Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
B EAU HAD NOT meant to call him an idiot. She had not meant to fight with him. That was not the way a dutiful princess acted.
But if this was the punishment, perhaps she'd fight with him all the time. If the way he kissed her was unsuitable but made her feel alive—for perhaps the first time ever —then maybe she wanted all that unsuitable punishment.
She looked at him, hands fisted in his shirt so he did not walk away, and saw something in his eyes she didn't understand, but wanted to. Something in his expression she wanted to soothe. But not with sweet words or gentle touches. She wanted this wild thing he offered.
Because she'd never had wild. She'd never been able to follow an impulse. She had lived in shadows and corners and locked rooms.
Now she had...freedom, and she wanted the recklessness that came with it.
She pulled him closer, so that he had to bend down, then she put her mouth to his ear. "Show me."
He made a sound, something she could only describe as a growl. An electric thrill went through her bloodstream at it. At him reaching out once more. With one hard yank, he pulled her pants over her hips, let them fall to the ground. Then he reached out and simply ripped the underwear from her body.
Her breath came out in a gasp. A wild thrill swept through her. This, this was that wildness she'd seen in him. A hint of it. Leashed as he said. And maybe she should be afraid of that being un leashed. Certainly she should be.
Instead, she was intrigued.
Instead, she wanted to see where it all led.
Then he cupped her. His big, rough hand on the most sensitive, vulnerable part of her. With no warning, no preamble, his finger slid deep inside.
She wasn't sure of the sound she made, some kind of keening whimper, while he hissed out a breath that seemed to explode inside of her, like a match to friction. He stroked her, slow but seeming to unerringly find just the spot to turn everything into flame.
"Little Beaugonia, so ripe and sweet." He was touching her, doing miraculous things that made pleasure wave through her, build into something tense and needy. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into. But you want it, don't you?"
She couldn't form words. Her blood seemed to run hot in her veins, her breasts heavy and sensitive. She wanted to fidget, but he didn't let her. She wanted whatever her body was building itself up to, but he didn't let her.
He pulled away. Not the way he had before though. No, instead of that detached, cold look in his eyes, they were alight with fire. His mouth a sensuous curve, full of dark amusement.
He pulled the sweater off of her, then his hands were on her waist and he lifted her, set her on the counter island.
The wild pirate she'd always known was lurking under all those chains. And now he was hers. He would be hers .
He jerked her bra down, not off. So her breasts were bared, but not free. He brushed a thumb across her nipple, eliciting another gasp from her, the pleasure shocking because how could there be more? His expression went wicked, and he brushed his thumb, back and forth. Until she was squirming. Until she felt...mindless, desperate. She wanted his hands back on her. She wanted him inside of her because it felt like that would only ever be the cure to all this need.
"Lyon," she said breathlessly. Needing...needing...
"Yes, I like the way you say my name. Like you're begging. I'd like to hear you beg, Beaugonia. Beg and beg and beg."
Beg . She did not beg. She did not ...and yet. All those old determinations she'd always believed of herself seemed so weak in the face of how close she was to some unknown pleasure, some great, big feeling just out of reach. The kind of thing she couldn't have brought herself.
It could only come from him.
"Lyon, please."
His laugh was dark, cutting. Perfect , because it rumbled through her like its own touch. Then his big hands slid up her thighs, then pulled her legs apart. So she was completely bared to him. On the kitchen counter. He pulled her to the edge, his expression dark and feral.
"My banquet. My feast. Do you taste as sweet as you look?" They were shocking words. Everything about this was shocking , and yet... She liked it. The wild rush of it. How she knew she should feel some kind of shame, but she only wanted more.
Then she had it, when he dipped his head between her legs. His big hands holding her thighs wide. His dark head at the most sensitive part of her. The chaotic thrall of sensation whirling through her as he tasted her, devoured her like a feast. She could scarcely catch her breath.
And then it all simply...imploded in on itself. She cried out, pulsing through a climax so all-encompassing it seemed like the world went dark, like every inch of her exploded in pleasure and joy and then simply collapsed.
But he caught her. Still sitting on the counter, she leaned her forehead to his shoulder, struggling to breathe. But not like a panic attack. This didn't grip her like fear.
She was smiling. She wanted to laugh .
