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“Ssshhh, tupulai.”
Wasn’t going to happen. Tomato. Pinball paddles. End of story.
Only it wasn’t.
But how the hell was this different then the conflict I’d already been dealing with? Correction. Had already dealt with. I’d taken care of all this, dammit—especially after the “friendly little chat” with Ambyr at the infirmary. If I’d had any doubt regarding the last act of this screenplay, Miss Stratiss had handled the script notes and set me straight. She would be the Sandy in the flying car with his Danny. The Julia Roberts on the fire escape, wooed by his Richard Gere. The Baby having the time of her life on a dance floor with his Patrick Swayze. Shit. I bet Shiraz did those Dirty Dancing moves really well…
With that helpful thought consuming my mind, I was tossed onto one of the most luxurious beds on the planet. Comforter like a cloud. Pillows that swallowed my head. Best of all, his scent in all one thousand of the threads surely making up the linens. Dammit. In any other case, I’d be amenable to the not-so-subtle sleepover invitation. But right here and now, with the woman he had yet to hit with the engagement ring, likely searching for his spectacular ass this second?
“Shiraz—” I attempted again.
“Sssshhh,” he ordered again—before tapping a light switch to reveal a walk-in closet more stunning than the bed. Oh my God. It was an amazing closet. Cedar paneling. Backlit shoe racks. An automated tie tree.
The subject. Your brain. Now.
“Okay, come on.” My spine straightened a little. Well, listen to that. I sounded calm. Even reasonable. Not freaking bad, considering the orgasming banshee I’d been 15 minutes ago. “Seriously. Come on.” A little more desperate but I couldn’t be blamed, considering how he shucked the boots and trousers before I could blink. “We can’t do this. Why are you pushing this?”
No more playing coy, because he didn’t. With one thwick of a side zipper from neck to waist, he freed himself from the doublet too—officially taking this conversation into the not-fucking-fair zone. “Pushing it” didn’t come close to the weapon he’d just wielded in the form of his nudity. If Evrest and Samsyn wanted a real advantage over Arcadia’s enemies, they could seriously look no further than their little brother’s inked chest, perfect arms, etched abs, and flawless legs.
And that cock.
No woman—hell, probably not a lot of men either—would be able to ignore that virile masterpiece of a cock. I sure as hell couldn’t…
Until he forced me to.
With another collection of efficient movements, he sheathed his long legs in a pair of black silk pajama bottoms. I’d never seen the look outside Saturday Night Live parodies of Hugh Hefner, but the Prince of Hotness redefined it in 30 seconds—the same way he took my expectations for this post-coital showdown in another direction I hadn’t anticipated.
“You are here because I want you to be.” He stated it while hitching a knee to the bed. The other. He scooted both forward until he was close enough to take my hands in his. “And because you cannot run out as fast from here.”
Nervousness prompted my laugh.
He didn’t join his own to it. Didn’t even smile. Just kept staring, his hands around mine, both his thumbs rubbing my knuckles. He engulfed me with a midnight gaze and an energy I’d never felt from him before.
“I’ve never run from you, Shiraz.” I gulped hard. Shit. Why was the Rock of Gibraltar back in my throat? Hadn’t I wasted my allotment of tears for the whole year in one night? “Baby Jesus in a romper, I probably should have. But there you were, from the moment we met—”
“What?” It was a rough push of sound, honing my gaze once more on his lush lips. “What was I, Lucina?”
More tears pushed out. Guess I’d be overdrawn on the allotment.
“You were…everything.” The wet heat trailed down my face. “All that I’d thought I’d never find, or given up hope of knowing.” A shrug lifted my shoulders as a watery smile broke past my lips. “A bad-ass prince who liked my jokes, knew all my fantasies…”
“And fell in love you anyway.”
I pulled one hand free, pressing it to the plane of his jaw. “And made me fall in love with him.”
It didn’t spill out as I intended. It sounded like a damn murder confession, when regret wasn’t what I felt at all. Exposing my heart to him had forced me to reopen to myself. To let him accept me and cherish me, I’d had to look in the mirror, and do it for myself. I had to become better, to be better…for him.
Because of it, I’d never forget him.
Or let my heart stop thanking him.
But telling him that…
Why was it so impossible?
Because I never wanted him to stop looking at me…exactly like this. To form his hand over mine, meshing his fingers into mine, as he drenched me in both perfect oceans of his stare. To surround me with the force of his adoration and the strength of his affirmation for a week that had changed both of us. A week we’d turn into magic for two lifetimes…because that was our only damn choice.
He leaned a little closer. Looked a little deeper, as if he’d lost something and my face was the only place he’d find it. “By the Creator,” he rasped. “You really do love me.”
His declaration was everything I hadn’t been capable of. Fervent. Real. Dripping with the honesty of his heart. Incredible man. Perfect prince. Already my hero.
I kissed him with my thanks. Just once. Very softly. “Yeah, gorgeous. I do.”
He engulfed both my hands tightly again. Moved those clasps down to the tiny space between our knees as he dipped his head toward mine, directly lining up our gazes.
“Then marry me.”
