Asteria - In Love with the Prince Page 15

  My brain ceased to function. I collapsed in on myself, like a paper cup thrown into a black hole: I think I actually put my hand to my mouth. The thing must have fallen out of the bed when I shook the covers.

  Jagor was grinning at it. “Good,” he told me.

  I snatched it off him and dropped it in a drawer. Then I buried my face in his chest so I didn’t have to look at him. He was trying not to laugh, now. “Stop it,” I told him.

  “Why are you so embarrassed?”

  “Stop!” I felt myself starting to laugh now, even though my face was still burning.

  “I like to think of you using it. The librarian, all alone in her ivory tower—”

  “Stop!” I was losing it now, giggling uncontrollably.

  He stopped and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in close, and I managed to get my giggles on lockdown. Then he put his mouth close to my ear and said, “Bzzzzzzzzzz....”

  I snorted in a very unprincess-like way and we hugged even tighter, both of us rocking with laughter, my cheek pressed hard against one curving rock of his chest, his laughter rumbling through me. It was the release I needed, the escape from thoughts of Calara and Asteria and what was waiting for us: for a moment it was just about us and I could relish it and celebrate: he’s back, he’s back!

  He pulled me onto the bed, making sure I landed on top of him. I straddled him, nestling myself down on the reassuring warmth of him. I prized my heels off and they landed with soft thumps on the floor. There was a long, comfortable silence.

  “I’m sorry I’m not...” I looked down at my t-shirt and jeans.

  He looked at me as if I was crazy. “I like it,” he told me. He brushed my hair back from my face and then traced from my cheek all the way down my arm. “It’s innocent.” He interweaved his fingers with mine.

  “Innocent?” I adjusted my position slightly, getting comfortable. Already, I could feel the heat of my sex as it pressed hard against his stomach, touching him save for a few thin layers of fabric.

  He spread his arms wide, pulling mine with them and so drawing me down to him. I kissed him, just brushing his lips at first, savoring the feel of them, delighting in the way they fitted mine. Then harder, more demanding; both of our mouths opening as we tasted and hungrily explored. Need swelled inside me, hot and vital and I let out a whimper, craning my head up as he laid a string of kisses along my throat.

  “Take it off,” he whispered, his hands releasing mine and smoothing the fabric of my t-shirt. I sat up and peeled it over my head, dropping it on the floor, watching his eyes rove over me. His hands found my shoulders, massaging there for a second, before they pulled me down for another long kiss. “Stand up and do the rest,” he said.

  I was about to, but then something hit me. Every time we’d had sex, I’d been naked or near naked and he’d been pretty much fully clothed. I liked that, in a way: it added to the spirit of it, the idea that he was dominating me. I’d been his aide, his slave…the lowly serving wench. But now I was going to be his princess: it was time to be on equal terms, even if just this once.

  “I want to see you too,” I said simply. I stood and pulled on his shoulders. Fortunately, he got the idea: I had no hope of lifting him as a dead weight.

  I slid my hands under his jacket and pushed it down his arms, then undid his tie. As I unfastened his shirt, I could feel him working the button of my jeans, teasing down the zipper. Neither of us was rushing: that was what made it great, that finally we could take our time. My hands were clumsy at his shirt buttons: I was finally going to see what that magnificent body really looked like.

  “Stand up,” I told him, a little breathless. When he did, he towered over me: I’d got used to those five-inch heels he’d made me wear and forgotten just how tall he was. I moved close and spread his shirt apart like curtains. His chest was perfect, the broad curves seeming even bigger, bare. I ran my fingers down the valley between his pecs and followed with my lips. My hands smoothed over the tight ripples of his stomach, sweeping around the sides to caress the sensitive skin there. He was hairless, but not in some pretty-boy gym and wax way. He reminded me of earth and nature, his muscles like hewn rock, sculpted by hauling logs or rolling boulders. An honest body, not a poser’s creation.

