Lone Prince (Royally Unexpected #7) - Lilian Monroe Page 0,39
dark locks of hair that curl at the ends. His hair feels silky as my head spins.
“If we sleep together, it means nothing,” I say.
The Prince’s lips tug into a wicked grin. “Are you telling me, or yourself?”
“You,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel. “If we act on this…whatever this is between us, it has to stay here.”
“Anything you want, princess. So long as I get to have you.”
“You have to stop calling me princess.”
His hand sweeps over my jaw, tilting my face up to stare at his. With a flash of his eyes, he grins at me. “But that’s what you are. My princess.”
Oh, those words. Treacherous, beautiful words. Silly words that make my heart thump and my panties soak through.
Why do I care if he calls me his? Why does it stoke my fire if he tells me I belong to him?
The only way this works is if I walk away and there are truly no strings attached. One night of fun. One night of Wolfe. One night to feel like a princess in her prince’s arms.
As if he reads my mind, Wolfe tilts my head up and crushes his lips to mine. He kisses me breathless. Crashes into me, so I can feel the power coiled within him. His arms wrap around me and hold me to his strong chest, trapping me against him.
Not that I’d want to be anywhere else. My fingers twist in his hair. Tugging. Pulling. Eliciting delicious little groans from him that do nothing but make me burn hotter.
When his tongue slides between my lips, I know I’m done. He tastes like heaven and hell, all wrapped in one. Like good and evil in a tug of war with my heart. He tastes like I might regret this later when I’m nursing my broken heart—but it’s too sweet to pull away. When he whispers my name against my lips, I melt. His fingers sink into my flesh, clawing at my clothing and tugging it free so he can feel my skin.
My body is in overdrive. My veins are full of molten fire. I moan into his mouth, kissing him harder as his hands sweep over my back.
I’m in trouble. I’m in too deep. I’m definitely going to regret this later.
15
Rowan
What is regret, really?
Feeling sad or disappointed about something we’ve done in the past? About something we didn’t do? Feeling the tug of what if?
So, as the Prince lets out a soft moan, his lips brushing against mine, I have to wonder.
What would I regret more—if I stopped, or kept going?
Wolfe’s hands sweep up my sides, his palms leaving goose bumps in their wake. His touch feels too good. My head spins. Every sense is wrapped up in him.
His smell everywhere, urging my heartbeat faster. The sight of his body straining against the fabric of his clothes. The touch of his fingers against my skin. The sound of those little grunts and moans and groans that slips through his lips when he kisses me.
But oh, the taste of him. That’s what does me in. My kisses drift down his neck and I let my tongue slide out to touch his skin. Hard and smooth and warm and mine.
I want more. I claw at him, tearing at his shirt until he pulls it off and tosses it aside. With a grunt, the Prince picks me up so I wrap my legs around his waist. The heat and hardness of his erection presses against my center, and I wish we weren’t wearing so many clothes.
I need him inside me. Need him on top of me. Underneath me. Everywhere.
The Prince starts walking, kicking the studio door open and stepping through. My hands tease through his thick, black hair as my lips find his. His stubble scratches my skin, and I wonder how good it would feel if he brushed it against the inside of my thigh. If he teased the very center of me with that deliciously bad tongue of his. He carries me down a narrow hallway and through another door, finally setting me down.
“You’ve been driving me wild since the moment I saw you lying in the snow,” the Prince says. His eyes are dark, burning with hot fire. He nudges his nose against mine, his hands splayed across my lower back. When he slips the tips of his fingers beneath the waistband of my pants, I let out a low whimper.