Chapter 15 #2
We finish eating, and I refill our wineglasses. Before we leave the kitchen, I reach into my pocket and pull out a key. It’s small, bronze, ordinary-looking.
Addison stares at it as I extend it to her. “What’s this?”
“A key to my loft.”
She doesn’t take it immediately. “Is this the royal equivalent of asking me to move in?”
“It’s me telling you to come when you want. This can be our escape.”
She takes it and holds it in her palm, studying it like it’s a puzzle piece.
When she looks up at me, her eyes sparkle. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I want you here, Addison.”
She slides the key into her pocket, and we move to the couch with our wine. She tucks her feet under her and angles her body toward me before glancing at the little black book on the coffee table.
“What’s this?” she asks, picking it up.
“You should absolutely give that to me right now,” I tell her, knowing the names and scores of every single woman I’ve ever gone on a date with are listed between those pages.
“Is it your diary?” she asks, holding it out of reach, where I can’t grab it.
“Something like that.” I lunge for it, and she twists away, laughing. “Give it back.”
“Now I have to know what’s in here.” She’s grinning, holding it behind her back. “What are you hiding, Your Highness?”
“Nothing good,” I tell her.
“That makes it even better.”
I sigh and lean back against the couch, giving up. “Fine. Go ahead. But you can’t hold anything you find against me.”
She narrows her eyes. “Wait, seriously? You’ll let me read what’s inside? Is it private?”
“Very private.”
“Ooh. Great. I will absolutely agree to your terms.”
She pulls her legs up onto the couch and opens the cover. I watch her face as she starts flipping through the pages. Her brow furrows, then her eyes widen, and then she snorts.
“This is your personal rating system for women.”
I laugh.
“Ten to Win?” She glances at me. “Win you?”
I give her a cheeky grin.
“Lady Marguerita. Forty-three. Awful human.” She flips more pages. “Princess Charlotte. Fifty. Talks about her dogs too much.”
She laughs.
“Contessa di Venetia. Fifty-one. Sneezed constantly. This is insane.” But she’s smiling as she continues flipping. “You’ve been rating women like restaurants.”
“I prefer to think of it as a rigorous evaluation process.”
“Ten categories,” she murmurs, studying a page. “Intelligence, sense of humor, opinions, chemistry, conversation, art, challenge, authenticity, kindness, passion.” She whistles low. “You really thought this through.”
“I’ve had over a decade to perfect the system.”
She moves through more pages, scanning the numbers. “And no one’s scored above sixty. Ever?”
“Not until recently.”
“Wait.”
She stops flipping. Her finger hovers over a page near the back, and I know exactly what she’s found.
I don’t say anything.
She looks up at me. “You rated me?”
“I rate everyone.”
“Ninety-eight.” She says it in a whisper. “Out of a hundred.” Her eyes drop back to the page, scanning the breakdown. “You gave me an eight in kindness. What the hell?! I’m kind, Louis.”
This makes me smile wider. “Please. You can be harsh as fuck sometimes.”
She considers this, her head tilting to the side. Then she shrugs. “Okay, that’s actually fair.”
When our eyes meet again, neither of us is laughing anymore.
“You broke my system,” I confess. “It took sixteen years and hundreds of women, and you made the whole thing obsolete.”
She closes the book and sets it on the coffee table. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“Be yourself,” I tell her.
A second later, she leans forward and paints her lips against mine.
Her mouth opens wider, giving me more access. Her hand grips my shirt, and I pull her onto my lap until she’s straddling me. The kiss deepens, and my hands find her waist as she rocks against me.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” I say against her lips.
She rolls her hips against me, and I groan, my fingers digging into her thighs.
My hands slide under her shirt and up her back, feeling the smooth skin, the delicate ridge of her spine.
The sound that releases from her lips goes straight to my cock.
I’m hard, and I have been since dinner. When she rocks against me again, I see stars.
She pulls back and yanks her shirt over her head. She’s wearing a simple white bra, and I reach up and trace the edge, watching goose bumps form on her skin. With precision, she reaches behind her and unhooks it, letting the fabric fall away.
“You feel so good,” she says, rocking against me.
I pull off my shirt, and then we’re skin to skin, but it’s not enough.
I cup her breasts in my hands, run my thumbs over her nipples, and pull one into my mouth.