She wanted more.
"Have you had enough, Beau?" he murmured.
"No. No. Lyon, please... We have to..." She looked up, met his gaze. Every inch of him seemed tense, like he was holding back. She didn't want that.
She wanted all of him. She reached out, undid the buttons of his shirt, pushed the fabric off his shoulders, their eyes holding contact the entire time. She let her hands move over him, study him, learn him. And the whole time, she watched his eyes. His wild pirate eyes grew more fierce, his jaw more tense, the fingers on her waist dug deeper.
She trailed her fingers down his chest, the hard cut of his muscles, the trail of dark hair. Then her fingers found the button of his pants. The zipper. She pushed the fabric of his pants and boxers down as far as she could sitting there on the counter.
She didn't allow herself nerves. Like cooking, like loading a dishwasher, she knew how to do this in theory . She'd read about it plenty. She only needed to put it into practice. So she reached out and touched him. Closed her hand over the hard, hot length of him.
She groaned in time with him. She didn't know why it should be a thrill to her, but something about holding him in her hand felt like pleasure spearing through her. And that was what she wanted.
Everything.
"Make me yours, Lyon."
She watched whatever thread of control he'd held on to simply snap.
"Here," he demanded, as if she'd argue.
She wouldn't argue with anything if he made her feel that wild, dizzying climax again. If he was inside of her. If finally, finally this all made sense. Who cared where as long as it happened.
"It is likely to hurt," he muttered.
She wanted to throw her head back and laugh. She knew that was true, but it felt like nothing could ever hurt her again. Not with all this going on inside of her. A weakness and a strength. A joy and something so beautiful it almost made her want to cry. Likely to hurt? Did it matter?
"Only at first," she assured him.
His gaze held hers, as they breathed in tangled tandem. Even as he entered her, slow, too much inch by breathtaking inch. There was something, not pain exactly, but an expanding. Pressure, too much, too much, and yet not enough. Nothing was enough with him.
She wasn't sure she breathed, but she watched him and he watched her. Until they were one. Until whatever discomfort felt secondary to everything else thrashing against her like a storm.
And then he moved, opening up a new world. A new universe that was only the two of them together, and that was a wonderful, beautiful, exhilarating thing. Where nothing else mattered, except the way they fit together, moved together, made each other feel.
Both out of body and so deeply within their bodies it was as if there was nothing else. Not palaces or countries or mountains surrounding them. Just the delicious friction two bodies could create.
Until she was crumbling apart by some great seismic event that threatened to rearrange everything she'd built each forward step on. Because what could possibly come after this?
He kissed down her neck, her chest, then his mouth fused to her breast, until that amazing, stomach-flipping climb started all over again. Up, up, up as his grip on her hips tightened. As that tension coiled again, tightened, burst.
This time, with him. He roared out a release, thrust deep inside.
They leaned into each other, ragged breaths, sweaty bodies. Throbbing with all the pleasure that still hummed between them. Beau sighed into his neck, mouth curved into a smile.
She had bemoaned her fate for much of her life, but it no longer felt quite so stifling if it had brought her to this moment.
There was a ringing in his head, an echoing roar in his ears. She was pliant and warm in his arms. Precious and wonderful.
And he had...behaved a clumsy fool. He had handled this all consumed with such selfish desires and needs, with no thought to his responsibility. He didn't even have the words for an apology.
He pulled his pants into place. Looked at her. Rosy and flushed, naked on the kitchen counter. Beautiful and wonderful and this was everything he had not wanted. Everything he should have resisted.
But that was not her fault, though it was tempting to think that considering he'd never been driven to be so reckless before. Still, the fault lay with him. Only weak men blamed others for their own mistakes.
Gingerly, he picked her up off the counter and then carried her through the chalet into his bedroom. He laid her on the bed. He needed to leave her. He needed to...to...
He sank onto the edge of the bed. Sat there, head in his hands. What had he done? What had become of him? How did he fix this mistake?
He heard her move, and then she was behind him, palms on his shoulders. "What's wrong?"
"That was not how it should have gone, Beaugonia."
"Why not?"
How could she even ask that as if she had no idea? He looked at her over his shoulder. "Rough and frenzied in the kitchen? This is not appropriate. This is not what a man in control of himself does." He looked back down at his hands. "It was wrong to treat you like that. Wrong to lose..." He didn't even know what other words there were.
