Page 57 of Royally Arranged

In slow motion I saw him wet his lips. “I do.” It was a simple statement. Only one other phrase had ever made my eyes water so much:You’re going to live.

“And do you, Nova Valentine ...”

Black spots flashed in my vision. I made myself breathe.

“Take this man—”

“Yes,” I blurted. The crowd murmured; I caught the sounds of amusement. “I mean—yes, sorry, I do.” Thorne’s eyes went wide, his smile faltering. Then it came back tenfold.

Before the priest finished saying, “Then I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride,” he’d swept me into his arms, dipping me with his hand on my neck and the other on the small of my back. His lips were hot, his kiss insistent, unending, as if he was proving to every suspicious eye that hedidlove me.

And you can call me a fool, but without him even saying it, I felt that he did.

The reception was bigger than the coronation ball had been.

Thorne and I sat at our sweetheart table, placed so we could view the gigantic dining hall from every angle. We would miss nothing. But my attention wasn’t on the people laughing on the floor. I wanted to research how Thorne’s lips could smile, or frown, but do very little in between. In his midnight tux he was stunning. Sometime after the ceremony, he’d dropped his jacket on a chair, letting a servant fuss over what to do with it.

He turned his head, catching me staring at him. “Hey there,” he said, clutching my hand under the table. Our fingers rested on one of the many layers of my wedding gown. “You good?”

“More than I thought I could be,” I whispered.

Under the table, where no one could see, he stroked over the lace. He went deeper, prying the ruffles aside until he found my bare knee. “Think anyone will see us slip away?”

“Let them.” I reached for my champagne and finished the tall flute. “They won’t stop us.”

The heat in his hooded eyes scalded me. “They couldn’t if they tried.”

Together we broke away from the table, wending our way through the noise, the sparkling dresses and suits, smiling politely at anyone we bumped into. The sounds faded at our backs as we ran down the hallway.

“My room?” I asked.

“No.” He pulled me by my wrist. “Mine. I’ve wanted you in my bed for far too long.”

Flooding with anticipation, I barely kept up with him in my heels. We didn’t have to go far before his door rose up in front of us. I started to follow him in; Thorne turned, hoisting me into his arms before I could react. “Oh!”

His kiss was a firm, hungry thing with a smile hiding in the shadows. “It’s how they do it in the movies, right? Wife over the threshold?” He kicked the door shut behind him. The loudbangof it ricocheted through my bones. This was really happening.

Setting me on the edge of his bed, he tugged his bow tie free. The black silk dropped to the floor, forgotten. His cuff links went next, clinking softly to the rug. I surveyed his undressing like it was the best show in the world.

His chin motioned at me. “Stand up.”

As I rose, his dress shirt fell. He was magnificent, not truly naked, the ink across his upper body like a second outfit. More elaborate than the plain white he’d had on for our wedding. This was the secret second skin that only I was allowed to see.

In just his black slacks and shiny belt, he approached me. He didn’t blink, like he refused to miss a second of this. “Turn around,” he said flatly.

Facing the bed, I looked across at the window. The curtains were half-closed, the sun beginning to melt into the distant line of the ocean. Waiting for him to touch me was torture. There was no sound behind me. Not even his shoes on the plush rug.

Thorne’s breath trailed over the side of my vulnerable throat. Every tiny hair on my body stood at attention. Featherlight, he slid the fingertips of both hands down my shoulders. The path he took drew a heart on my skin. Stopping at my spine, he tugged at the ribbons weaving my dress together. “When I saw you in this,” he said, his voice husky, “all I could think about was how much I wanted to rip it off you.”

My breath quickened; the sound of the satin ribbons slithering free one by one was soloudto me.

He kissed my shoulder. “Now that I’m doing it, I want to go slow. Savor it.”

His muscles ground into my shoulder blades. Thick arms wove around, holding me in a firm embrace. I remained still, hands at my sides, as Thorne peeled my gown away. The flowing material drifted apart, finally crumbling at my ankles, a giant bird’s nest of lace and ivory tulle.

Thorne held my naked waist, turning me like I was a ballerina, performing for him in private. I knew what he’d see when I faced him. As predicted, his eyes dropped from my rounded breasts, to my belly, and then they stayed there.

“This,” he said, running his thumb below my navel. He traced the contour of the long scar. “Can I ask what happened?”

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