Chapter 25

Stasi

Six months later

Sigurd and I have agreed to keep the pregnancy a secret for as long as possible.

As he should, the prince insists I see a doctor to ensure everything is normal.

I remind him that the cat will be out of the bag sooner or later with all these doctor visits. Because, of course, there's no way he'll let me go anywhere alone. Not because he doesn't trust me but because he just doesn't want to leave my side. It's so freaking endearing, so I can't fault him for that.

We've compromised by booking a doctor after hours and under a different name. I'm not sure how he made that happen, but he did.

As expected, everything is fine with the baby. I hear about new mothers who are nervous at every stage of pregnancy, but I'm strangely calm. I'm nauseous in the first trimester, but not overly so. In the second trimester, I only want cured meat, salty junk food, and milkshakes. Sigurd is a good man who indulges these cravings most days, so I compromise by letting him cook me something wholesome at least three times a week. Eating food cooked over the fire agrees with me and with the baby.

With some finagling of the property management company, I've extended the lease on the cabin indefinitely. And I continued to pay Suzanna rent until she could find another housemate. Quitting my waitressing job did not break my heart. For all these reasons, I've had to accept help from Sigurd. Not even a massive gratuity from a royal icon can stretch that far.

I've grown to love living here. It's quiet and peaceful, and the fresh air makes my skin and hair glow. That could also be the pregnancy hormones.

The winter is mild and passes like a dream. We celebrate Christmas with handmade gifts and hot cocoa by the fire. I make him a gnome home from tree bark, rocks, sticks, and glue. Sigurd presents me with a handmade blade that he forged on his own, with a hand-carved hilt and leather scabbard. I have no idea how he kept that a secret from me, but the man has his ways.

Perhaps all the work of crafting a knife for me was therapeutic, kept him busy, and helped him forget that people are looking for him.

When I spotted the news on my phone that the king declared Etienne unfit to rule as king, I knew Sigurd wouldn't take it well.

"Should we, perhaps, talk to the king?" I suggest at one point.

"If the king is so unreasonable that he will declare Etienne unfit without giving him a chance, then there's no talking to him. He can sit and stew in his own juice," Sigurd responds.

I cannot argue about keeping our little love nest a secret. The prince is always making sure I'm comfortable, asking if I've had enough to eat, and automatically rubbing my feet the second I sit on the sofa, whether my feet feel tired or not.

He spoiled me before I was pregnant. Now he's stepped it up about a hundred more notches. He keeps himself busy chopping wood, and he's looking even more robust, with several months' growth on his beard.

The prince wants to relocate; he's worried the palace will figure out our secret and his location the longer I stay here.

On top of that, keeping his sister in the dark about his location is getting to him. He is a good brother, and I can see it bothers him.

One mild sunny day on the lake in May, Sigurd rows us out to a small sandbar where we had a picnic lunch, and I decided to sun myself wearing one of the skimpier hot pink swimsuits, despite him pointing out that it's really still too cold for that.

We've spread blankets and pillows over the bottom of the boat for my comfort, and I'm sitting here cross-legged, my back supported by the bench seat.

I appreciate the view from here, facing a shirtless Sigurd who pumps the oars like a true Viking. This is working for me. And don't even mention the pregnancy hormones.

The way that he's staring at me tells me we may not make it back to the cabin before he tackles me. The question is, will this boat capsize? Maybe it's dangerous, but I want to find out.

His phone rings, turning Sigurd's intense gaze to annoyance.

"You going to answer that?"

"No," he grunts.

The phone eventually goes silent, then starts up again.

He curses, then pulls his phone from his pocket and silences it. Then he shoves it back into his pocket. "There, now she won't bother us anymore."

She?

"Who won't bother us anymore?"

"Flora."

"Oh," I say.

He smirks. "You seem relieved. Were you about to be jealous?"

"No," I say defensively, playfully nudging his knee with my toe as he picks up speed on the oars.

"You sure?"

"Can we change the subject?" I ask.

"Yes."

That's the other thing I love about him.

Knowing exactly what I'm doing, I stretch my arms wide over my head and yawn. "This suit is way too tight," I tell him. "I knew it would be after all these months, but I didn't expect it to be this bad."

"Looks perfect," he says, his eyes raking over my rounded middle.