  Those massive hands of his were pushing under the denim of my loosened jeans, cupping my ass and pulling me tightly to him. I wriggled out of the jeans, barely conscious of it: all of me focused on the feel of his body. I was rubbing my cheek against him now, cat like, my lips stroking over each firm muscle. God, why had he made me wait so long to enjoy him like this?

  My hands were on at his pants, working the buckle of his belt and then the fly, shoving them down his thighs. He stepped out of them and then – gloriously – I was running my palms over his naked legs. He had just the finest covering of fine, light hair there, his thighs thick and hard. He was so big, so solidly planted; it was as if he’d grown out of the ground.

  He had one hand in my panties. At first, he just cupped me, the warmth of his hand making me groan. Then one finger started to rub at my folds – a tiny movement, almost a rocking, but it was enough to make me shift from foot to foot, grinding myself against him.

  I felt my bra pull tight and then it was loosening...gone. I stripped it off and suddenly he was kissing me again, his lips descending to meet mine just as they had in the embassy the very first time. We pressed together, my breasts pillowing against his chest as his tongue darted into my mouth.

  I wanted him entirely naked. Pulling back from the kiss, I hooked my hands under the waistband of his jockey shorts and...stopped.

  “Purple?” I asked.

  “Royal Purple,” he said proudly. “They make them specially. By Royal Appointment.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was serious or joking. Neither would have surprised me. I bent to strip them off him, his cock springing out. Even though he wasn’t fully hard yet, the fullness of him sent a little flutter through me: remembering what he’d feel like inside me.

  He crouched, slipping my panties down my legs and off, stopping to kiss the fronts of my thighs. Then we were standing there, fully naked, just looking at each other.

  I could have looked at him forever. I...marveled at him, the way you do with a painting or a sculpture. At how his heavy brow made those forest green eyes even more intense, narrowed in deep thought or, as now, in that blistering gaze. At the high cheekbones that stopped his face being too brutal and hard: made it artistic and almost vulnerable. My hands came up and I traced along his shoulders, thrilling at the breadth of them, the sheer size of him compared to me. My fingertips skimmed down his muscled arms, down to his narrow, trim waist. I reached down and curled my fingers around his length; at the same time, I felt him cup my sex again. This time his fingers were more insistent: I could feel my lips parting under his touch. I could feel his gaze on my body and I watched as his cock stiffened and lifted. The thought that I was doing that to him was a whole turn on of its own.

  I barely gave him time to get the condom on. I grabbed his ass, the muscles firm under my palms, pulling him to me so that his cock pressed hard and hot against my naked thigh. He fell back across the bed, lifting me atop him and guiding himself into me....

  God, the feel of him as he spread me open, the divine rushing thrill as he speared up into me, his body arching off the bed. I settled lower, legs folding under me, kneeling atop him. We hadn’t done it like this before: first him being equally naked and now me on top. The change in power wasn’t lost on me.

  I gasped and leaned forward as he moved deeper. His hands captured my breasts, kneading them softly as he slid up into me and I bit my lip at how good it felt.

  “Do you like it like this?” I asked him as I started to move.

  “I love it every way with you.” His hands were delightfully firm at my breasts, squeezing and stroking, tremors going down to my legs.

  “So slaves are allowed to go on top?” I twisted my hips as I teased him, and he gasped.
/>
  “Slaves are allowed to go on top,” he said. “That’s the point.”

  I hadn’t thought of it like that. In control of him, but still under his control. I started to move faster, running my hands over his chest, relishing the feel of every curve of him. Something glinted as I moved my hand: the diamond. I still wasn’t used to it.

  “You have to call me Exkella.” I was starting to pant now.

  He shook his head. “Commoners have to call you that. I can call you whatever I want.” His fingers were suddenly on my clit, drawing a surprised squeal from me that turned into a long, low moan.

  “What do you want to call me?”

  He grinned. “I can think of a few things. Another time. Lucy, for now.” He was circling my clit now, in time with me grinding my hips against him. I put my palms on his chest, pressing myself upward before slamming back down onto him. God, the hot, delicious friction of him as he stroked in and out of me, his groin pressing up to meet me.

