19. Nessa

"Ilove you…" Those words, signed as if they were just another part of our conversation, not the monumental admission they truly are, keep echoing in my mind. Watching him tonight, effortlessly mingling with guests, he seems even more unreachable. Dressed in his royal attire, he moves with a grace and authority that only highlights the distance between our worlds.

He loves you. The thought repeats itself as our eyes meet briefly, his attention quickly shifting to engage with a dignitary in a general's uniform. Then, I see his mother approaching him—her elegance and the striking resemblance between them are undeniable. What would she think of me? How would we even be introduced in a setting like this? Self-consciously, I smooth down my hair, toned down from its usual vibrancy but still distinctly me, aware of how different I am from the other women here.

Poppy, sensing my discomfort, gives me a nudge as Cole engages Ethan in conversation nearby. I glance at her for the translation.

"He's asking if we're going to keep standing here like wallflowers or actually mingle," she interprets.

A grimace crosses my face. Under normal circumstances, I'd jump at the chance to stir things up a bit, but tonight, I fear it will create more problems for Liam.

"What would you suggest we do?" I shoot back at Cole, unable to resist a jab. "No offense, but I doubt anyone here is as fascinated by your… peen as Eva is."

Eva laughs and leans into Cole, her arms finding a familiar place around his waist.

"That's not true; my wife loves my peen. Don't you, sweetheart?" Cole turns to Eva, his devotion to her evident in his playful face.

His unabashed enthusiasm for including "my wife" in nearly every conversation could easily become a perilous drinking game for anyone attempting to keep pace. It's a mix of crazy about her and endearingly sweet, the kind of love that makes you shake your head and smile at the same time.

Eva's face turns a shade of pink, a silent plea in her eyes. "We agreed—no peen talk tonight."

"She's the one who brought it up," Cole quickly points to me, trying to deflect the blame.

"Super mature," I can't help but snort, although their silly argument does cut through some of the evening's tension, lightening the mood just a bit.

Ethan, looking to change the subject, suggests, "Let's mingle for a bit. I'm starving, and the buffet's calling my name."

Grateful for the diversion, I stick close to Poppy and Eva as we navigate the crowd, eventually joined by Henrick and Astrid. Their company keeps the evening enjoyable, filled with laughter and good food. Yet, despite their best efforts to keep the mood light, I can't shake the feeling that something—or rather, someone—important is missing. The guest of honor, the king of Denmark himself, remains far from me, his presence lingering but never close enough.

The next day feels almost like stepping into a dream as we're led into the grand hall, a room charged with an air of solemnity that feels overwhelming, almost too heavy for one person to bear. Here I am, Vanessa Caldwell, standing among royals and heads of state, a surreal moment that underscores the distance between my world and the one I've stepped into, all because of him.

Once the room is full, the solemn atmosphere of the grand hall is suddenly pierced by the measured steps of the royal guard that cause the wooden bench to vibrate. Their entrance, precise and dignified, heralds the arrival of the main event. All eyes turn toward the grand doorway, anticipating the appearance of the man of the hour.

Then he steps in. Liam, or rather Alexander, commands the room's attention not just by his title but by his presence. Clad in the traditional blue and red of the monarchy, he embodies the very essence of the royal lineage he was born into. Despite the grandeur of his attire, it's the man beneath the crown that draws my focus.

As he walks up the aisle, there's a grace to his steps, but from my vantage point, I can see the subtle tension in his shoulders—a silent testament to the weight he carries. To the world, he presents a facade of unwavering calm, a monarch ready to lead his nation into the future. But to me, he's still Liam, the man I've come to know and understand on a level deeper than anyone else.

His words echo in my mind, You know the real me. And it's true; I do. Better than most. His admission from before, now fully realized, resonates with newfound clarity. I see beyond the crown, beyond Alexander, to the Liam underneath—the genuine, vulnerable, and resilient soul who has faced challenges with quiet strength.

Standing here amid the pomp and circumstance of the royal ceremony, I recognize the significance of my presence. It's not just as a spectator but as someone who has glimpsed the heart behind the title. I'm here not only to witness his ascent to the throne but to offer my support, silent and steadfast. In this moment of his greatest triumph, I understand the depth of our connection and the role I play in his life, not just as Vanessa Caldwell but as someone who truly knows him, ready to be there for him through the challenges and celebrations that lie ahead.

As Alexander settles into his throne, he looks my way, and without thinking, I sign back the answer I've been holding in my heart, I love you too. It's a bold move, right here, right now, but it feels right.

