Page 25 of From London, With Love
“Take yourself in hand,” she ordered.
Watching her the entire time, he skated his palm down his lean belly and firmly grasped his member. Despite the size of his hands, he couldn’t entirely close his fingers around it.
The ache between her thighs increased.
Which was so confusing.
She’d never once thought a man’s phallus to be worth anything more than pain. Though she’d learned to tolerate the bedding—with both the generous application of liniment and a glassful of poppy wine—it had never been anything less than a torment to be endured.
But this set off an entirely new sensation within her.
Alexandra brushed her fingers between her thighs, shivering a little. She felt exactly as she had when she’d been in his arms, his mouth on her skin. On the verge of something both overwhelming and terrifying.
She pictured Gideon kneeling on the bed and crawling up over her, those dark eyes focused intently. “What would my queen have me do?”
And as the queen stroked between her thighs, she thought of what she truly wanted from him.
“Love me,” she whispered.
A smile touched his face. “I always have. And I always will.”
Chapter 8
Fireworks lit the River Thames below them as the queen hosted a private party aboard a dirigible.The Cardiffwas a pleasure-cruiser, confiscated from the Duke of Pendlebury during the Rising Sons revolt. Fitted out with gilded woodwork at every nook and cranny, its chandeliers glittered above the ballroom, shining light upon the polished wood of the floor.
Dancers swept in tidy circles as Alexandra smiled and flirted idly, swamped by potential suitors. It was just as she’d expected.
Flattery drifted unheeded past her ears. After dozens of years of meaningless compliments, she’d grown resistant to its effects.
Besides, it wasn’t truly her that these foreign princes were trying to seduce. It was the queen. A figurehead only, a woman of power. The throne that they saw when they hinted at a potential alliance. Not Alexandra.
Never Alexandra.
She danced with a Hapsburg prince before finding herself in the arms of Prince Ivan once again.
This time she studied him.
It wasn’t fair to compare him to her dead husband. He was neither similar in features nor in manners. And yet, she couldn’t help feeling that suffocating sensation working its way up her throat the second he swept her onto the dance floor.
Too tall. Too broad of shoulder. Too powerful.
And overwhelming in his mannerisms.
Nothing was phrased as a question—though that could have been his grasp of the English language. And he drove her through the waltz like a master wielding a fractious horse.
Every now and then she caught a glimpse of one of the Grand Duchesses watching her from the sideline, staring sullenly over her wine. Light gleamed off the woman’s gilt-colored hair, and her dress was cut low enough to display an impressive bosom.
She was everything Alexandra was not—except for being a queen.
“I do not think your countrywoman approves,” Alexandra murmured, as the prince swept her beneath his arm.
Ivan glanced in the duchess’s direction, then shrugged his shoulder. “Ignore her. Xenia thinks herself beyond her station. She is competitive in all matters.”
“Is she competition?” Alexandra jested.
His jaw tightened in a way she didn’t quite like. “No. Though she would wish to be.”
Alexandra couldn’t help shooting the other woman another glance. The hot-eyed look made sense now, and it made her a little uncomfortable.
