“I’m going to figure this out,” he said, his thrumming body so close that her own ached to open to him. “I’m made of gunpowder around you, Frankie. One look and my blood sparks and my heart flares and my whole body braces for combustion.” His chest was pressed against her knee, and instinctively, she slid her leg outward to give him space, only for it to position him squarely between her spread thighs. “This restlessness, this frustration, it’s all you. It’s finally caught up with me. Knowing you want it too—I’ve got no way to calm it down. I need you. Frankie.” His voice dropped to a growl. “I’m on fire for you.”
She couldn’t move; she didn’t want to move beneath the heat of his breath. He smelled like morning-after sheets on a bed she’d never want to leave, and his steady gaze betrayed he had no intention of pulling away without being asked.
The silence was his question—and slowly became her answer.
Features harsh with desire, his attention slid down to her neck. Her blood beat harder at her throat, flurrying, a hand impatiently ushering him closer. She shouldn’t do this—shouldn’t open herself up to him like a purse with a broken latch. In one deft movement he’d take everything inside, right down to the gold coin caught in the lining. She’d have nothing left when he moved on—just emptiness and the fading memory of the way he’d brushed up against her. But she knew. Despite a friendship of caution and constant evasion, she knew.
That coin had always been his to take.
Breathless, she angled her chin up just a fraction. An invitation, an opening.
He took it, lashes dropping as he leaned in to her neck.
It was a clean touch of his lips, yet still she gasped, spine arching as if he’d bore his full weight down on her. Kris. He stilled, before inhaling deeply, his back expanding as he breathed her in, his nose pressed to her skin, his untamed hair at her jaw. Then his lips found her again and it was the searing heat of his open mouth, the wet thrill of his tongue against her throat. Her hand tangled in his hair, soft as flowing water, and he groaned, opening wider, tasting her, his shoulders shifting as he brought himself closer, his hands moving to grasp her hips.
“Frankie,” he said on a strained whisper. Buried in her neck, he spoke her name as a question, a request, a desperate plea.
Hot and aching all over, she closed her eyes. She wanted to give in, take the step that thrummed like a rope beneath her feet, almost too taut for her to maintain her balance. He’d steady her, hold her up for just long enough to feel the weightlessness of his embrace. But then—then she’d fall, hollowed out right down to her very lining.
And his duty wouldn’t permit him to catch her.
“No more,” she whispered.
His body grew rigid with restraint; he didn’t move.
She forced herself to speak. “You said you didn’t expect anything from me.”
Another moment passed before he groaned, very different than the last, and drew back out of the frame of her thighs. He dropped beside her, fist pressed to his forehead. “I don’t. But I want it.”
Something frail splintered inside her. “I’ve told you I can’t.”
“I’m not expecting you to bear me children,” he said, practically hoarse with restraint. “I’m working on it.”
She pressed her knees together, uneasy. “Working on what?”
“There must be a way.”
“There isn’t.”
“Don’t expect me not to fight for you.” He crackled like a live wire beside her.
She’d failed spectacularly at calming him down.
“There are ways,” he said. “We can be a modern royal family. Or Tommy, he might—”
“Do not put pressure on Tommy to produce heirs.”
“There are ways,” he said again, firmly.
No. Nothing could erase her upbringing; nothing would stop their children being referred to as royal juvies or the state’s own delinquents. Illegitimate heirs would be preferable to those borne by a criminal. They wouldn’t be trusted; their every decision would be raked over hot coals. If Kris’s uncle Vinci were alive today, he would refuse the very notion in an indignant, horrified rage.
Kris would be cast out of the royal family before he’d be allowed to court a woman like Frankie.
“You don’t know everything about me,” she said, voice shaking.
“Then tell me.”
She felt a pressure in her chest, the cold of a metal clasp snapping closed. “I can’t.”
He swore under his breath, grasping the side of his