Chapter 21

Stasi

This man has forgotten that my hands work and that I can feed myself with my fingers and utensils.

"Open up," he orders.

"Dirty," I reply with a wink, but ultimately obey because I'll never say no to Nutella on a cracker topped with a strawberry.

Apart from two glasses of red wine, we have assembled a cheese board for a nine-year-old, with sugary spreads, warmed chocolate sauce intended to pour over ice cream, and an array of salty crackers and sweet biscuits.

I take a bite, and notice the prince's nostrils flare as he watches.

"You're pretty good at snacks. I approve," I tell him.

"You're pretty good at eating them," he says, his eyes drifting down to my neck and the skin of my breastbone that's visible in my tank top.

He picks up a strawberry and, holding it by the stem, dips it straight into the jar of Nutella. When he pulls it out, the tiny seeded tip is smothered with a mountain of the stuff. I smile and take it in my mouth, and a hunk of the nutty chocolate goodness lands on my chest.

Sigurd growls, "Damn. That looks good."

My nipples harden as his eyes rake over my chest and throat.

"Will you help me clean it off?"

"You're supposed to be filling your belly, not tempting me with your feminine wiles," he murmurs, his top lip curling in a half smile.

"You're the one who smothered the strawberry straight from the jar."

Sigurd takes another cracker, covers it with Nutella, and tops it with another strawberry, feeding it to me. The sweet cracker combined with the fruit and the cocoa is so delicious I might eat the entire spread.

"I can't help it. My brother says I eat like I was raised by wolves."

"Which brother?" I say, trying not to talk with my mouth full.

He thinks for a moment, looking up at the ceiling as if searching for an answer. "Both," he says with a shrug.

The prince expects me to laugh at this, but I don't find it funny. I reach for a Jaffa cake and break it in half. "I don't think you were raised by wolves. I think you're the kindest person I've ever met." He lifts an eyebrow as I feed one half into his mouth. "Even if you wanted me gone as soon as you met me," I tease.

Sigurd closes in as he chews, planting a hand on the butcher block countertop. An average person would be looking for an escape, but I like being close to all this. The shoulders, the beard, the brawny chest. The scent of him. He overwhelms a room and makes me feel like his delicate flower.

"For the record, I wanted you gone before I met you. When I saw you rowing toward me facing the bow, I knew I wanted you to stay."

"You liked that I was supposedly steering the wrong way?"

He picks up a blueberry and pops it into my mouth. I try to latch onto his finger and suck it, but he gives me a look of gentle reproof.

"Yes. It was wrong but adorable."

"You did a terrible job communicating that you found me adorable."

He lifts one shoulder. "I'm not great with people. With new people." He turns and scoops out some warm chocolate sauce with a spoon.

"But…you liked me?" He slips the spoon into my mouth when I open it, and the chocolate is rich and decadent. The more Sigurd feeds me, the more I wish he was eating it off me with his tongue and those gorgeous lips.

"Honestly," he says, looking down shyly, "I liked the look of you when I peeped your I.D."

"You went through my wallet?" I say, feeding him a dab of hot fudge with my finger. I'm not particularly upset about this fact. I would, too, if I thought someone was squatting on my property.

"Yeah. I had a feeling about you right away. I wasted time before acting on my feelings."

He takes my fingertip into his mouth and sucks off the sauce, the swirl of his tongue making me shiver.

"You call the last two days…slow to act?"

Sigurd's brows knit together while I pull my finger out of his mouth, letting him know with my eyes I want him to kiss me.

"I love you, Stasi."

I suck in a breath.

"That's what I should have said when I said I loved watching you come."

My feet are glued to the spot, which is fortunate because my knees may melt, and I might pass out.

This is going super fast, and I'm not ready.

"You…love me?"

He gives me a stern look. "I live by instincts. And with you, I just know."

I shake my head and watch his throat bob.

"I have no frame of reference for this," I say. "No one has ever said that to me."

His big mitt reaches up for my face, and I itch for it to cup the back of my head and kiss me because I don't have words. But instead, he gently tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.

"I've never been in love before either," he says.

He's not getting it.

"Listen to what I'm saying. No one has ever said they love me, period. Not a boyfriend, not a friend, not a foster parent. No one in the group home, certainly. Absolutely no one but you."

He watches me closely for several beats.

"You deserve so much better, my girl."

Can we go back to eating snacks off each other because that was fun. That was easy. It feels…like my building blocks are falling, and I have to put them back up.

But maybe, just maybe, I don't want to put them back up.

Maybe some part of me does want to stand here with chocolate on my boobs and my heart a quivering mess. Maybe I want to let this man love me. Love all of me—the me with no makeup and a sunburn.

And so I jump in. "I do?"

