Page 56 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“No.” I let my lips inch into a tiny smile. “You can kiss me.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He draws his face closer to mine until our lips are hovering barely half an inch apart, and I close my eyes.

The room is completely silent aside from the mingling of our breaths. His exhale is shaky, as if he’s nervous, and my own buzz of apprehension from this unfamiliar position is hurtling through my veins.

“You’re mine now, Harriet Sinclair,” he whispers. “Don’t forget who you are.”

Then finally, finally, that tiny gap ceases to exist, and for the first time in my life, I feel the sensation of another person’s lips against mine.

Warmth. There’s so much warmth packed into this tender touch, the kind that I know will leave a freezing hole behind in its wake.

I don’t want this to end.

I wish we could stay here, even with the prickle of silent awkwardness as our lips tentatively move together.

He holds me tighter, pinning me against his body. I move my hands up and wrap my arms around his neck in an action that reduces the space between us even further, and as he slips his fingers into my hair to cup the back of my head, my lips part.

He pulls back for the barest of seconds, a momentary hesitation. I use it to catch my breath, but before I can even open my eyes, he’s kissing me again. It’s deeper this time. His tongue flicks against the seam of my mouth, and I part my lips, letting him in.

It’s awkward and sloppy as our tongues meet. Our teeth scrape together, but I pull him back to continue before he can stop us. It’s uncertain and a little chaotic, but I don’t care.

This warm, fuzzy, buzzy feeling that’s pooling between my legs and spreading out through my body is familiar but not.

I know arousal. I’m no stranger to my own body.

I’ve just never felt this kind of instinctive arousal before. It’s like my body is begging for more. There’s an itch I can’t reach, one that only the man in front of me can scratch.

And if the growing firmness against my lower stomach is anything to go by, I’m not the only one feeling this.

I run my fingers up into his hair, pressing my hips against him. He jolts, and with a small gasp, pulls back, ending our kiss.

His eyes have a glazed sheen to them, and he stares at me like he can’t quite believe what just happened. My heavy exhales meet with his, mingling in the space between us, and for a moment, neither of us say a word.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back slightly. “I’m not trying to push you into anything. I—”

“It’s okay.” I’m surprised at my own words—I’ve never even pecked anyone before, let alone been in a situation like this. “I… You… We don’t have to stop.”

His chest heaves. “Harriet, think about what you’re saying.”

“I am.” I swallow back the lump in my throat and step closer to him again. “We’re engaged, right? We can do this.”

“I don’t know,” he says softly. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just… don’t know if we should.”

Ah.

There it is.

That familiar sting of rejection.

Of not being wanted.

Of always wishing for something that I can’t have.

And really, it’s fine. This is little more than an arrangement. I know that. It was from the very beginning. It’s not as if we fell in love at first sight. We’re here because it’s mutually beneficial, and aside from the fact that an heir must be produced at some point, there’s really no need for us to be physical.

That’s what I’m going to tell myself.

Maybe it’ll numb the sting of the hope that kiss sparked. The hope that perhaps we could build something real in time.