Royally Matched
Page 36

“And this,” Sarah gestures to a short bloke in a large chair with an enormous smoking pipe between his lips, “this is Willard.”
Willard doesn’t stand, but dips his head instead of bowing. It’s not proper—but given my own derision for all things “proper,” it doesn’t bother me.
“Impressive pipe,” I tell him. “Should I call you Sherlock?”
He grins. “Only if I can call you Princess.”
My head toddles as I think it over. “I’m secure enough in my manhood to stand that.”
“Excellent.”
Willard motions to the decanter of amber liquid on the table beside him.
“Brandy? It’s cheap, but it gets the job done.”
“Please.”
While he pours me a glass, Annie chirps, “For God’s sake, Sarah, when you told Haverstrom you had official Palace business to tend to, I was sure you were pulling all our legs. What kind of business does Sarah do for you, Your Highness?”
“She’s helping me reorganize the Palace library.” I press my finger to her lips and she almost passes out. “But that’s a secret—a surprise gift for the Queen.”
I glance over at Sarah where she’s packing up a box of papers, and she smiles gently at the lie.
“Did you have a good meeting, love?” I ask her.
And there’s that pretty pink blush again, though I’m not sure why it appears this time.
“Yes, it went very well.”
Sipping my brandy, I tease, “Do you open the meeting with a sacrifice to the book gods? An animal or a nonreader, perhaps?”
Smoke puffs from Willard lips as he answers, “Only on Tuesdays.”
“Have you ever thought about writing a book, Prince Henry?” Annie whispers. “My ex-boyfriend, Elliot, always said he wanted to.”
Willard checks his watch.
Then Annie goes on.
“You could write under a pen name about the behind-the-scenes secrets of the palace. Or,” a sly look comes over Annie’s face while she glances at Sarah, then back to me, “it could be a sexier tale. About a young virgin who tames the wild, worldly prince—like Fifty Shades but with royalty.”
“I’d read it.” Willard shrugs.
Come to think of it, so would I.
Back at Anthorp Castle, Sarah and I get ready for bed—we each brush our teeth and change in the bathroom. Me, in my usual sleeping pants and bare chest, Sarah in her cotton pants and simple top—it’s a thin-strapped tank top tonight, and her tits look amazing. Then we sit on the bed. I pick up my guitar and strum a few notes.
“By the way, what’s a Butterwald Duck?” I ask. “I saw supplies and a sign mentioning it in one of the other rooms at the library.”
“Oh, those are for next month.” She takes off her glasses and sets them on the bedside table. “For the protest we’re holding to allow the ducks penned in at Butterwald Park free rein.”
“Protest?” I ask.
She nods. “The Austenites are very active in the community.”
I set my guitar down, leaning it against the wall. “You’re terrorists?”
Sarah rolls her pretty eyes. “Don’t be silly. We’re . . . an organization committed to bringing awareness to social issues, through what may be seen as semi-controversial methods at times.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “Terrorists.”
Sarah pinches my arm.
“Ow . . . violent terrorists,” I tease.
She tilts her head up and laughs, her dark hair falling over her shoulder and down her back. And it’s mesmerizing. Was there a time when I actually thought she was plain? I’m an imbecile—she’s stunning. I’ve never known anyone like her.
And I want to kiss her, right now.
And then I want to go back to the library, to that place she loves, and kiss her there too. In front of her friends, in front of mine . . . Christ, Nicholas would adore her.
I want to be that man to her.
She catches me staring and tilts her head. “What is it?”
And my mouth suddenly goes dry. Because I’ve never done this before. The only time I’ve talked about feelings with a girl involved direction or appreciation and a whole lot of screwing: harder, tighter, faster, yes that’s good, just like that—don’t stop.
I try to swallow and my voice comes out low and rough, like an unpracticed lad in the schoolyard.
“I like you, Sarah. I like you so much.”
She continues to look at me, and I see when comprehension darkens her big, round eyes.
“I . . . I like you too, Henry.”
She watches as I pick up her hand from where it rests on the bed and bring it to my lips. Softly, I kiss the back of it and each of her little knuckles. Even her hands are fucking pretty.
Her breath catches when I turn her hand over and place an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her sensitive wrist, suctioning just slightly.
And then, I need her mouth. I can’t remember the last time I needed anything so much.
Maybe I never have.
I lean in and Sarah’s eyes flutter closed. I stroke her smooth cheek, and cup her jaw in my palm, and then I press my lips against hers. She’s so soft and warm, so fucking sweet. I angle my mouth and turn our heads, changing direction—sucking the smallest bit of her plump lower lip, then tracing it with my tongue.
And that’s when she pulls away, turns her head, and looks down at her hands. Sarah’s breathing hard and her cheeks are flushed, and she looks beautiful.