I'm not totally sure he catches it, but there's this moment where it looks like he stands a bit taller, a hint of triumph in his expression. It's like my silent words just added something more to this whole royal scenario for him, something beyond the crown and the ceremony.

Then it happens. They place the crown on his head. Watching this, my emotions are all over the place—proud, a bit overwhelmed, and kind of amazed. Here he is, becoming the king of Denmark right before my eyes, and all I can think about is the quiet, real moments we've shared. Through all this royal spectacle, it's our thing, whatever it is, that feels the most significant.

The ceremony wraps up, and as everyone starts to shuffle out, prepping for the next phase of today's grand celebration, my phone buzzes.

BB: Meet me in the throne room.

My heart races as I make my way there, the anticipation building with each step. The guards at the door nod, recognizing me, and as they open the door to let me in, I'm momentarily caught in a surreal moment. Then, they close it, clicking the lock into place, leaving me in a space that feels both grand and intimate because he's there.

And there he is—Alexander, or Liam to me—seated majestically on his throne, the weight of the crown seemingly effortless atop his head.

The room, filled with the grandeur of history and power, suddenly feels intimate, charged with the electricity between us.

"I never took you for someone who'd send a royal summons," I start, breaking the silence with a teasing tone, my nerves steadied by the sight of him.

He smirks. "Only for the most important matters. Besides, I had to see if you'd come running to your king."

"Running? More like a dignified walk," I reply, stepping closer, the space between us charged with an unspoken desire. "And I am American. You are not my king."

"I've always been your king, wild rose." The darkening of his eyes causes shivers down my spine.

I step even closer to him, stopping before the couple of stairs leading to the throne.

His gaze softens as I approach. "Did you mean it? What you signed during the ceremony?"

My breath hitches, remembering the moment. "You saw that, huh?"

"Always," he affirms, his words a mix of tenderness and certainty. "My eyes were only on you. But what about you, Nessa? Do you… do you love me?"

The vulnerability in his question catches me off guard, stripping away any pretense of banter. "Yes," I whisper, the word heavy with all the emotions I've tried to keep at bay. "I love you, Liam. Not the king, not the crown. You."

"And I love you. Just you, Nessa. Always you." The tenderness in his expression tugs at something deep within me, stirring longing and affection that's been simmering beneath the surface.

Closing the gap between us, I find myself drawn closer until I'm standing right between his legs, the proximity sending a wave of anticipation through me. It's been too long since I've been this close to him, too long since I've felt his touch, breathed in his scent. I've missed everything about him.

"Tell me, Your Majesty," I tease, leaning in, the words barely a whisper but laden with intent. "Would you prefer me on my knees or on yours?"

The question takes him by surprise, his sharp intake of breath a clear indication he hadn't anticipated such forwardness. Yet, there's a spark in his eyes—surprise and desire—that tells me he's every bit as affected by our closeness as I am.

He widens his legs, jerking his hips up in silent invitation. I keep my eyes on his as I reach under my dress and pull down my underwear.

"Would his Highness like a memento?" I tease, dangling my underwear on my finger.

He extends his hand silently and takes the black lace from me, putting it in his pocket.

I settle on his lap, the throne wide enough to accommodate us comfortably.

He rests his hands on my hips as I rock against his hardening cock.

"Fuck, I missed you." He groans before starting to kiss my neck.

"I missed you too. So much." I tilt my head back to give him better access as I grind myself harder against him, uncaring about the mess my wetness is causing on his black pants.

"I need you inside me," I whisper as he trails his teeth along my jawline in a way that makes me completely lose my mind.

He grabs my jaw in the dominant way he sometimes has and makes me look down at him. "Take whatever you need—I'm here to serve."

My heart skips a beat at the intensity of his words, and I let out a little moan as he raises his hips, pressing his hardness against my aching core.

I raise myself just enough to give access to his pants, but despite the complicated setting and knowing how much he wants me back, he doesn't move—just rests his arms against the armrests and watches me struggle.

"A little help would be nice," I tell him with a huff of frustration after taking way too long to just undo his weird-looking belt.

"It would, wouldn't it?" He raises his hand, and instead of helping me, he reaches for the shoulders of my dress and pulls it down, revealing my breasts to his hungry eyes. "And yet I won't help. You need to earn the royal cock."

I let out a surprised laugh. It's not a side of him I'm really familiar with, but I must admit I'm not mad at it. "How royal of you."

"Isn't it?" He trails his fingers over my breast and pinches my nipple, sending a zing of pleasurable pain all the way to my core, causing more wetness to trickle down my legs.

