch him, seeing how hard he is as he strains against his jeans. He catches my wrist and kisses my racing pulse.
“Not tonight.”
He shifts this time, creating distance between us.
I’m breathing hard at one end of the couch. He sits at the other. Our faces are full of guilt, but I refuse to apologize.
“I want to keep seeing you,” he says, keeping his voice low.
I stare into his blue eyes and imagine spending the rest of the summer with him.
“That’s a relief,” I say, trying to recover from whatever just happened.
“If anyone finds out about this …” His voice trails off. “It would be a scandal from hell that neither of us would ever recover from.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promise. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
“If there’s a fallout and you speak against me … my PR team is ruthless. They will not stop until you’re seen as an unreliable narrator.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need to know what’s at risk if you want to move forward.”
My pulse jumps at the thought. “And if I do?”
“This is checkmate,” he confirms. “But neither of us wins anything. At the end of the game, we both walk away. Until I get married.”
I’m already telling myself I can make this arrangement work. “A secret fling?”
He exhales. “Maybe we should start with friendship?”
“And then?” I ask, wanting him to confirm.
“What happens, happens.” He stays silent for a moment. “I wish things were different.”
“You can’t change it?”
“Unfortunately, no,” he says, and I can hear the defeat in his voice.
The words should scare me. They should send me running to my cottage, onto a plane, back to a life where princes are seen as celebrities, and that’s it.
When I look at Louis, I see a man who learns how to cook from YouTube videos, collects postcards, and builds a secret loft to feel normal. Not a trapped royal.
“I want to live in the moment with you, even if it’s temporary.”
He tilts his head. “Addison.”
“I know how this ends.” I shrug. “I’m choosing the adventure anyway. I need to see how it plays out.”
“You’re sacrificing a lot.”
I smile, even though it hurts. “You are too.”
Is it our hearts we’re risking?
He moves close to me and buttons my dress slowly, his fingers lightly brushing my skin with each one. It’s intimate in a different way than before, when we were losing control. I can’t help but yawn, exhausted by the emotions.
When he finishes dressing me, he presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll walk you back.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He pulls his shirt over his head, and I watch the material fall over his muscles. “Our time together always feels so short.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“Is that what this is?” he asks, opening the door for me and leading me out.
The candles in the corridor have burned low. We walk in silence, and every few steps, his fingers brush against mine. He’s grazing my knuckles, my wrist, the inside of my palm, and it’s a reminder that he’s there.
I’ve eaten men like him for breakfast my entire adult life.
After twelve proposals, all rejected without a second thought, I don’t get attached.
I don’t get weak in the knees. I don’t lose my head over a pretty face and charming words.
But I’m already making excuses for him. Already telling myself this is different, that I’m different, that our situation will somehow be the exception.
I’ve watched Kendall do this dance. I’ve watched Patterson do it too.
I swore I’d never put myself in this type of situation.
One where I could easily get attached and get my heart broken.
His pinkie hooks around mine in the darkness, and I realize I’m doomed. I’m already thinking about the next time I’ll be able to see him again.
Our footsteps echo off stone walls that have seen centuries of royals. I wonder how many princes and princesses have walked through the shadows, knowing they can’t be with their person but were unable to stay apart.
When we step outside, the night air is cool against my hot skin. The moon hangs bright above the gardens, casting everything in silver. Louis stops at the edge of the path that leads to my cottage.
“This is as far as I should go,” he says, glancing around.
His fingers thread through mine properly this time, and he pulls me closer.
Louis cups my face in both hands and kisses me under the moonlight. It’s softer than before, slower, like he’s memorizing the shape of my mouth. When he pulls away, his thumb traces my bottom lip.
“Good night,” he says.
“Good night.”
He releases me and steps away, shoving his hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t trust himself not to reach for me again. I take the path toward my cottage, feeling his eyes on me the whole way. I don’t look back. I can’t force myself to do it.
The cottage door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, pressing my palm to my chest.
I basically told Louis he could have me on borrowed time. I hope I’m not setting myself up for heartache.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor, my dress pooled around me, moonlight streaming through the window. I squeeze my thighs together and replay every moment—the candles, the dinner, his touch between my legs.
My body buzzes, nipples hard, and my panties are wet. With him on my mind, I slide my fingers inside my underwear, feeling the slickness between my legs. My body shudders with anticipation as I work myself to the edge. I wanted him, all of him, in a feral way.
Minutes later, I’m shattering with his name whispering from my lips. I won’t be satisfied until I have him, even if it’s temporary.
This is what sacrifice feels like. It’s not noble or always tragic. It’s a choice made with your eyes open, knowing the cost, but deciding to play anyway.
It might be the beginning of something I’ll treasure. Maybe when this ends—because it will—I’ll wish I’d done something different. But right now, I can’t bring myself to regret anything.
Tomorrow, I’ll remember the reasons why this is a terrible idea.
But tonight, I can’t be bothered by it.