  He was starting to pant too, and even as I ran my hands back and forth over his chest, my vision seemed to narrow down to focus on just his face: his eyes gleaming as they stared into mine, his lips slowly drawing back until he was almost snarling with the effort of restraining himself. His thumb was stroking at my throbbing bud, my hips grinding and thrashing and….

  I felt it rush through me; we came so close together that the energy almost seemed to flow between us, my explosion setting off his. I normally closed my eyes but I didn’t, then: I stared down at him, watching it break across his face, one hand tracing the lines of his straining jaw.

  We stayed that way for a while, and even when we lay down to cuddle I stayed half on top, our legs scissored together. We didn’t need to say anything: we just enjoyed being back together.

  ***

  Next morning, though, I had doubts.

  It wasn’t just thoughts of Asteria and being in the spotlight – although that was enough to make me hyperventilate all on its own. It wasn’t the guilt over what we’d done to Calara, or even engagement jitters.

  Jagor emerged from the bathroom having done his best with borrowed shower gel, a slightly threadbare towel and yesterday’s clothes. He looked happy, if slightly bemused. “What should I do?” he asked in that bewitching accent of his, kissing me on the back of the neck. I’d got up early to grab a shower and find something I could stand to face the retinue in – a skirt, white top and cardigan, in the end – and was making eggs.

  “You can make coffee,” I told him. I pointed him towards what he needed and watched him as I thought.

  The problem was the sex.

  The day before, after he’d proposed I’d said yes, a niggling thought had crept into my mind and refused to let go. Our relationship was grounded in sex. I loved him, and he loved me, but the sex was a big part of things and in our case, it wasn’t just normal sex. There was the thing: the thing I’d discovered the very first moment I’d met him, when he’d rendered me helpless with just words and looks. I hadn’t known what it was then, and I was still discovering new levels of it now. Call it submission, slavery, or something else: it didn’t matter. It was exciting, dangerous, sometimes scary…and I loved it. But what if that sort of sex was all we had? What about tender, gentle lovemaking? Would he still want me without the corset and heels?

  That had been my fear the day before. That had been one of the reasons, I think, why I’d wanted to see him naked: to feel an equal. Then we’d had sex and it had been fantastic: simple but great, without any of the kinkiness. I’d laid my fear to rest.

  I focused on Jagor for a moment. He’d managed to find the French press and the coffee, but it had taken him a long time. I frowned as I watched him play with the plunger, working it slowly up and down. He kept glancing over at me and smiling. That was weird: he looked almost nervous. Why would he be nervous?

  Back to my worrying. He’d proven that we could have normal sex: that I drove him crazy without a designer wardrobe and killer heels. I should have been happy, right?

  Be careful what you wish for: in the cold light of morning I had a whole new fear - what if the basis for all that darkly exciting submission had been me being Jagor’s aide? Now I was his fiancée, had everything changed? Rich Asterian men usually had both a wife and at least one slave: maybe they treated the two very differently. What if being a princess meant that I’d no longer be dominated? I’d been worried we wouldn’t be able to enjoy normal sex. Now I was worried that normal sex was all we’d have.

  Over-analyze? Me?

  I focused on Jagor again and frowned. He was still playing with the French press, and his expression stirred up an old memory. Years ago, my car had broken down and while I’d been standing by the side of the road with the hood up waiting for the breakdown service, a guy had pulled up and asked if I needed any help. I don’t know what possessed me – I wasn’t long out of college and I guess I had it in my head that I’m a grown woman and I don’t need no need from no-one - but I lied to him and said I was fine, that I knew all about cars and could fix it myself. Except, instead of driving off, he stood there talking and watching me, so I had to pretend I knew what I was doing.

  That feeling of being in way over my head, as I’d stared at what may or may not have been a carburetor? I could see exactly the same thing on Jagor’s face.

  He doesn’t know how to make coffee.

  That was crazy. They had coffee in Asteria.

  But he’s never made it. Never.

