Sweet readers: thank you for getting this far. Thank you for your votes and comments. I hope you love it. Now: buckle up. ~Spark.
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No immediate word of an engagement spreads when the family returns two days after I discovered pleasure, alone in the ale house shed.
The evening of their return, only hours after the carriages have pulled up front unloading trunks and crates, the prince's steward passes me outside as I carry a sack of malt. He is out of place here, resplendent in soft velvet, thick satin, delicate boots. His skin is pasty and soft. His hands are small; his eyes don't dance. I nearly drop the bag of grains in my arms at the sight of him on the dusty path: I've never before seen him on this side of the grounds in daylight.
He looks straight ahead, saying only, "Come on your own tonight. The prince requires it, and I've no mind to drag you there anymore."
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Look up at my face, I think as I drop my clothing to the floor. I need to see your eyes. I need you to see mine.
But he doesn't. He won't. It makes me hate him a little, when I never could have fathomed such a thing before.
Here I am, scrubbed and stripped bare on his bed, having taken his body again and again and he has yet to even look at my face.
You were my best friend .
You know my darkest secret and I know yours.
After everything, I haven't seen you in fourteen nights.
My prince, my prince. Look at me.
As soon as I am prone, he drops his undergarments, leaving his loose shirt on and climbs to the mattress.
I watch his face as he studies me, eyes starting at my neck and flickering madly over the swell of my breasts. He looks nearly wild.
"Leave us now, Douglas."
Time stops.
"My Lord?" The steward asks from the dark corner. The request is unheard of. The prince is unmarried. Without Sir Douglas in the room, he will be left unprotected.
"Leave."
The heavy wooden door slides open, clangs closed. My world tips, tips, tips. Spills.
In the dark room, sunshine pours across my skin.
We are alone.
Warm palms slide up my thighs to my hips.
"All right?" he asks me and this time I know I haven't imagined it. His eyes have again skipped over my face. They are focused on my hands, clasped together over my head.
A thousand horses gallop beneath my ribs. We were friends once, but our roles are nothing like they were. We are not two children sitting together in the grass. He is a prince, raised to expect everyone to do what he asks. I am an ale girl, raised to do what I am told.
"I said, are you all right?"
"Good," I whisper. The sound of his voice like this — quiet, just for me — is so disorienting I feel faint. I can't draw a deep enough breath for how nervous I've grown.
We are alone. For the first time in years, we are alone.
His hand slides up further, from my hip to my breast and he bends, sucking.
I bite my lip, harshly.
"You were still pure when you came to me," he says against my skin. "You bled on my sheets. You bled on me."
My words burst out in a choking frenzy: "Forgive me, my Lord!"
"No . . ." he says quickly, kissing just beneath my breast. "No. I'd worried in the ale house, the men might have . . ."
He remembers.
He remembers.
I swallow, body trembling. "They did not. My Da made sure, my Lord."
"Has another touched you since my leave?"
I blink, confused. "Sir?"
"You did realize I'd gone, didn't you?" he asks and a teasing lilt ribbons through his words.
"No, my Lord." He goes still. Upon understanding, I curse inwardly, words tripping out in a rush. "That is . . . no other has touched me. I noticed you were gone."
I always notice when you are gone.
He nods, closing his eyes and bending to kiss my ear, my neck, lower to my chest. His breath grows fevered on my skin, hand gripping my flesh, plumping me for his wet, hungry mouth.
I want to ask if he'd had another lover on his trip, if he'd thought of me at all, but the idea that I could, that I would be allowed such privilege is so absurd the words die long before they even gather breath.
"You'll tell me if someone touches you," he whispers. "If anyone even attempts it."
My mouth goes dry. "Yes . . . my Lord."
His mouth moves to my neck and I coil, falling into delirium as he drags his teeth along the delicate skin there.
A tight moan escapes my throat before I can slam my lips shut, and I bite them savagely.
"You understand what we're doing?" he asks, lips hovering just below my ear. "What it is I do to you when you come here?"
"Yes, my Lord."
Pausing, he pants into my neck, and when he shifts I felt the thick press of him into my leg. "I claim you."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Do you relish it?"
I hold my breath.
I can't answer.
'No' would be a lie.
'Yes' would brand me a whore.
He doesn't demand an answer, but shudders in pleasure when he reaches down and his fingers find me wet. He feeds himself easily into me, groaning in joy.
It is different without the steward in the room: we both can finally breathe. Even if we don't speak of it, at least the truth of our history is now laid as bare as my skin.
The prince is slow, hands exploring my breasts and between my legs and beneath me, between the soft flesh of my backside.
He touches me everywhere. His tongue tastes my neck, my ribs, the skin beneath my arms. He is vocal, louder, urging.
His tongue laps at my breasts, strong hips push deep and rock fast and hard as he grunts lewdly with each shift.
Oh, the sound of it. So wicked: the dark, hungry, animal noises coming from his throat.
A tight pull in my belly.
A warm spasm between my legs.
Oh.
I close my eyes, willing it away. This bed isn't for my pleasure. It is for his.
His hips press into mine, deeper than I've ever felt him. So deep it seems to push everything else aside.
The tightness grows, stretches, and I can no more stop it than I can halt a blizzard with my bare hands.
With eyes closed and teeth pressed painfully to my lips, I begin to come apart. It is pleasure unlike anything I've ever known. Not the view of a sunset across the lake or first spring breeze compare. Not the delicious bite of apple on my tongue or even the relief of my prince's mouth sucking my breast.
He hisses in encouragement, whispering of the desire he feels, whispering of the clasp of my body around his, whispering that I should join him in pleasure.
My spine arches and I hold my sound in but made the mistake of opening my eyes and looking desperately up at him just as I crest.
He is looking directly back at me, his dancing sea-eyes thrilled and rapt. And somehow I know he's watched me this entire time.
My prince watches my face as I am born and die beneath him.
I watch with a thudding heart and wide eyes as he follows just behind me.