Asteria - In Love with the Prince Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books by Tanya Korval

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  An Extract from "The Elf Princess's Lover"

  Insatiable Reads

  Asteria - In Love with the Prince

  By Tanya Korval

  Bookish UN translator Lucy Snow sneaks into an embassy party...and meets Prince Jagor, heir to the throne of Asteria. He's mysterious, charming and supremely powerful, and the chance encounter turns into a steamy kiss in one of the embassy bedrooms.

  Their initial tryst isn't enough for the Prince: he offers her a job as his personal aide. Not only is she now conducting a secret romance under the watchful eyes of his retinue: Lucy is only too aware that in the wealthy European kingdom of Asteria, women are ‘owned’ by their lovers.

  As the couple battle to keep their love a secret, Jagor shows Lucy a submissive side to herself that leaves her breathless: but is she ready to accept the Prince’s collar and the life in Asteria that comes with it? When their relationship becomes public, can she survive the glare of the spotlight? And, as political unrest in Asteria threatens the entire royal family, exactly how far will she go for love?

  This erotic romance contains explicit scenes.

  © Copyright Tanya Korval 2013

  The right of Tanya Korval to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

  All characters, events and places in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, or real places is purely coincidental.

  Cover image credits: Jagor and Lucy - Shutterstock / Kiuikson, The Palace - CanStock Photo / AlexT, Border - DepositPhotos / Smeagorl

  All characters portrayed are intended to be over 18 years of age, even where not explicitly stated.

  This story exists in a world of fantasy. Always practice safer sex and keep your play safe, sane and consensual.

  Other Books by Tanya Korval

  My Secret Life

  The hugely popular four part series, now available in one collected edition. Erica, a high-powered businesswoman, is watching her life tick away in a sterile world of hotels, airports and meeting rooms. When she’s mistaken for a call girl one evening, she does something crazy…and her life will never be the same again. Note: all my other books are erotic romances - this is erotica and is more explicit than the others.

  The Elf Princess’s Lover

  Salranna is a virgin elf princess who’s only ever seen the world from the safety of the palace windows. On a journey to a distant kingdom, assassins attack her party and she barely escapes. Alone and hunted, her sole hope for survival lies in Rafe: a human who blames the royals for the death of his parents. They find that love cares not for class or race, and Rafe awakens submissive tendencies in the normally imperious Salranna that leave her gasping. But can passion hold a princess and a commoner together…or will society tear them apart? One of my most romantic books: if you liked The Lord of the Rings, you’ll love this!

  Music

  Charlotte is young, privileged and a talented cellist: good enough to attend the world-renowned Farrington Academy for the Performing Arts in New York. She's also painfully, crushingly shy. Her life changes in an instant when she falls for Saul: a penniless up-and-coming rapper from the Bronx. Everyone tells her it can't work: and she's too naïve to foresee the problems they'll face. Their backgrounds, their friends, their parents: everything is against them, and Charlotte isn't known for breaking the rules. But love fears no boundaries....

  Chapter One

  Technically, we shouldn’t even have been there.

  I knew Eddie, one of the two guys on the door; sometimes brought him a coffee when it was snowing and he’d pulled door duty.

  “No, Lucy: it’s senior staff only. Unless you got yourself twenty years of promotion in the last couple of days….”

  “Come on….” I wheedled. “You know my boss likes to go to bed at ten. His invite’s only going to go to waste.” Next to me, my partner in crime, Gwen, did her best starving kitten impersonation. I’m always in awe of Gwen’s ability to manipulate men. I doubt Eddie would have noticed if I’d flashed him.

  With a long-suffering look, Eddie waved us through.

  Just a few feet further on, a younger guy looked doubtfully at us, but he wasn’t going to argue with Eddie. He tiredly asked for our IDs and scanned them, checking our photos as they appeared on a screen. I had to glance away. I hate that photo: I wasn’t quite ready when they took it and I have my mouth hanging open. Now it’s in the UN computers, it’s there for life: they’ll still be using that photo of me when I’m ninety.

  We were in the embassy of one of the larger West African nations: a grand old place, although smaller than you’d probably expect, really just a large townhouse with the basement given over to offices. That meant I didn’t know anyone, even to speak to. Europe was my area: this was more Gwen’s. But I was more than happy to enjoy the first bit of glamour I’d seen all year, even if all I did was nod and smile at strangers, and sip champagne.

  Just a couple of glasses, of course. We’re big on decorum at the UN: at least, the staff are. Some of the ambassadors are a different matter, but we’re held to a higher level of scrutiny: no one wants a scandal. Working at the UN is less exciting and more formal than you probably imagine. A cynic would say that’s why I fit in so well.

  Someone once joked that I was born to be a librarian. At the time, I thought that was a little cruel, but if you saw me at work you’d probably understand. As a teenager, I was always the gawky, shy one – and funnily enough I did spend too much time in the New York Public Library, but seriously, have you ever been to that place? I was both tall for my age and a late developer, so I spent most of high school with crazy long legs and no boobs, and then when my body finally did catch up, I’d spent so long being ignored by the boys that I sort of stayed in the corner.

