One Night With The Prince. Fiona McArthur
too lazy to bother enunciating properly. He waved at the form-fitting briefs he wore. At that flat abdomen of his, the crisp dark hair that disappeared beneath the fabric. She jerked her eyes away, and his mouth curved. “I think you know very well I prefer to sleep naked.”
Adriana felt dizzy, and part of her welcomed it. Encouraged it. It would be such a relief to simply faint dead away. To escape whatever morning-after this was. She lifted a hand to her head, only belatedly realizing that her hair had tumbled down from its chignon, and was hanging around her face in a wild mess that rivaled Pato’s.
Somehow, that made it worse. It made her feel like the wanton slut she must have become last night. Was it possible to share a bed with Prince Pato and not be a wanton slut? Her chest felt tight.
He watched her as she pushed the mass of blond waves behind her shoulders, his golden gaze like a flame as it touched her. More images from the previous night flashed through her head then, as if the heat of his gaze triggered her memory, and she frowned at him.
“You got me drunk,” she accused him.
Blaming him felt good. Clean. Far better to concentrate on that and not the images flickering in her head. Some dark-paneled pub, or possibly the kind of rich man’s club a prince might frequent, thick with reds and woods and the shots of strong spirits Pato slid in front of her, one after the next, his golden gaze never leaving her face. His elegant hands brushing hers. That wicked mouth of his much too close.
“You got you drunk,” he corrected, shifting over to his side and propping his head up on one hand as he continued to regard her with that lazy intent that made her belly fold in on itself. “Who was I to stand in your way?”
A dark street, laughter. Her laughter, and the wicked current of his voice beneath it. Her arm around Pato’s waist and his lean, hard arm around her shoulders. Then being held high against his chest as he moved through some kind of lobby...
This was awful, Adriana thought then, her chest aching with the sobs, the screams, she refused to let out. This was beyond awful.
“My God.” She said it again, despite the decided lack of any divine intervention this morning. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the blow. Preparing herself, because she had to know. “Did you—? Did we—?”
There was nothing but silence. Adriana dared to open her eyes again, to find that Pato was staring at her in outrage.
She shuddered. “Does that mean we did?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“First of all,” he said, in that low voice of his that curled around her like a caress, and she couldn’t seem to shake it off, “I am not in the habit of taking advantage of drunk women who pretend to detest me when they are sober, no matter how much they beg.”
His gaze was hard on hers, and Adriana felt caught in the heat, the command, that surely a wastrel like Pato shouldn’t have at his disposal. Eventually, his mouth moved into a small, sexy grin that shouldn’t have tugged at her like that, all fire and need in the core of her, then a shiver everywhere else. She couldn’t seem to think, to move. To breathe. She could only stare back at him, her heart going wild, as if he was holding her captive in the palm of his hand.
“And second,” he said silkily, “if we had, you wouldn’t have to ask. You’d know.”
“Oh,” Adriana said faintly, not sure she was breathing. “Well. If you’re sure...?”
Pato shook his head. “I’m sure.”
She believed him. He was only looking at her now, all that gleaming attention of his focused on her. He wasn’t even touching her, and she felt branded. Scalded. Changed. She had a perfect memory of his hand on her arm, the heat of it, the punch of it, the way everything inside her had wound deliciously tight. She believed him, and yet there was something inside her that almost wished—
Stop, she snapped at herself, off balance and scared and much too close to falling apart.
Adriana realized belatedly that far too much time had passed and she’d done nothing but stare at him, while he watched her and no doubt read every last thought that crossed her mind. He was lethal; she understood that now, in a way she hadn’t before. He was lethal and she was in bed with him and somehow by the grace of God she hadn’t succumbed to his darker nature or, worse, hers...
Adriana frowned. “Did you say I begged?”
Pato smiled.
“For what?” she asked in an appalled whisper. “Exactly?”
He smiled wider.
“This can’t be happening.” She was barely audible, even to her own ears, but she felt each word like a stone slamming through her. “Did I—” But even as she asked, she shut herself off. “No. I don’t want to know.”
“You begged very prettily,” he told her then, that wild gleam in his eyes, which made her feel much too hot, too constricted, as if she might burst wide-open. “If it helps.”
It helped confirm that she hated herself, Adriana thought, that old black wave of self-loathing rising in her and then drenching her, drowning her, in all the ways she’d let herself down. Blood really will tell, she thought bitterly. You’ve been fooling yourself all these years, but in the end, you’re no better than any of them. Righetti whores.
She managed to take a breath, then another one.
And then, through her confusion, one thing became perfectly clear: it was time to accept who she was, once and for all. And that meant it was time to change her life.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” she said stiffly, not looking at him. “I’m sorry that I let myself get so out of control and that you had to deal with me. How incredibly unprofessional.”
She scrambled to crawl out of the bed, away from him. This had to end. What was she was doing here, disgracing herself with a prince, when she could be living without the weight of all of this in some happy foreign land like her brothers? She’d been so desperate to prove herself—and now she’d proved only that she was exactly who everyone thought she was.
Enough, she thought grimly.
And there was what Lenz had said, the way he’d said it, but she didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to let it hurt her the way she suspected it would when she did.
It seemed to take an hour to reach the edge of the bed, and as she went to swing her feet to the ground, Pato simply reached out and hauled her back by the arm until she was on her side and facing him. No sheet this time to hide behind. Just far too much of her nearly naked body far too near his. Panic screamed through her, making her skin burst into flames.
“You can’t just...manhandle people!” she exclaimed heatedly.
Pato shrugged, and the total lack of concern in the gesture reminded her forcefully that, black sheep or not, he was a royal prince. Pampered and indulged. Used to getting whatever he wanted. He wasn’t required to concern himself with other people’s feelings, particularly hers.
That should have disgusted her. It alarmed her that it didn’t.
“I think we’re a bit past worrying about professionalism,” he said, his voice mild, though his eyes were intent on hers, and his mouth looked dangerous in a new way with his jaw unshaved and his thick hair so unruly.
And all of him so close.
“I need to leave,” she replied evenly. “The palace, the royal family—I should have done it a long time ago.” She started to pull away from him, but he only shifted position and smoothed his hand down to the indentation of her waist. He rested it there, almost idly, and she froze as if he was pressing her to the bed with brute force.
It would have been easier if he had been, she recognized on some level. It would have been unambiguous. But instead he was only touching her, barely touching her, and she couldn’t seem to form the words to demand he let her go. She only trembled. Inside and out.