Her head falls back on her shoulders as I swirl my tongue around the peak.
She grinds against me, and I help guide and press her against my cock, where I need her most. The friction through our clothes is pure torture.
Her fingers work at my belt, and I lift my hips to help her shove my jeans down enough to free me. She wraps her hand around my cock, and I groan. My phone buzzes on the counter several times.
“Do you need to an—”
“Fuck no.” I thrust into her grip.
“Good.” She strokes me slowly, firmly, her eyes locked on mine.
I reach for the button on her jeans, and she shifts to help me, then we’re fumbling, both desperate, shoving denim aside until I can feel the wet heat of her through the thin fabric of her underwear. I press my fingers against her, and she whimpers, rolling her hips into my hand.
She tugs her underwear to the side and positions herself over me. “I need you.”
I grip her hips, the tip of me pressing against her entrance, and we’re trembling, right on the edge—
There’s a knock at the door.
We both freeze. Addison’s eyes go wide, and the haze we were in dissipates.
I put a finger to her lips and shake my head, knowing we were seconds away from not being able to stop.
To say I’m fucking pissed is an understatement.
She scrambles off my lap, grabbing her clothes, and I gesture toward the linen closet.
Addison slides inside with her jeans clutched to her chest, and I yank my pants up, having to tuck my cock, then grab my shirt. I’m so fucking hard; it’s painful.
The knock comes again, louder, more frantic.
“I’m coming,” I yell, moving toward the door to open it.
My father’s assistant, Steward, stands in the hallway, rigid and formal. His eyes stay locked on mine without expression.
“Your Highness. The king requires your presence immediately.”
“It’s after ten. It can wait until tomorrow,” I say.
“I’m afraid it cannot, sir. It’s a direct order. Please follow instructions.”
I exhale. “Do you know what this is about?”
“I don’t, Your Highness.”
I stare at him, calculating my options, but there are none. When the king summons, you go.
“Give me ten minutes to dress.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” He bows and retreats down the corridor.
I close the door and lean against it, needing my body to calm down. Right now, I have no idea what the hell is happening.
Addison comes out of the closet and stands there, pressing her shirt to her chest. Her hair is a disaster, and her lips are swollen. She looks adorable and frustrated.
“I have to go,” I say. The disappointment in my voice is evident.
“I heard.” She glances down at the obvious situation in my pants and pouts. “Palace business is the biggest cockblock.”
I laugh and pull her into my arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She tilts her face up to kiss me. “I want a rain check on this.”
“Fuck yes, please and thank you.” I slide my mouth across hers, and we almost get lost again.
“You have to go,” she says, pushing me away. “We have no control when we’re together.”
“I know, but I don’t want to leave. I’ve been waiting all day to spend time with you alone,” I admit. “Fuck, I want to escape, only the two of us.”
“You do each time we’re together,” she says, sliding her shirt over her head.
I move to the kitchen to grab my phone as I slide on my shoes. There are notifications of several texts from Delphine.
Delphine
Have you seen this???
Delphine
It’s trending. #FreedomForLouis
I stare at the screenshot. It’s a blind item from a gossip site.
The playboy crown prince is being paraded around like a show pony.
The courtship of seven eligible princesses has nothing to do with love and everything to do with trade alliances.
The future king apparently has zero say in who he marries, with the king and queen more concerned about diplomatic relationships than their heir’s happiness.
Inside the palace, Prince Charming is miserable, and everyone knows it.
No one cares. This might as well be a conservatorship.
The phone nearly slips from my hand.
“Fuck.”
Addison is beside me instantly. “Is everything okay?”
I show her my phone.
She reads it several times, and I watch her face go pale.
“This is not good,” she whispers.
“It’s trending. There’s a hashtag. But it could be worse,” I tell her, glad that she hasn’t been hinted at in any of this. A blind item like this, I can work with and use to my advantage, even though I know my parents are probably spiraling.
“Do you think this is what your father wants to discuss?” she asks.
“Most likely,” I tell her.
We stand there in my loft, stunned, horny, and staring at the screen.
“Go find out,” she tells me. “I’ll let myself out after you’re gone.”
I slide another kiss against her lips. “See you soon.”
I leave my loft with my heart fluttering, knowing the world will know the truth. I only hope this is the end of this charade. But with my luck? It will only be the beginning.