All he knew was he looked at his own hands and saw every man in the royal line who had squandered the responsibility of the crown. For power. For a woman. For fun. All to follow their selfish desires to ruination.
He hadn't ruined anything yet, but this felt like the first step down a slippery slope.
Her palm trailed down his spine. "Lyon. I liked the way you treated me. I liked it, and you did too. If we both enjoyed ourselves, why should you feel badly about it?"
He supposed she had enjoyed it. She wasn't experienced enough to pretend, and even if she was, there was no denying she'd been a willing and animated participant. And still he felt like he'd defiled everything he was supposed to keep respectable and stable.
"I must be in control at all times. I am not like my cousins. My uncles." He could not allow himself to be. Perhaps most of them had made their disgraces with women who were not their wives, over money that was not theirs, but anything that could be leaked to the public could be used against him. His grandmother's brother's wild exploits with his wife might not make waves today, but it had at the time.
And no doubt, the man had known better, known it would. But he had cared more about his own wants than what he owed. Which is what Lyon had just done.
It had to end right here. "I will not be like them." Maybe if she understood that, they could move beyond this...misstep.
But she pressed her mouth to his back. In comfort. Like she understood. Like everything she was and offered could be enough.
"This isn't about countries," she said gently. "Citizens and responsibilities. It's simply what we do in the dark. We're married. And... And it's a requirement. How else are we going to have an heir? I mean, I can lay on my back and think of England if it really makes you feel better, but I like what we did tonight better. Well, I assume I do anyway."
He wanted to laugh , and he couldn't for the life of him determine why. This wasn't the least bit funny. "Beau." She didn't understand. He could not let feelings and his own wants outweigh responsibility.
Too many before him had.
There had to be a time and place for things. Not kitchens and whenever the need struck. There needed to be lines uncrossed, boxes things were kept firmly in. Anything that even whispered at personal wants had to be done with control and privacy.
But when he turned to face her, she was the most beautiful, glorious thing he'd ever encountered. She was his wife , and they did need heirs.
But he would have to find some way to put a wall up around all this...dangerous desire. She would need to get pregnant soon. He'd heard from his mother pregnancy was an uncomfortable, painful experience. Beau wouldn't want him then, wouldn't tempt him then. And then there'd be a child.
It could stand between them and...this.
"Our things should all be unpacked. Perhaps you would like some pajamas," he suggested.
She flopped back onto the mattress and spread her arms wide as she looked up at the ceiling. Perfectly, beautifully naked. So that he found himself stirring again already.
"I think I should like to sleep perfectly naked," she said with a smug smile.
"Beaugonia."
She lifted her head, gave him an arch look. "What?"
It seemed imperative then. That she understand. Above all else. No matter what happened. No matter what he felt or didn't. No matter what he resisted, or how he failed. There was one truth to his entire life he could not let go of.
"My country will always come first. My responsibilities. My control. It is my birthright. The promise I made to my grandmother before she died. Nothing can change that."
She studied him with those eyes that would haunt him until the day he died. Like she simply knew everything, and that was why every color danced there. "I didn't ask you to change, Lyon. I didn't ask you to put me above anything. I didn't ask you for anything."
There was something about the haughty way she said that, the little lick of temper in her voice that allowed him to...relax.
He had failed at keeping his boundaries built with her. This was a mistake, but not fatal. It was here, alone, not at the palace with witnesses. It was early in their marriage, and as she'd said...no countries or responsibilities were expressly harmed.
They had two more days of privacy here. He wanted to return to the palace with every possibility she was pregnant so that he could build back his careful walls of decorum. So...this could be okay. His mistake was not fatal and wouldn't be.
He would get her pregnant. For Divio and his family legacy. He could relax, at least for another day or two.
"That isn't precisely true, Beaugonia. You did ask. In fact, I seem to recall you begging."
Her cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of pink, but then she reached across the bed and grabbed a pillow. Then she threw it at him.
And the laughter that she brought out in him at the worst moments bubbled free. In spite of himself, she made everything feel like...it would be all right. She was a smart woman. She would understand. She would follow suit.
And all would be well.