"Enough," I mutter, so frustrated now that I pop one of his buttons, but finally, his thick, hard cock is out. I look up at him as I squeeze, and I'm rewarded by a moan that makes his whole chest vibrate.

I place him at my entrance and slide down slowly, squeezing him with every inch, wanting to torture him as much as he tortured me.

I start moving up and down very slowly, almost painfully so, as I lean down and kiss him. He raises a hand and fists my hair, pulling my head closer to him so he can deepen the kiss and explore my mouth in the sensual way he always does.

And then the craziness of the situation falls on me. I'm having sex with a king on his throne. Well, that's one version of it. I'm, first and foremost, having sex with the man I love.

I break the kiss when I'm fully seated on his cock again. "I love you, King Alexander the Third."

I see his barely hanging control snap, and he grips my hips, taking control of the pace, which I'm happy to give him. He holds me tightly in a way that's going to leave bruises on my skin, and I am not mad about it. I like having his marks on me. He pulls me up and pushes me down again, raising his hips, fucking me hard. I let out a loud mewl, uncaring if we can be heard as he keeps increasing his pace, and all I can feel is him—his huge cock in me, his mouth on my breast, his tongue lapping on my skin like a starved man. I close my eyes, resting one hand on his chest, and reach between our rocking bodies, touching my swollen clit as his thrusts turn more erratic, knowing he is only seconds from coming.

As soon as my fingers brush against my clit, I come, tightening my walls against his length so much I can feel every vein and every ridge. Suddenly, I feel the rumble in his chest, and I know he's coming, calling my name.

Collapsing into the comfort of his embrace, I let the intensity of the moment wash over me, savoring the closeness. His scent envelops me—a mixture of warmth and a hint of something uniquely him, a reminder of all the reasons I've fallen so hard.

As he speaks, the vibration of his voice against my skin prompts me to lift my gaze to meet his. The depth of emotion reflected in his eyes nearly overwhelms me—it's filled with tenderness, vulnerability, and something fiercely determined.

"Stay." He says before brushing his lips against mine, pulling me even closer, if that's possible.

I laugh. "I don't think I could move even if I tried."

He smiles then—it's like he's won some silent victory. "No, I mean stay in Copenhagen with me."

His words hang in the air, heavy with implication and desire. The suggestion, so unexpected, sends my mind reeling. "Oh…" is all I manage, my heart racing at the prospect.

"The universities here are excellent, comparable, if not better, than Silverbrook. I need you, Nessa, not just in moments stolen between duties and quick trips, but here with me, as a constant presence in my life."

His words hit me hard, full of truth and need. Being this essential to him, especially after feeling like an outcast in my own family, who always seemed to hide me away or see me as a problem, it's both scary and thrilling. Starting something new here, in a place that's steeped in history but still has room for us, sounds really appealing.

Thinking about it—really letting myself imagine staying, being a part of his life in a big, everyday kind of way—it's huge.

I'm lost in thought for what feels like ages, and I can tell he notices—the hopeful look in his eyes dims slightly. Gently, he reaches out, his hand brushing my cheek in a comforting gesture.

"You don't have to decide right now," he says, trying to ease the pressure. "I get it. It's a huge thing to consider, and I'm not just expecting you to drop everything and stay. You've got your life back home, things to sort out. But… I hope you'll think about coming back here. To me."

"I need to think about it," I manage to say, feeling a whirlwind of emotions. This is all moving so fast, and it feels a bit wild to even be considering such a life-changing move. Plus, there are a ton of questions bubbling up inside me, questions that seem awkward to ask right now when his softened cock is still inside of me.

He leans in, planting a soft kiss on my lips, a gentle reminder of the connection between us. "Of course, take your time. And, uh, I should probably go get ready for the official dinner tonight. Someone made a bit of a mess," he teases, lightening the mood.

I can't help but laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah, I'd say we both did."

I raise my hips now that my legs are steadier and he puts himself back in his pants before getting a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping up the mess between my legs.

I reach for his wrist. "No, it's okay; I can do it."

"You can," he agrees, "but I consider it my royal duty."

I let him care for me gently, my heart beating so fast it's almost painful. He helps me up, and I sway a little.

"Let me walk you to your bedroom," he says, giving me his arm.

"People will talk," I whisper, knowing very well how we look. The afterglow of a mind-blowing orgasm will not be missed.

He simply shrugs, quiet confidence in his gesture as he guides my hand to rest on his forearm. "Let them," he says. In that moment, his willingness to face whatever whispers or judgments might come just to ensure I'm cared for speaks volumes of his feelings. It's a bold move, one that says more than words ever could about how he values me, us, above the potential for gossip.