Page 60 of The Prince and His Stolen Groom
Brendon scanned my face, as if trying to decipher the real meaning behind my words. To prove I wasn’t lying, I dragged him forward, intothe heart. If I’d tried to bullshit the statue, she would have turned into a monster like the others. Instead, she remained placid stone, and we entered a lovely little courtyard with a fountain at the center.
The statue at the fountain was the same maiden, except instead of a bust, she was fully formed, and she held a lyre. As we approached, she began to strum a quiet melody. At the base of the fountain was a folded flannel blanket, a picnic basket, a bottle of sparkling wine, and two flute glasses. I finally released Brendon’s hand to pick up the wine bottle and popped the cork.
“Why is there no exit?” Brendon asked, turning in a slow circle. Even the path we’d come through had closed, leaving us isolated in the heart of the maze.
“Well, consider what this was designed for. Newlyweds, who—hopefully—just went through a close bonding experience. A picnic of”—I lifted the lid to check the contents—“strawberries, dainty sandwiches, and other finger foods. Wine, music, a comfortable blanket …”
“So, we have to fuck to get out of here?”
I sputtered and looked at him in shock. He assessed me with both frankness and a little bit of heat, like he didn’t find the condition hard to fulfill. Maybe if he’d said it differently—used some corny phrase like ‘make love’ or a tone that implied more fun and less duty—I would have gone along with it.
Instead, I focused on pouring two perfectly even glasses of wine as I explained, “Not necessarily. There’s probably a timer—an hour, maybe two—that will give us some privacy before we’re expected to rejoin society.”
“Shame.” His face was perfectly neutral as he took one of the glasses from me, his fingers barely skimming mine. He raised it to his lips and slowly sipped, his eyes locked on me as he savored the pink, bubbly wine.
I drank my own glass too quickly and almost broke the flute when I slammed it down on the fountain edge. I grabbed the blanket and fanned it out, laying it on the ground. Brendon started to sit down, then almost toppled over. I had to grab onto his arm and help him down to the ground. Once settled, we laid out the lunch. It hadn’t been long since breakfast, but the food gave us something else to focus on.
“There’s more in here,” he said, holding up two books.
I picked up a cucumber sandwich and idly nibbled it. “What are they?”
“One Hundred and One More Romantic Questions,” he read out loud from the first one, and then, “Advice for the Married Couple: How to Stay in Love from Newlywed to Deathbed.”
“That is both romantic and a little creepy.” I held out my hand and he gave me the advice book. I flipped to a random page and read aloud, “Section Thirteen: The Importance of Communication.”
“Ah, always a good one,” Brendon said. “Strawberry?”
“Oh, sure.” I looked up and found that, instead of handing the strawberry to me, he was holding it up to my lips. They parted almost as much in surprise as to accept the offering. I took the plump flesh between my teeth and bit down, sweet juice filling my mouth. The whole time I couldn’t look away from Brendon’s blue eyes, crinkled slightly in the corners from mirth.
“You’ve got a little,” he murmured, trailing off as his thumb brushed down my chin, cleaning up a trail of spilled juice. He raised his thumb to his lips and licked it carefully, his tongue a quick, teasing flick. “You were saying?”
It took me a long moment to remember what I’d been doing. The book had fallen from my hands, landing splayed facedown. I picked it up, but it’d fallen on a different page, and I stared at it aghast—Communication in the bedroom.
“Are you going to read it?” Brendon asked, sipping from his flute, eyes slightly hooded as he watched me.
“Uh, no, it’s all … nothing, um, what about yours?”
He set his flute down, fingers lingering, caressing the long cup, then down the stem, back up the cup again before releasing it. “Let’s see,” he said, picking the question book back up. He flipped through the pages, searching for just the right one. When two pages stuck together, he raised his fingers to his lips and licked the tips, then carefully pried them apart. “Describe your first kiss.”
I blinked, surfacing from a lusty daze. “What? That’s not even a question. Let me see that.” I reached for the book, but he held it up and away from me. I almost crawled on top of him to reach it but came to my senses just in time. I settled back onto the blanket and pursed my lips. “These books are ridiculous.”
“Well, we have no idea how long we’ll be here, we’ve got to do something to pass the time,” he said with a casual shrug. “My first kiss was with Kit. We were probably four, maybe five years old. I remember the taste of mud—though I don’t know if that was before or after, since she’d shoved me into the dirt right after the deed.”
A snort escaped me before I could suppress it. “Guess she really didn’t want to kiss you.”
“That’s the thing,” he replied, his face crumpling in mock distress. “Shehad kissedme,then shoved me down.”
I burst into laughter, then clapped a hand over my mouth. My stomach hurt from trying to hold it in.
Instead of looking offended, he grinned. “See? Yours can’t be worse than mine.”
Worse was a matter of perspective. “Oh, you know, it was average. Like most first kisses—awkward, uncoordinated, soggy.”
Brendon choked on his drink, pink wine burbling over his lips. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, more practical and less sexy than when he’d cleaned my face. “What do you meansoggy?”
“Well, wet isn’t the right word. That sounds too …” My eyes locked on his still glistening lips. “Wetcan be fun, and sometimes necessary, depending on where your tongue is.” He snorted and we shared suggestive smirks. “But ‘soggy’ conveys that kind of gross, uncomfortable feeling of having someone lick all over your lips.”
“No,” Brendon groaned. “No, they didn’t!”