"My boobs are too big for this top, and the strings on the bottoms are cutting into my hips. It's uncomfortable." I pout and move to undo the tie at the back of my neck.

"Stasi."

"Yes?" I say innocently, batting my lashes.

"Someone might see you," he says.

We haven't seen another soul for weeks, except for the grocery delivery boy, who's now taken to dropping the bags on the front door and taking his tip online. Occasionally, we run into Josephine, the market manager, but she's been working less and less these days.

My pout makes Sigurd growl and drop the oars inside the boat with a loud clatter.

I shudder with anticipation at what's about to happen.

But I have a surprise for him.

With a wicked look, I come up on my knees and rotate around, showing him my rump.

"What are you doing, Stasi?" Sigurd asks, rearing back.

To answer that, I wiggle my ass in the air, my back arched, my hands braced on the wooden bench in front of me.

"Are you sure?"

"You're not going to break me, Your Highness. And before you even start to fuss, my knees are perfectly cushioned."

I'm about to tell him my pregnancy hormones are making me rain day and night, ruining my knickers twice a day. But I don't get that chance as Sigurd's brawny, fuzzy chest is on me, splayed over my back, his arm hooked around my middle. His hard length grinds between our bodies.

His breath is hot in my ear as he rumbles, "You're so fucking good to me, Stasi."

Just him saying my name makes me crazy with need.

"Do what you want with me, baby. Don't worry if someone sees me."

"No one is going to see a fucking thing. You're keeping that suit on. Not that it covers much." He's overheated, all gritted teeth and tense muscles, and I love it.

I look back when I hear the jingle of his belt and watch him unzip. My tongue darts out to wet my lips as he lifts his heavy cock out of his knickers, red and throbbing and ready.

I can't hold back my moan at the sight of it. "I want it, baby. I want that monster in my hole."

"You're gonna fucking get it, baby girl," he says.

He eases the gusset of my swim pants to the side and slips his giant cock between my warm, ready lips. "There you are, baby. There's my wife."

I squirm against him as he wets himself in my honey.

We don't have a manual for this. I simply let him guide me. He knocks my legs apart, reaches around to rub my clit, running circles around it to make me wet.

I squeal with delight when he sinks one greedy wet finger into my ass. "Oh gods, Sigurd. Yes…"

"Good girl. Open up for me."

My knees are already going weak, which isn't a good sign. But his kiss sustains me. He paints kisses down my spine, over the small of my back, and all over each cheek. His lips travel slowly down into the valley until I feel the wet snake of his tongue in that place where it's never been before. My body jerks as he lights up a thousand different nerve endings.

"You good, Stasi?"

"Good," I rasp. "I'm ready."

"You're ready when I say you're ready," he reminds me.

I turn and gaze at him over my shoulder. His eyes are feral, with his pupils blown out so that I can barely make out the silver of his irises.

"Look at you," I say, using the phrase he likes to use on me. "Look at my wild prince."

The growl in that sensitive spot sparks a sensation I'm not prepared for, and I nearly come apart much too soon.

How did this man turn me into such a different animal? How did I become such an orgasm trigger and a cum-hungry slut?

He did it by treating me right with no ulterior motives. He just…wants to meet my every need. And as a result, he makes me so happy that I have a hair trigger orgasm response now.

The slippery feel of his tongue is so shocking and so good I almost lose control too soon. "That's it. You love to eat ass, don't you?"

He growls again. He wants to say something, but his mouth is too busy. Finally, he's ready. Or he thinks I'm ready.

Sigurd pulls away and adjusts himself, fitting the tip of his cock inside the spot where his mouth just was.

"You taste a-fucking-mazing, Stasi."

I push back against the tip, but his hand stills my hips. "Hold on, woman. You're gonna take too much. Lemme go slow." His words are slurred like he's drunk.

He sinks in deeper, slowly, inch by inch. Every notch and ridge feels a thousand times more intense as he stretches me. Stretching my cunt was one thing, but this feels utterly strange and wrong but yet perfect and right and so good.

He pulls out and sinks back gently a few more times. "Shit, my wife is so fucking tight for me," he says.

"Want more. Want more, my king," I whine.

"I'm going slow, baby. If I don't go slow, I'll nut too fast. I wish you could see this."

I wink at him over my shoulder. "Take out your phone and snap a photo then."