  Now, at 22, I looked enviously at Gwen: so confident in her own skin, especially around men. She could drive guys crazy with a flick of her long, blonde hair, while my chestnut locks spend most of the time pinned up (yes, I know that adds to the librarian look). I’d managed to coax my hair into ringlets for tonight, though, and for once, I’d left my glasses at home and gone for contacts. It made me feel strangely exposed, as if the glasses were my armor.

  I’d borrowed a dress from Gwen, a long green strapless gown in deep green, which Gwen said had been a present from some admirer at the Iranian embassy. I didn’t know if she was kidding or not. Every time I saw a mirror my heart did a little jump of dread as I saw how much cleavage the sweetheart neck was revealing - I really wasn’t used to wearing that sort of thing.

  “Come on,” Gwen whispered, leading me by the elbow. “Let’s find an EYA.” It was a joke between us: Gwen’s big plan to find an Eligible Young Ambassador, marry him and live a life of leisure. Unfortuna
tely, there’s no such thing as a young ambassador, let alone an available one.

  We moved slowly through the party, each taking a glass of vintage champagne from a passing waiter. We were surrounded by older men in dinner jackets and their wives, who fell into two categories: young trophy wives (or mistresses: it’s not considered polite to ask) and older, effortlessly stylish Grande Dames. There were a lot of eyes on Gwen, which was nothing unusual. I wondered what it would be like, to be followed by male eyes wherever you went. Not that I was jealous: I was happy to fade into the background. Even if it did mean my options for romance were limited.

  In the translation and documentation department, it’s mostly women, so that doesn’t help. Gwen and I both came to the UN as French translators, with me concentrating on the European French speakers and Gwen gradually sliding into West Africa, where there’s a fair amount of French spoken as well. Most of our job amounted to sitting very quietly wearing headphones, while typing at a hundred words per minute. It’s what’s known as good, honest work – which translates as deathly dull, and that’s even if you’re into languages the way I am. Hence our excitement at getting to enjoy the high life, if only for an evening.

  We moved past a huge wooden staircase, down an oak-paneled corridor and emerged into the lounge, where doors had been opened onto a terrace. Guests were spilling outside, eager to enjoy the night breeze: the building was already getting uncomfortably warm, now that it was full of dignitaries. A string quartet played in one corner, and for a few minutes, all was serene.

  Then Gwen spotted Louis.

  Louis was one of the few men who worked in our department. He was a studious, shy type: not the kind of guy you’d expect someone like Gwen to go for…except he was blessed with the most gorgeous pale blue eyes and long, blond hair: a geek, trapped in the body of a Nordic poet. If the two of them ever got together, they were going to have the ultimate in blonde, blue-eyed offspring, but Louis kept ducking Gwen’s advances: I think she scared him.

  Gwen, as expected, immediately latched on to him, which left me on my own. Great. I looked around for someone, anyone I knew, but the nearest person to my age was about twenty years older.

  I took a step towards Gwen, not looking where I was going, and trod on the toe of a short, overweight man in a too-tight dinner jacket. He squealed and threw his arms out to stop me and his glass of probably very expensive red wine sloshed all over my neck, chest and the upper part of my dress.

  All conversation stopped. The string quartet stopped playing with a nasty shriek of a bow: so now, I was the centre of attention. Across the room, I could see Gwen with her hand over her mouth, eyes full of pity but unable to stop herself laughing.

  “Shit!” I said under my breath, hoping he didn’t speak English. He made mumbled apologies and we both looked around for something to mop up with. I recognized him, now: he was the Belgian ambassador. He pulled a napkin from a nearby tray and started towards me, and I realized that if I didn’t move, he fully intended to start dabbing at my chest. Also, in another few seconds, someone was going to notice the wine on the Persian rug.

  I reassured the ambassador in hurried French that it was perfectly all right, apologized profusely for any inconvenience and fled the room. I had to find a bathroom and lie low for a while. Then I’d sneak home and leave Gwen to Louis.

  I stumbled back to the hallway, trying to smile at people and look casual. Rivulets of red wine were coursing down my chest and running underneath the dress, which was itself sporting a nice starburst-effect stain. I tried frantically to remember what I knew about red wine stains. Was it salt? White wine? Would champagne do? I grabbed someone’s abandoned glass from a side table and took it with me. There was nothing that looked like a doorway to a bathroom. I figured they’d be upstairs and hurried up them, the ancient oak treads squeaking and complaining.

  Upstairs, it didn’t get any better. I pushed open a door to discover a bedroom. Oh great: I was in the private area of the embassy: I really shouldn’t have been there. Still, it looked like being my only shot at a bathroom, so I snuck inside.

  One look in the mirror revealed the extent of the damage. My neck and chest looked like I was in a low-budget slasher movie, sprayed with red, sticky drops. The stain on the dress had soaked well into the fabric, and had that horrible look of permanence. Still, I’d do what I could.

