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I roll up on the balls of my feet, slide my hands up his hard chest, and fist his shirt.
The prince is either going to come back down for another kiss, or he’s going to let me rip his shirt. Either way, I’m taking more.
“I don’t play pretend. And it’s more than okay for you to kiss me, Your Highness.”
Barely a hair’s breadth away from my lips, he murmurs, “Sigurd.”
“Sigurd,” I murmur back, capturing those sexy, royal lips between mine.
And oh my gods, it is good.
The prince’s kiss is everything warm and soft and wonderful.
Our mouths play against each other in teasing, thrilling sweeps. His tongue licks over the seam of my lips, and I open to his probing tongue, giving a sharp intake of breath at the sudden pleasure of it.
The only sound in the room is the sound of jagged breath and soft moans, lips and exploring tongues, hands smoothing, and rustling material.
Sigurd tastes like fruit and smells like warm butter. His arms cinch me closer, pressing my breasts to his ribs.
“I wish I was taller,” I say when he pulls back, feeling the flush in my cheeks send tendrils out to every inch of my skin.
Sigurd gives one of his signature grunts and then bends low, circling his arms around my hips.
I yelp when, with one sweeping motion, the prince lifts me up and sets me down gently on the kitchen counter.
“Better?” I laugh.
His eyes aren’t laughing. They are somewhere between glowing with desire and brooding. “Perfect.” His voice is low and gritty, like a man barely holding himself back.
The sound of his voice sends shivers down my spine.
I know he doesn’t mean I’m perfect. He means we’re now perfectly aligned, so he doesn’t have to pull a muscle to kiss me. I know this.
But hearing that word used in any context, even adjacent to me, is exciting, thrilling, and scary. He sees me, and he likes me. It makes me feel strangely exposed. Vulnerable.
And yet, I trust him to be careful with me. I trust Sigurd to be a gentleman. What choice do I have here?
I smile as he slants his face over mine, capturing my lips in his once again.
The prince loses not a second before sweeping his tongue into my mouth, licking against my tongue. The kiss is warm and sexy and brain-scrambling.
He kisses like a sailor on leave, and I’ll bet he fucks like one, too.
I wonder how long until I find out.
Like the gentleman he is, Sigurd doesn’t try to grope me or cop a feel. Though to be honest, I kind of wish he would sneak one hand up the front of my crop top and take what he wants.
I want to give in to this hunger and ride that wave. I want his big, rough hands to claim me. I want that sexy mouth all over me.
Remember, he’s shy; no matter what happens, he’s a prince. For all you know, his father could be arranging his marriage as we speak.
But he doesn’t kiss like a man worried about any arranged marriage in his future. He doesn’t kiss like a prince at all.
Not a Disney prince, that’s for damn sure.
“I thought you were the socially awkward one,” I say, breathless when we pull back to take a moment to breathe.
I notice his lips are swollen, pink, and glistening.
