then?”
A blush stains Rowan’s cheeks as she struggles to swallow. Closing her eyes, she shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m just… It’s nothing.” Rowan’s palm lifts up to press against my chest, and she flicks her eyes up to mine. “Your heart is hammering, too.”
“You make me nervous.” I grin.
“Bullshit.” Her fingers slide higher, teasing the edge of my neck.
My eyes drop to her lips, tracing every full curve as I imagine how she would taste. We’re frozen against each other. I can feel her pulse thumping. I can see the desire blooming across her face. Her pupils dilating. Lips dropping open.
She wants this as badly as I do. We’re alone here. No servants. No staff. No media.
Just Rowan and me.
Would it be so bad to act on a few impure desires? To finally taste those lips and see if she’s still insolent when I’m inside her?
“Your Highness,” Rowan whispers.
My grip on her waist tightens, pulling her close. “What did I say about using my title?” I roll my hips against her, loving the way she gasps when she feels my hardness.
Yes, I’m hard as rock.
Yes, it’s for her.
Yes, I’m struggling to think of even one reason why we shouldn’t do this.
“We shouldn’t do this,” Rowan whispers, teasing my jaw with her fingertips.
“Do what?” I lean down, letting my lips hover just an inch from hers.
Rowan smiles, shaking her head. She’s so sweet when she’s like this. Pliable. When her tongue isn’t sharp and her smiles are easy. I want more. “Kiss, Wolfe. We shouldn’t kiss.”
I nearly groan when she says my name. I thought I enjoyed the sass of her using my title. I thought I liked that she spat it at me like an insult.
My name sounds so much better.
“Why not, princess?”
“I’m not a princess.”
“And you didn’t answer the question.”
“Because we’d regret it.” Her thumb brushes my chin, just under the curve of my lip.
“I wouldn’t.” I growl, closing my eyes. How can her touch feel so good?
“I would.” Her voice is so soft, I barely catch it. Pulling away, I look into her ocean-blue eyes. She gives me a sad smile, shaking her head.
I frown, thinking about the past two weeks. Has there been a day, an hour, where I haven’t thought of Rowan? Has there been a night I haven’t snuck into the library to see if I’d find her sleeping? Has there been any other woman on my mind, or any question about what I want to do to her?
“Why would you regret it?”
“You’re a prince.”
“I’m a man.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of me?” I frown.
Rowan smiles, her fingers still teasing my jaw. My neck. Toying with the edges of my hair. She shakes her head. “Of how quickly I’ll fall for you.”
“You think I’m an asshole.”
“I make a lot of bad decisions.”
“So why not make one more?”
Rowan pulls away, shaking her head. “You’re dangerous, Wolfe.”
I drop my hand from her waist and grin, catching her hand. “Come on. I’ll show you something you’ll like.”
14
Rowan
I can’t blame the Scotch whisky for what’s going on in my body—this goes much deeper than a shot and a half of alcohol. I’m burning up. I follow the Prince out of the main room and through a doorway, stealing glances at his broad frame. Every step he takes reminds me of the power inside him. Every movement, so controlled and restrained, makes me want to melt into his arms.
…but I said no.
I pushed him away and told him I didn’t want to take it any further.
That’s the right thing to do…right? Sleeping with him would be fun tonight, maybe, but I’d regret it tomorrow. This is work, after all. He’s royalty.
I’m only a contractor here to do a job. I’ll be gone as soon as the storm clears.
So why does this taste a lot like regret?
My heart beats erratically, bouncing against my chest as I struggle to regain control over myself. Every stitch of clothing feels too tight. The cottage feels smaller somehow, as if all the heat of my desire is pouring into the air and stifling me.
Wolfe pushes a door open and has to bend his head to step through. We walk into a dim space, and the Prince hits a switch. Lights fizzle and pop as they turn on, bathing the room in a soft, yellow glow.
We’re in a studio.
Blank canvasses lean against the far wall beside a huge shelf full of art supplies. A stack of easels is propped against the side wall, covered in a thick layer of dust.
But