  I yanked the dress down to my waist: not difficult, being strapless. I ran some water in the basin and started to wash the worst of the wine off me. Christ: I’d been in too much of a hurry to wait for the water to warm up, and it was freezing, especially against my warm skin. The water threatened to soak my black, strapless bra, so I pulled that off too. A few seconds later, I was clean, and turned around to look for a towel.

  That was when I saw him, standing in the doorway to the bathroom.

  Taller than me, with a broad frame. Wide shoulders that almost brushed the doorposts and a heavy, solid chest, his muscles filling out his snow-white shirt in a way that made me catch my breath. His waist looked taut and trim, shown off by the elegant, no doubt tailored dress pants he wore. He had his hands braced on the doorframe above his head, leaning through it into the bathroom like a human who’s too big to climb inside the dollhouse.

  His hair was dark, almost black: artfully tousled in a way that made me want to slide my fingers through it and enjoy its softness. Dark green eyes, as hypnotic as a cat’s, accentuated by heavy brows. A full, wide mouth with a thoughtful, almost pouting lower lip that made it look as though he was always on the verge of joking with you. A mouth you wanted to see smile, or say your name.

  There was something about him, but it was weird: I couldn’t seem to process the thought. It just refused to go through my head: it got caught and snagged and wouldn’t happen. I think that’s probably why I didn’t scream. I just stood there, topless and dripping, while my brain tried to catch up.

  I was having problems because I was trying to process the equivalent of the sky has turned green. It’s a simple enough concept, but because it’s impossible, it’s very hard to deal with.

  The thing my brain was trying to tell me was: it’s the Prince of Asteria.

  Of course it isn’t, my sensible brain responded. Don’t be stupid.

  His eyes were staring straight into mine. He wasn’t looking at my breasts. Not yet, anyway. How long had he been standing there?

  He just stared at me, unblinking, as if unwilling to break the spell that had fallen over us.

  It’s the Prince.

  No it isn’t.

  Alongside the argument of who it was or wasn’t, I was trying to deal with just how good looking the stranger was. I should have been outraged, or scared, or at least covered myself, but all I could think was how much I wanted to keep looking at him. Part of me, on some level, wanted to run. A bigger part of me just wanted him to scoop me up in those huge, strong arms.

  At that point, I saw his eyes finally drop to my naked breasts. I looked down at myself, and was suddenly very aware of my nipples, standing stiff and hard from the freezing water. That broke the spell.

  I grabbed the front of my dress and pulled it up to cover me. Without the bra, it didn’t really work: my breasts bulged provocatively over the top. I swallowed and tried to speak, but he got there first.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He spoke in a heavily accented, slightly halting speech that was utterly bewitching: it seemed to sing along all my nerves, shocking me right down to the core. And it was so deep! It reminded me of the low growl of an animal, powerful and final: a voice you couldn’t argue with.

  I managed to squeak out a single syllable. “I—” And then couldn’t work out what to say next.

  He didn’t help: he just stood there and waited. This infuriated me: there were protocols for this sort of situation, dammit! The man was meant to be apologetic, to cover his eyes and look the other way, and let the woman get dressed, and then apologize again afterwards, and promi
se to knock in future. He just stood there.

  The it’s the Prince thing was still going around and around in my head, which wasn’t helping. I was angry and intimidated and hovering on the edge of losing myself in those deep green eyes, all at the same time.

  “Are you the Prince of Asteria?” I blurted stupidly.

  He gave me a long look, and I wasn’t sure if he thought I was crazy or was mortally offended. Then he gave a solemn nod.

  Oh, shit. Partially because I was standing there semi-dressed in front of a Prince. Partially because it was Asteria. The name of the place hung in the air: a word with power. The mood in the room completely changed: everything took on new meaning. Him. Me. Him being alone with me.

  I swallowed. “I’d like to get dressed properly, now,” and then, the first time I’d ever had cause to use the words, “Your Highness.” The air was suddenly like treacle: my words seemed to just sink in and stop, like speaking into thick snow. Everything was warm and heavy: dreamlike. Asteria.

  He held something out. A towel. I took it, holding the top of my dress up with my other hand.

  He made no move to leave.

  I unfolded the towel and used it to dab the parts of me that I could reach without pushing my dress down again. When he didn’t take the hint, I pointedly turned my back to him, quickly pushed the front of my dress down and dabbed my breasts dry. My nipples were hard: achingly so. My breasts felt full and ripe, as if stroked by a lover.

  I glanced in the mirror and met his eyes. He was watching my reflection.

  I felt my face flush red. I quickly looked away and fumbled with my bra, pulled it around me with shaking hands. I could feel his eyes on me as I tried, again and again, to hook the damn bra strap—

  Strong hands gently but firmly took hold of the strap and hooked it for me. His fingers slid underneath the elastic, smoothing it out, the backs of his fingers against my skin, and I felt my legs go weak. When I finally looked in the mirror again, he’d stepped into the bedroom and was holding the door open for me.