The prince nods ever so slightly. "You deserve attention. Fun. And happiness. And wild orgasms. And all the Nutella and Oreos you can eat. You deserve someone to take care of you so ridiculously well that they carry you from room to room, and fuss over you when you're sick, and rub your feet when you're tired, and feed you by hand when you're too old and weak to do it yourself. You. Deserve. Love." He says it all so fast, like a dam has burst.

"Oh, gods," I squeak. I'm not going to cry, I think. I will myself not to, but the more I do, the more the tears fall down my cheeks. And now my throat is so clogged I can't even squeak, so my witty follow-up of "Gods dammit," comes out as a whisper.

His serious expression softens, and I melt when his lips meet mine.

"Don't you think so? Don't you think you deserve all those things, my Stasi?" The pads of his rough thumbs stroke my cheekbones as he cups my face, his gray gaze locked on mine. Sure and steady.

I let go of a sob—and when I say "sob," I don't mean a delicate sob of a pretty girl. My lungs erupt, and I make the weirdest heaving-wheezing-explosive noise ever. Emma Thompson in a Jane Austen movie could never.

All I can do is nod my head.

"Don't you deserve to be a queen?"

This dries up my clogged throat quickly. "Wait. You don't want to be king."

He shakes his head. "I do not."

"Not a literal ruling queen, then," I say, relieved.

"I mean my queen."

"What if Etienne fails, and they come looking for you? What about that? What if they need you to be king?" I ask.

He considers this, then says, "If they find us, they find us. There are ways around being king."

"Like what?"

"You're not gonna like it."

He hesitates and finally spills it. "When I say this, please remember that it's the law of the land speaking, not me."

"Okay," I say warily, yet fully recognizing that I know about some of the more grotesque laws regarding Gravenland royalty. It's a subject that comes up often amongst the royal watchers who fight with each other like children on social media.

He takes a deep breath and says, "A prince or princess cannot become king or queen if they have a baby born out of wedlock."

This is news to me, and I'm curious to know where he's going with this. "And?"

"And I can keep us hidden for at least nine months. Guaranteed."

Oh. I see where he's going with this.

"Sigurd," I say, laughing. Oh, but his face is serious.

"I'm just coming to terms with the fact that you love me. I haven't even said it back yet. I'm not ready to have a baby with you."

"I know."

The truth is, my primal instinct can totally get down with being pregnant with Sigurd's baby. I'm 29 years old, and it's not like true love and babies haven't occurred to me. Just not, like, today.

"It won't come to that, will it?" I ask.

He shakes his head ever so slightly. "My sister thinks Etienne might rise to the occasion and surprise everyone. She's usually right about people."

I bite my lip.

"I shouldn't have brought it up. They'll never find us here."

"How do you know?" I ask.

"You'll have to trust me."

"I have one question," I say.

He kisses the tip of my nose. "What's that?"

"Are you saying you don't love watching me come?"

The prince's face tightens with arousal. "What do you think?"

I smile mischievously. "I'm not sure. Maybe you should prove it."

The low growl deep in his chest makes me switch with lightning speed from swooning to full-on lady boner.

"Arms up."

Shaking, I do as he says. When he has that look, I'll always do as he says. He chucks my top across the room and towers over me. The force of his mouth at my throat has me leaning backward over the countertop as he sucks the chocolate sauce off my collarbone. His mouth is warm and perfect.

I look down as his mouth travels lower, over my breastbone. The sight of my breasts overflowing in his strong hands, his greedy pink tongue darting out to clean the Nutella off me, is too much. Too, too much.

"Sigurd," I whisper. "Pinch my nipples."

He lets go of one breast and reaches for the bowl of chocolate sauce, fisting it in his big hand. As I gasp, he lets out a delicate, warm dribble over my chest, coating the tips of my nipples.

He groans something like "too low," then before I can process what he means, he lifts me up and turns me so I'm sitting on the kitchen table. He crashes his claiming mouth against mine so hard that I angle backward until I'm flat against the wood. This big man is going to fuck me on a table. Yes, please.

His wicked mouth covers one chocolate-covered nipple and pulls. Everything goes hazy. Everything is warm and wet and wonderful.

Sigurd switches from one nipple to the other and repeats his worship. The scrape of his teeth over that nipple sends me reeling with pleasure. His opposite hand pinches and rolls my other nipple, and I feel like I may levitate.

"So good…Your Highness."

"Be a good girl, and take off your shorts."

I find my inner brat between gasping breaths and say, "You do it."

Not a problem for this man, who rids me of my shorts and knickers at the same time, and they join my top in a pile on the floor.

"What-what are you doing to me?" I say on a gasp.

He doesn't answer with words, but I figure it out pretty damn quick. He picks up the glass of wine, and with the other hand, he hoists my leg over one shoulder. The red wine fills my navel, rushes down over my hips, my pussy, my thighs, all over the table—everywhere.

I've never had someone do this to me, but with Sigurd, it feels natural to let him do what he wants. He wants to drink wine out of my pussy? Have at it.