Chapter 11

Stasi

His words are like a punch in the gut.

"You can't be my friend?" I ask.

Sigurd's hands are deep in the sudsy water. His eyes flick to my mouth.

"No."

"Why not?"

Still, he won't meet my eyes.

"Because …"

"Do I have something on my face?"

"What?" he asks, finally meeting my eyes. "No."

But those eyes continue traveling, again pausing on my mouth.

His throat bobs.

On instinct, my tongue darts out to moisten my lips.

"Are you saying that we can't be friends because you want to kiss me—"

My words cut off as the prince pivots toward me and closes the distance between us, his warm, soapy hands thrilling the skin of my abdomen.

His face is on mine, and our lips meet in a soft, short kiss.

Sigurd's lips barely brush mine, yet everything tight in me loosens, and everything loose tightens.

My entire body heats by several degrees. The pounding of my heart is audible; I'm sure of it.

In that small moment, everything is still except for the tender bristle of his beard against my chin…his rough fingers holding my sides. The prince's sensuous lips are chaste on mine, yet the kiss amplifies every filthy thought I have knocking around in my skull.

I don't get enough of a sense of how good he kisses, but knowing how the Wild Prince attacks everything else in his life with intention and capability…Well, I can only imagine his carnal talents.

All I know is I want more. I need more. He woke up something thirsty inside me that only a Viking can quench.

Did I mention this kiss is short? Friend, it is disappointingly short.

He pulls back. "If that's not ok, we can pretend that never happened."

I roll up on the balls of my feet, slide my hands up his hard chest, and fist his shirt.

The prince is either going to come back down for another kiss, or he's going to let me rip his shirt. Either way, I'm taking more.

"I don't play pretend. And it's more than okay for you to kiss me, Your Highness."

Barely a hair's breadth away from my lips, he murmurs, "Sigurd."

"Sigurd," I murmur back, capturing those sexy, royal lips between mine.

And oh my gods, it is good.

The prince's kiss is everything warm and soft and wonderful.

Our mouths play against each other in teasing, thrilling sweeps. His tongue licks over the seam of my lips, and I open to his probing tongue, giving a sharp intake of breath at the sudden pleasure of it.

The only sound in the room is the sound of jagged breath and soft moans, lips and exploring tongues, hands smoothing, and rustling material.

Sigurd tastes like fruit and smells like warm butter. His arms cinch me closer, pressing my breasts to his ribs.

"I wish I was taller," I say when he pulls back, feeling the flush in my cheeks send tendrils out to every inch of my skin.

Sigurd gives one of his signature grunts and then bends low, circling his arms around my hips.

I yelp when, with one sweeping motion, the prince lifts me up and sets me down gently on the kitchen counter.

"Better?" I laugh.

His eyes aren't laughing. They are somewhere between glowing with desire and brooding. "Perfect." His voice is low and gritty, like a man barely holding himself back.

The sound of his voice sends shivers down my spine.

I know he doesn't mean I'm perfect. He means we're now perfectly aligned, so he doesn't have to pull a muscle to kiss me. I know this.

But hearing that word used in any context, even adjacent to me, is exciting, thrilling, and scary. He sees me, and he likes me. It makes me feel strangely exposed. Vulnerable.

And yet, I trust him to be careful with me. I trust Sigurd to be a gentleman. What choice do I have here?

I smile as he slants his face over mine, capturing my lips in his once again.

The prince loses not a second before sweeping his tongue into my mouth, licking against my tongue. The kiss is warm and sexy and brain-scrambling.

He kisses like a sailor on leave, and I'll bet he fucks like one, too.

I wonder how long until I find out.

Like the gentleman he is, Sigurd doesn't try to grope me or cop a feel. Though to be honest, I kind of wish he would sneak one hand up the front of my crop top and take what he wants.

I want to give in to this hunger and ride that wave. I want his big, rough hands to claim me. I want that sexy mouth all over me.

Remember, he's shy; no matter what happens, he's a prince. For all you know, his father could be arranging his marriage as we speak.

But he doesn't kiss like a man worried about any arranged marriage in his future. He doesn't kiss like a prince at all.

Not a Disney prince, that's for damn sure.

"I thought you were the socially awkward one," I say, breathless when we pull back to take a moment to breathe.

I notice his lips are swollen, pink, and glistening.

"Only with people I'm not interested in talking to," he says.

"Oh, so you're interested in talking to me?" I ask, tilting my head teasingly.

His answer takes my breath away, earning him a deeper, hungrier kiss. "I'm interested in everything having to do with you."

Am I still breathing? Because I feel as if my soul just left my body.