Royally Matched
Page 24

And the blush is back. With a vengeance.
“I’m not . . . I don’t . . .”
“You don’t fart?” I scoff. “Really? Are you not human?”
She curses under her breath, but I’d love to hear it out loud. I bet uninhibited Sarah Von Titebottum would be a stunning sight. And very entertaining.
She shakes her head, pinning me with her eyes.
“There’s something wrong with you.”
“No.” I explain calmly, “I’m just free. Honest with myself and others. You should try it sometime.”
She folds her arms, all tight, trembling indignation. It’s adorable.
“I’m sleeping in the nook, Your Highness. And that’s that.”
I sit up, pinning her gaze right back at her.
“Henry.”
“What?”
“My name is not Highness, it’s fucking Henry, and I’d prefer you use it.”
And she snaps.
“Fine! Fucking Henry—happy?”
I smile.
“Yes. Yes, I am.” I flop back on the magnificent bed. “Sleep tight, Titebottum.”
I think she growls at me, but it’s muffled by the sound of rustling bed linens and pillows. And then . . . there’s silence. Beautiful, blessed silence.
I wiggle around, getting comfy.
I turn on my side and fluff the pillow.
I squeeze my eyes tight . . . but it’s hopeless.
“Fucking hell!” I sit up.
And Sarah springs to her feet. “What? What’s wrong?”
It’s the guilt. I’ve barged into this poor girl’s room, confiscated her bed, and have forced her to sleep in a cranny in the wall. I may not be the man my father was or the gentleman my brother is, but I’m not that much of a prick.
I stand up, rip my shirt over my head. and march toward the window seat. I feel Sarah’s eyes graze my bare chest, arms. and stomach, but she circles around me, keeping her distance.
“You take the bloody bed,” I tell her. “I’ll sleep in the bloody nook.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
I push my hand through my hair. “Yes, I do.” Then I stand up straight and proper, an impersonation of Hugh Grant in one of his classic royal roles. “Please, Lady Sarah.”
She blinks, her little mouth pursed. “Okay.”
Then she climbs onto the bed, under the covers. And I squeeze onto the window bench, knees bent, my elbow jammed against the icy windowpane, and my neck bent at an odd angle that I’m going to be feeling tomorrow.
The light is turned down to a very low dim, and for several moments all I hear is Sarah’s soft breaths.
But then, in the near darkness, her delicate voice floats out on a sigh.
“All right, we can sleep in the bed together.”
Music to my ears. I don’t make her tell me twice—I’ve fulfilled my noble quota for the evening. I stumble from the nook and crash onto the bed.
That’s better.
The light on the bedside table next to Sarah brightens. “I’m awake now. I’m going to read for a bit, if it doesn’t bother you.”
“Wuthering Heights?” I yawn.
“Yes. Sleep well, Henry.”
And something about the way she says my name this time—the sweetness of her voice—makes me smile. Until . . .
“Hmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmmmm, hmm, hmm . . .”
And I’m once again staring at the ceiling. “What is that sound?”
“What? Oh, that’s me—sorry—I hum when I read.” The bed shakes as she shrugs. “Habit.”
“Well for Christ’s sake, don’t.”
I’m being an arse. When she doesn’t reply for a few seconds, I start to worry I’ve upset her. It’s not Sarah’s fault I’m tired—and horny. So horny. She doesn’t deserve to have her head ripped off.
But before I can apologize, she says, “And here I thought you were the type who’d enjoy a good hummer.”
And for a moment I’m stunned. And then I laugh, turning on my side, facing her. “Was that a joke, Sarah Titty-teet-butt-um?”
“It was supposed to be, yes.”
“And it was a dirty joke. I’m impressed. I’ll have to completely reevaluate my impression of you.”
She covers her lovely mouth with her hands. “They slip out from time to time, but usually only with Penny or Willard and Annie.”
And suddenly, I don’t feel tired anymore.
“Willard and Annie?”
“My best friends. They work with me at the library.”
“You’re a librarian?”
She nods. “Mmm-hmm. At Concordia Library.”
I fold my hands behind my head. Letting my imagination run wild.
“I’ve always wanted to fuck standing up in the stacks. Have you ever tried it?”
And without looking, I can feel her blush—like the rays of the red sun of Krypton.
“No.”
I glance at her, my eyes raking up and down her body.
“I can see it. The long dark hair, the glasses, a tight gray pencil skirt and a snug white blouse with the top two . . .” I glance down at her impressive breasts, “. . . three buttons undone. You’re the epitome of the sexy librarian.”
She giggles, like I’ve said something silly.
“What?”
“I’ve never been called sexy a day in my life.”