Page 40 of The Royal Curse

Leaving Andreas to shut the door, I wobbled my way across the room, stripped my damp coat and dropped it to the floor, and slumped over against the fireplace mantel. Damn it, I’d barely started to believe that maybe the gods would loosen their grip a tiny bit. Did they truly have nothing better to do than torture me? They’d been fucking with me since the moment of my birth.

As if to underscore that, the twisting heat between my legs that’d been simmering all day flared into life again. Andreas stood behind me. I could feel his presence, hear his breath. We had no one observing us. The men had gone down the hall and out of hearing range. And Andreas had locked the door; I’d heard the double click.

I turned and found him still standing near it, one hand clenched around the hilt of his sword and the other raised to massage his temples.

Those fingers. Gods, his fingers, and his hands, and the strength of his arms, those hard muscles…

I swallowed hard around the lump in my suddenly arid throat.

My eyes traveled down.

The way he gripped his sword made my breath catch.

His narrow hips, the muscular columns of his legs, and between his thighs…not even the hem of his tunic and the heavy fabric of his trousers could completely disguise the bulge there.

The world swayed around me as my head went light with an overwhelming combination of despair and frustration and anger, worry about the potion and my magic, and guilt for having dragged Andreas into this futile, dangerous journey at the possible cost of his queen’s trust in him and even his own safety. And most of all, confusion at my body’s inexplicable betrayal.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” Andreas said, “but will you allow me to sit for a moment while we talk? I need to fix my boot, the buckle’s loose. And then I’ll go down to ask a few more questions. Corroborate that fellow’s tale. And order your supper.”

I glanced up. Two solid, well-padded armchairs occupied pride of place before the fire. I hadn’t even thought to sit in one, simply leaning there in shock. And Andreas had crossed to one of them, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to give him permission to sit in my royal presence while I remained standing.

He’d fucked me three times, kissing me and filling me and making me scream, but he wouldn’t sit down unless I gave him leave.

Nothing could possibly have underlined the gulf between us more strongly.

“Of course you can sit. Don’t ask me again,” I said, with more snap to my tone than I’d intended.

Andreas never took that sort of nonsense from me. He might offer some retort or other, or he’d laugh, or he’d simply raise one eyebrow and give me thatlook, and I’d blush, as thoroughly admonished as if he’d told me off.

This time, he just nodded and sat down with a sigh, tipping his head back and giving no sign of hurrying to deal with his boot.

He’d planted his feet wide, knees splayed, the fabric of his trousers pulling tight across his groin. My eyes ran from his long legs to his sword-belted hips to his broad chest and shoulders, to the strong, lean lines of his arms. Andreas didn’t have the bulk of some men, but every angle and curve of his big, loose-limbed body promised power and agility—and I knew from experience those were promises he could keep.

The fire in my lower belly smoldered. Every particle of my body yearned toward him, that same tug I’d felt earlier in the day.

Andreas glanced up at me, eyes dark and intent and fixed on mine. One of his hands flexed: slightly rawboned knuckles, muscled swordsman’s fingers, blunt nails. Those fingers had been inside my body.

And that was enough. More than enough.

The smolder burst into wild flame, licking up into my chest, consuming me. My face burned. My limbs shook. Everything between my legs went heavy and thick.

I couldn’t have stopped myself from crossing the few feet to him with a dagger to my throat.

Andreas watched me, unmoving except for the way his chest rose and fell faster the closer I came. I leaned over, bracing my hands on the wings of his chair, and straddled him, one leg at a time, wedging my knees between his thighs and the chair arms. Our faces were only inches apart; we breathed the same intoxicating breath. His eyes practically glowed, copper gleaming through shadows. I lowered myself down and gasped as my ass settled into his lap and came to rest on his hardness and heat.

He drew a sharp, rough breath. “I thought you wanted to talk about the bridge. What we do next. Fuck, Your Highness,” and his head fell back and his mouth fell open, eyes half-lidded, as I rocked my hips and pressed closer. My cock throbbed, barely erect but desperate for a touch all the same.

“Feel free to talk about the bridge,” I said, and rocked forward again.

He’d gotten fully hard, just like that, his cock straining the front of his pants. The ridge of it pressed into my balls. My moan cut off in a yelp as he grasped me by the hips and pinned me down against him.

“I’m serious, Your Highness.” Andreas spread his legs a little more, stretching me apart. “Your conclave is in less than—”

“Fuck the conclave,” I gasped. At the moment I simply couldn’t care less. My hole ached for him, something I’d never even imagined could be possible, and I didn’t give a gods-damn about anything else.

I half lunged, half toppled forward and pressed my mouth to his, clumsy and eager, knowing I probably showed every bit of my inexperience in initiating a kiss.

Andreas didn’t seem to care. He groaned into my mouth, bucking up, and his hands tightened on my hips until I thought my bones might crack. I whimpered and rode him, my hands falling onto his shoulders, craving him so deeply and desperately that I couldn’t contain it, the tingling in my fingers and the pounding heat building up inside my skull—everything around me vanished in a hazy whirlwind of sensation and sparking magic, gods, magic, I shouldn’t be able to—not with the potion—

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