The Queen's Baby Scandal

She began to push the shoes off she was wearing, and he moved over her, gripping her wrists and drawing them up over her head. “Leave them,” he said, pressing a kiss to her mouth before skimming his hand over her curves, his thumb moving over her nipple, an arrow of pleasure hitting her down low, making her feel aching and hollow. And then he kissed her neck, her collarbone, down to the plump curve of her breast, his tongue tracing a line around the tightened bud there.

She squirmed, arching against him, but he held her wrists fast with one hand while he continued his exploration with his mouth, and his other hand, which had moved to her hip, and was now drifting between her thighs.

Her hips bowed up off the bed when he touched her there. His fingers delving expertly into her silken folds, finding her embarrassingly wet for him.

But then, there was no point to embarrassment. Not now. Not with him.

This was her one night of freedom.

Her one night to claim a lifetime of greater freedom.

And she would not do it with a whimper. But with a roar.

She moved her hips sinuously, in time with his strokes, with the soft suction of his mouth on her breast.

He moved his thumb over the most sensitive place between her legs, stroking back and forth, and she cried out, caught off guard by the intensity of the sensations he created there. When her release broke over her, it was a shock, shattering her like a fragile glass pane, the sharp, jagged edges of her pleasure making her feel weak and vulnerable.

She clung to his shoulders, kissing his mouth, moving her hands over his finely muscled back as she did. She shifted beneath him, feeling the hard, heavy weight of his erection against her thigh. He began to move away.

“It’s okay,” she said in a rush, while she still had her wits about her.

And she knew what he would interpret it to mean.

She also knew, from much of her reading, that he was a very careful man when it came to these matters.

But she was counting on him being lost in the moment. She was counting on him being mortal.

This was her killing blow, so to speak, and she had to deliver it and not falter.

“Please,” she whispered against his mouth and she rolled her hips upward, so that his erection was settled against her wet heat, and she arched back and forth, the pleasure making her see stars.

She could see, mirrored in his own eyes, no small amount of that same pleasure. Of that desire. That need. He was no stronger than she, and she had been counting on that.

He growled, wrapping his hand around his arousal and positioning himself firmly against her before he slammed inside.

His savage kiss swallowed her cry of pain, and she knew that he misinterpreted it as pleasure as he lost control and pulled out slowly before thrusting back home again.

Astrid closed her eyes tight, willing herself to make it through this without crying, without embarrassing herself.

She simply hadn’t anticipated it would hurt quite so badly.

He was lost to it, and she needed him to be. She only wished that she could join him.

She held his shoulders, burying her face in his neck.

And then he seemed to grasp some kind of hold on himself, his movement slowing, his pelvis rocking forward, hitting her just so, and creating a spark inside her she had been convinced would be lost in this encounter.

But it wasn’t. Oh, it wasn’t.

Suddenly she felt it. Deep and pleasurable and building inside her. Overcoming the pain. Overcoming everything else. It was wonderful. Beautiful and real.

He kissed her as he held her hips and drove home, hard and relentless, and welcome now. It was like she couldn’t get enough. As if he couldn’t go deep enough, hard enough.

There was something mystical in this joining that she couldn’t figure out, but it had something to do with that instant spark that had happened when they laid eyes on each other.

Maybe even with the spark she felt when she had first seen his picture.

And when her release broke over her, it was different from before. Her body gripped his, drawing him deeper, pulsing around him as light exploded behind her eyes. And she didn’t feel shattered. She felt renewed. Reinforced as he broke apart, as he trembled in her arms, this large, muscular, experienced man, reduced to shaking as he spent himself inside her.

They lay there, not for long. Only a few moments. While Astrid tried to catch her breath.

And then she heard the sound of a clock strike two chimes.

“What time is it?”

“Two?” he asked, his words muffled, sleepy.

“I have to go,” she said. She scrambled out of bed in a panic, hunting around for clothing, getting dressed as quickly as possible while Mauro looked on.

“You’re not going to just leave.”

“I have to,” she said, desperation clawing at her.

“Give me your name.”

“Alice,” she said.

“Your full name. I wish to find you again.”

“Alice Steele,” she said, the lie tripping off her tongue.

“That’s wrong,” he said.

“No,” she said, panic like a wild thing inside her. “It’s on the invitation.”

“That isn’t your name,” he said, his dark eyes seeing straight into her.

She straightened and looked at him for one last, lingering moment, before she fled. She made her way down the halls, thankful that he was naked, and therefore wouldn’t be able to move as quickly as she.

By the time she made it out to the main part of the club, Mauro was right behind her. She kept on running, one of her shoes flying off as she did, as she made an uneven escape down the stairs and tumbled straight into the limo that Latika was driving.

“Go,” she said.

“Were you successful?”

She looked back at the doorway and saw him standing there, holding her shoe in his hand.

“Just go,” she said, panic and emotion rising up in her throat.