  A chef had prepared his every meal, I realized. My God, could he cook at all? Then a bigger shock: would he ever need to, once we were married? I’d had a hazy picture of us living in some big house in Asteria: in luxury, sure, but on our own. But that wouldn’t be the case, would it? He’d expect us to have people to cook every meal and serve every drink. Servants – or slaves.

  The only thing that tempered the shock was that, despite probably feeling like a rabbit trying to work a computer, he was doing his best: for me. As I watched him finally pour coffee into the French press and add water, my heart melted. He presented the press to me, a look of triumph on his face, and I beamed and thanked him as if the trouble he’d had with it was completely normal.

  A few minutes later, as I served the eggs, he uncertainly pressed the plunger. It went down about halfway and then refused to go any further, even when he thumped it. The coffee was barely colored.

  He kept up the pretence for another few seconds and then asked, stiffly, “What did I do wrong?”

  I went around behind him and kissed his neck. “Virtually nothing,” I told him. I gently took the press off him and remade the coffee, this time grinding the beans.

  ***

  Gwen was the last to wake up, and sat down with us for breakfast wearing eggshell-blue panties and a pink cut-off t-shirt that finished a hands-width below her breasts. “Good morning,” she told both the bodyguards, and then did an extended stretch and yawn right in front of them. I saw the guards’ chests rise as they drew in their breath.

  I glowered disapprovingly at her as she sat down. “Sleep well?”

  Gwen shrugged. “I never sleep well alone.” She turned to glance at the bodyguards, all but winking at them.

  Jagor’s phone rang. He listened for a second and then passed it to me. The guard downstairs wanted to know if we were expecting three visitors, and if he should let them up.

  ***

  I’d met Louise in college, but she’d been with Toby even then. We’d stayed in touch while separated by a state or two, and this week they were visiting New York complete with Matilda, their six month-old. I’d completely forgotten that I’d promised them breakfast that morning.

  There was a lot of explaining, some hugging and one moment when I had to talk down the bodyguards (it really was just milk in the bottle, I insisted; not liquid explosive). Louise and Toby had to go through the curtseying and bowing, “Your Highness” stage before we could talk them into relaxing. Gwen rushed off to change into something more appropriate (f
launting herself in front of my fiancée and the guards was perfectly fine, apparently, but friends were different. I forgave her. She must have been broken up inside about Louis). Eventually, we were all talking and drinking coffee and it was almost – almost – like a normal brunch.

  Toby was holding Matilda and listening to Jagor, fascinated. Gwen, Louise and I stood a little way away, watching them and quietly gossiping.

  “He’s gorgeous,” whispered Louise at one point, and I admit I preened.

  “He’s going to own her,” countered Gwen archly. She hadn’t been planning to stay the night, so she’d borrowed one of my dresses. It was made for my modest chest, and she was practically overflowing.

  I blushed. “It’s not how it sounds.”

  “Yes,” nodded Louise, who isn’t big on conflict. “It’s probably just a term. Like, he supports you financially and looks after you. It’s just language.”

  I thought of the collars, and of kneeling at his feet at the sex club. “Sort of.”

  “It’s still owning you, Luce,” said Gwen. “Why would you let him own you? I know he’s rich, and handsome, and a prince, but...you know.” She shrugged petulantly. “He’s not all that.”

  Just at that moment, Toby passed Matilda over to Jagor. He held her effortlessly over his head, delighted, while she gurgled and played with his nose. We looked at him beaming up at her: the perfect father. Three female hearts melted.

  “Yeah, okay,” said Gwen. “He could grow on me.”

  ***

  When they left, Gwen volunteered to tidy up. I was happy to agree, and collapsed on the couch with Jagor. He tried not to look surprised at the way the ancient springs creaked whenever we moved.

  I watched one of the bodyguards watching Gwen. She’d persuaded him to hold a chair for her while she balanced on it to reach a high cupboard. He was doing his best not to look up her dress as she teetered above him in a dress that was a good size too small on both her bust and ass – Gwen has curves I can only dream of. This wasn’t going to end well.