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He says the L word, and I come. Hard. All over him, all over his lap. I squeeze my eyes shut and shout his name amid a hundred yeses, every moment opening the door to that word. Love. The love and tenderness that I desperately want and need in my life. And so I pretend he’s saying much more than he loves watching me come. I pretend he’s saying he loves me.
Just for this moment.
But when I open my eyes, the prince’s unearthly gaze matches the wonder that is his still-hard cock.
I should leap off and run away. But with him, something takes hold, and I don’t feel any of that doubt or fear.
I only feel trust. Look at his face. Look at his dark gaze. This man wants to wife me. I feel it in his touch, too. And in the fierce surge of his seed. And in every gentle way he tends to me.
This is turning into something beyond just fucking.
And so, I start again, massaging every tight ridge with the sore but still greedy walls of my sex.
He said the L word. It was only sexy banter, but it sends my imagination running wild.
I wish I weren’t on the pill. I wish he was pumping his seed into me to make me pregnant.
I want to stay here in the woods with him until we make a baby.
But I can’t say anything without him thinking I’m a social climber, can I?
I’m not a climber but look at my circumstances. I wouldn’t say no to all the privileges of being a queen.
Surely, he knows that.
I trust him with my body, but do I trust him to know I’m in this for a one-way ticket to the palace and a life of riches?
With the help of his scarred knuckles—gods, I love this man’s rough hands—I come again, this time with a keening cry, verbalizing nothing in particular but feeling the beginning of something bigger than the both of us. Letting myself feel the glimmer of hope.
“There she is. There’s my girl.”
I have nothing left to say, so I reply hoarsely, “Yes.”
“That’s right. You’re my girl, Stasi. Mine.”
18
Sigurd
I told her I loved watching her come, but what I meant was something else entirely.
Something deeper, heavier, richer than sex.
The truth is, I may love her. I adore Stasi for who she is—every maddening inch of her.
My only problem is I don’t know if it’s true love or simply the best sex of my life.
The way I smile as I putter around the cabin tells a different story.
She makes me happy.
Listening to Stasi in the bath—laughing with a podcast in her earbuds—makes me smile.
Tidying up while she’s having a moment to care for herself makes my heart feel light.
I grin like an idiot as I ponder what might be on tomorrow’s agenda. I have some ideas, and I have to pause to make a mental note that I’m actually looking forward to spending time with another person. With her. Nobody else has held my interest for this long.
Sure, I have a great friendship with Callum Black. We live together and go hunting and fishing, but I don’t think about it. My stomach doesn’t flip-flop. We don’t make plans. We rarely ever even talk about what we’re having for dinner. We simply move around the same shared living space and do our best to pick up after ourselves.
