The Queen's Baby Scandal. Maisey Yates
his head and took the kiss deeper, deeper still, his tongue invading her, making her tremble, making her knees weak.
When they parted, he stared down at her, those eyes shot through with intensity. “Is that quite enough chemistry for you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I think that is exactly the chemistry I was looking for.”
He stood back and shrugged his jacket off, tossing it carelessly toward the couch on the opposite side of the room, and then he began to unbutton his shirt.
Astrid’s mouth went dry as she watched him expose his body. His chest was hard looking and muscular, his abs clearly defined, with just the right amount of dark hair dusted over those sculpted ridges. And he had tattoos. Dark, swirling ink that covered his shoulder, part of his chest geometric patterns that she couldn’t quite divine the meaning of.
But the beauty of tonight was that it didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter what any of this meant to him. All that mattered was what it meant to her.
Freedom. Wildness.
A night with her very own barbarian.
The kind of man she would scarcely have been allowed to speak to if her handlers were present. Much less be alone in a room with.
Much less be on the verge of…
“Pictures don’t do you justice,” she said.
“I have a feeling that dress doesn’t do you justice,” he returned. “But I would like to see for a fact if this is true.”
With shaking fingers, she reached around behind her back and slowly lowered the zip to her dress, letting the soft white fabric release itself from her body and fall to the ground, a pale, silken pool at her feet.
She was still wearing those impossibly high heels and a pair of white panties. Nothing more. He seemed to approve.
Her breasts grew heavy, her nipples tight, her body overcome with restless anticipation.
Then he sprung into action, his muscles all languid grace and lethal precision as he took her in his arms and swept her up off the floor, carrying her over to that large bed and setting her down on the soft, black fur that was spread over the top.
He said something in Italian, something completely unfamiliar to her, something she assumed was something like a curse, or just something so filthy no one would have ever seen fit to teach her. Anticipation shimmered deep and low inside her.
He drew away from the bed, his eyes never leaving hers as he slowly undid his belt, drawing the zipper on his pants down as he divested himself of the rest of his clothing, leaving him completely naked in front of her.
Astrid was one for research. For being prepared when going to war. And as such, she had done a fair share of figuring out just what happened between men and women in bed, not simply in the perfunctory sense. She had done a bit of pictorial research.
But it had not prepared her for this. For him. All of him.
He was quite a bit more of a man than she had ever seen, and she had certainly never been in the same room as a naked man before. So deliciously, impossibly male.
“You are stunning,” he said, advancing on her, moving toward the bed. Her stomach twisted, fear and excitement twining together and becoming something so exciting, so unbearably potent she could scarcely breathe, let alone think. She licked her lips, grabbing hold of the waistband of her panties and pushing them down her legs as she arched her bottom up off the mattress, managing to pull them only down to her knees, then uncertain how to continue. He clearly took her uncertainty as an intentional coquettishness, and she was happy to have him think so. He growled, moving down to the bed and grabbing hold of the scrap of lace and wrenching it from her body. Leaving her bare and exposed to him.
His eyes roamed over her hungrily, and there was something so incredibly close and raw about the moment that Astrid had to close her eyes.
Because there was no title here to protect her. No designer clothing, no guards. Nothing between her and this man. This man who seemed to want her, though he’d had many other women.
Astrid was used to being special. Singular. But she had none of the hallmarks here that made her any of that. She was simply a woman. She was not a queen.
And yet.
And yet he still wanted her.
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