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Before I see the name, I see hair. Thick, wild, red hair almost overwhelming a face with startling blue eyes, pink cheeks, and full, smiling lips.
She looks strangely familiar.
I stare too long at her ID, and a moment passes before I realize the sound I hear is coming from me. That was a groan, for whatever reason.
I must be hungry.
I ignore my hunger and examine the ID. Anastasia Keskkula, 179 centimeters tall, 90 kilos.
Inappropriately, something stirs at the front of my trousers.
This is perfect. I’m getting hard from staring at the ID of a sturdy woman I’ve never met.
A woman with a good zesty scent between her legs.
Gods, what’s wrong with me?
What if she’s here with her husband? And here I am, driven to horniness over a full set of rosy lips in a bad photo ID, and a cupboard full of junk food.
There are a dozen possible scenarios for a woman to want to hide out in a tiny hunting cabin with no hunting gear that I can see.
Unfortunately for this Anastasia, she’ll have to leave. For both our sakes.
And I’ll make sure she’s well compensated when she relocates.
I suppose there’s nothing left to do but wait for her to return to the cabin from wherever she is at the moment. This conversation will go badly, and I will feel like shit no matter what.
I’m anxious and fidgety as I pace and wait, and now I have to take a leak.
In the bathroom, I’ve relieved myself before I notice a bra hanging over the edge of the tub.
I pick up the damp satin thing and stare at it, turning it over in my hand. Judging by the size of the curved metal wire, the lace at the front seems like it covers little. I read the size on the tags and the phrase “push-up.” Sweat forms on my brow.
I bring the thing to my nose and inhale.
The elastic smells like female and the most decadent coconut cake. Anastasia’s scent has me closing my eyes and recalling fond memories. Childhood birthday parties. Rolling down the dunes in the summertime. My father, when he used to be fun, cracking open a coconut on a family vacation and letting all of us siblings drink the juice, standing under him like baby birds.
Something stirs low in my belly. Nostalgia—a useless feeling.
And something else—imagination and curiosity. I flatten out the cup of the bra and measure it with the span of my hand. She is…a large one.
I sniff the bra once again and close my eyes, and my brain immediately conjures the image of two overflowing, heavy handfuls. Soft, feminine flesh. Her rosy, pert nipples peeking out between my fingers.
The stirring in my belly burrows lower and deeper, transforming. This isn’t nostalgia but a deep ache for female company that I haven’t felt…ever.
Yes, I’ve held breasts in my hands before. I’ve been with women. Discreetly, covertly. Furtively. Between the nosy royal family and the vetting by security and non-disclosure agreements—dating is an unbearable headache for a prince. There’s no lack of women who want only casual sex with a prince. Enough to satisfy when the rare need arises.
But it’s been a long time. A very, very long time since I felt that need rise. The king and queen’s hyper-fixation on marriage has driven out any and all interest in that type of fun.
And now? The mere sight of a stray bra in my bathroom gets me hard. Clearly, it’s been too long.
It’s not just the bra, though. Anastasia’s scent is all over the damn place. Is that normal?
I don’t entertain women in my domicile, not at any of my hunting cabins, and certainly not at the palace.
I rarely stay at the palace, anyway. And I don’t feel right bringing people to Callum Black’s cottage, where I often reside.
Outside the palace, the royal gamekeeper’s home is the most civilized place I stay regularly.
