NOT ABOUT ANGELS | THE WHITE QUEEN

Chapter IV

"Why didn't you join in the joust?"

"Because I would have won," his answer is simple and Charlotte huffs a laugh at how confident he is in himself.

"What's wrong with that?"

"If I win, I have to crown someone my Queen," he says quietly, and Charlotte's heart pounds a little harder as she begins to understand, "I would normally crown Margaret or my mother."

"Of course," she mumbles dully, "your other sisters are married."

"Aye, they are," he says heavily. "but I didn't want to give it to either of them, so I thought it would be easier to not participate at all."

Charlotte pauses and he pauses too, looking at her with a guarded expression. She should let this go.

She should let whatever this is between them remain buried under implication, muted and denied. She shouldn't breathe life into it, because this is complicated and messy and everything she has been warned against. And yet, she finds herself asking. "Who did you want to give it to?"

The air suddenly feels very thin and she doesn't want this. She never wanted any part of it. She takes a step back, prepared to flee, to escape this conversation, when his hand darts out and curls around her elbow.

"Don't walk away from me," his voice is gentle but it's an order nonetheless. And she can't refuse an order from the king

"People are looking," she whispers, her cheeks flushed, as a few people around them stop to watch curiously.

His top lip curls into a sort of frustrated snarl before he quickly glances around and pulls her away. He knows the halls well, like the back of his hand, and before she knows it, she's being pushed into a dimly lit alcove, surrounded by his body.

"You're driving me mad," he mutters, his eyes clenched shut.

She swallows, her own eyes drawn to his full lips.

"I haven't done anything," she says stubbornly, hot and aching. If he wants her, she doesn't want to be blamed for it, like she's some sort of siren and he can't control himself.

"That's the point," he murmurs lowly and when his eyes open, Charlotte swears they're a darker green, "you haven't... and yet you're all I think about."

Charlotte purses her lips, her eyes and throat burning. His hands cage her in, resting on both sides of her head, and this is everything she feared, and everything she'd ever wanted, all at the same time.

"I can't," she whispers, feeling a fist around her heart.

He leans in closer, so close she can see the specks of emeralds in his eyes, and desire flares in the pit of her stomach. "Why not?"

His voice is low, husky and deliciously suave, and she rubs her thighs together to try and relieve the ache.

"You're the King."

One of his hands travels from the wall to find its place on her waist. It slides down, his strong palm covering her behind and he tugs her close. She bites out a gasp, her toes curling. He molds her body, her thighs falling open so he can move between them. She feels all of him against her, all strong, hard muscle and she forgets how to breathe.

"What if I wasn't?" he murmurs hotly, "would you let me have you then?"

"Yes," he tears her reply from her throat, an immediate gasp that's more like a moan, and her thighs spread wider without her permission, heat growing between them. Her folds clench around nothing, momentarily lost to pleasure before she comes to her senses, "but you are, and this is the life we have been given."

She speaks with conviction, but she's aware her eyes are not in sync to her body. Her body wants him, her eyes must be glazed with lust and desire, but common sense tells her to refuse him. He looks lost too, pupils dilated and hands gripping her ass and the stone wall beside her head, and despite her words, she pulls him closer still. "I need to kiss you," he breathes – not a want, a necessity – before he adds, "just once."

She should say no, she's going to say no, but then—"Yes," she's breathing instead, "kiss me."

Years later, when her daughters would sit around her and ask about their parents' first kiss, she would remember this moment.

It was a simple moment between their eyes meeting and his lips meeting hers. It was the blink of an eye, but for her, the world stopped. She would forever remember the heaviness of the rise and fall of her chest, pressed flush against his body, molded against the curves and edges of his muscle. Etched in her memory would be the way his curls framed his face, the way his hands held her body.

It was a brief moment. But it was a moment of anticipation, an intense moment where the air grew hotter, the hallway darker.

And, as his lips drew nearer, she realized it was only the beginning.

His mouth is on hers before she's even finished the request. His lips are as soft as she suspected, but he kisses like a conqueror — a King — plundering her mouth. His tongue sweeps over her bottom lip and she opens her mouth so he can slip it inside. He swallows the little moan she makes, both hands hoisting her up and pushing her back against the wall so their faces are at the same level, bringing her foot to the small of his back to support herself.

His mouth slants over hers, taking what he wants, giving her what she wants, and between heated kisses, he lets out a little moan of his own. Her hands find purchase on his chest. Through the muted haze of her desire, she hears the squeak of leather as her fingers curl into fists, pulling him closer.

He kisses her once, twice, three times more, gently tugging her bottom lip before letting her go. His forehead rests against hers, his chest heaving, his breath little pants against her lips.

She lets out a shaky breath, completely lost.

He shouldn't have done that.

She shouldn't have let him do that.