Page 89 of The Princess Trap
Thenshekissedhim. She appeared to be enjoying herself. He let her take control for a while, but eventually, the need became too great.
He lifted her up, turned and threw her down against the bed. If they’d been in darkness, he’d have focused on the tiny exhalation she made—almost a gasp, but not quite. Only they weren’t in darkness, so instead he drank in the way her full lips parted, the wideness of her doe eyes.
“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart.”
She smiled, flashing those damn dimples at him, looking so sweet and so sexy all at once. And then she did as she was told.
He couldn’t play games tonight. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything but sink into her—into her arms, into her body, into the sense of fulfilment that only she could provide. Kissing her felt like a rebirth. Every touch was fresh and light and clean; even when he slid between her thighs and whispered filthy things into her ear.
When she came, he whispered, “I love you.” And then he couldn’t stop saying it. Not when she came a second time, not when she bit his shoulder and clawed at his back, and definitely not whenhecame, so hard he saw stars.
He loved her. Helovedher.
Nothing could go wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ruben smiled tightly at aristocracy, foreign dignitaries, the odd multi-billionaire of common birth—whoever was put in front of him got the same treatment. His best effort at charm.
It was probably atrocious, considering the mass of nerves this evening had turned him into.
The ballroom was alight, sparkling with jewels and laughter and champagne glasses, gowns swirling a rainbow of colours across the marble dance floor. Ruben floated above the glamour and gaiety as if watching from another place. He kept an eye on Lydia at all times, but his brother stuck to her like a fucking limpet—all smiles and courteousness in public, of course. Ever the benevolent king.
Part of Ruben’s mind was occupied with running over the plan, the contingency plan, the last-ditch emergency fuck-it plan, and the many things that could go wrong with them all. Hans and Demetria were ready, working behind thescenes to slide everything into place, but he’d failed at his only task.
He hadn’t made Lydia feel safe.
And goddamnit, where the fuck was Cherry? He spent another ten minutes working the room, hoping his anxiety came off as some kind of brooding charisma, before she arrived.
And when she arrived, Lord did shearrive.
There was no sudden hush to alert him to her presence, no awed whisperings as the orchestra came to a stop. No; it was a swell in the racket around him, a sharp spike in the excited voices filling the ballroom, that made Ruben turn towards the grand staircase.
“Is that her?”
“It must be.”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting that.”
“But she’s quite beautiful, isn’t she?”
Ruben stared up at the figure descending the sweeping staircase. Yes, she fucking was.
Cherry’s hair was piled high atop her head in a riot of curls, a few sweet, coiled strands escaping. Her eyes were wide and dark and her lips were red. Red as they’d been the day he met her. And just as tempting.
She wore a gown of crushed silk, red as her lips, that swept low across her cleavage, leaving her shoulders bare, and flared out from her waist like something out of a fairytale. With every step, the fabric flashed in the light, black-cherryhere and bright scarlet there, a riot of shades from claret to poppy.
Ruben’s feet carried him through the crowd as if by habit, but he’d never done this, felt this, loved like this, in his whole fucking life. He reached the foot of the staircase and she took the last few steps with a smile on her face, holding out a hand. He took it, just as he had the day they’d met, bending low to press a kiss to her skin. And when he rose, she was looking at him as if he were the only person in the room.
Someone had announced her, but he’d barely heard it. Now, he noticed that same voice saying something else about them, the affianced couple—but he didn’t bother to listen. He just followed the sound of the orchestra as it swelled into a waltz.
“Dance with me?” he whispered.
She smiled, her cheeks plumping and her dimples doing funny things to his insides. “If I must,” she murmured.
He grinned, forgetting his worry, forgetting his nerves, and pulled her onto the floor.
“You’re very good at this,” she said, as they settled into the familiar rhythm, his hand a little too tight at her waist. He couldn’t bring himself to let go, though. If he did, she might disappear.
