A Princess for Christmas - Jenny Holiday Page 0,78

might be a poor schlub from the Bronx, but I know how to fuck.”

Marie gasped.

“And I know that the way to fuck a princess is exactly the same way you fuck anyone else.”

Leo reached for her hand to help her to stand. He was the picture of gallantry, the gesture completely at odds with what had just come out of his mouth.

They still weren’t touching—well, aside from her hand in his. He had taken a step back to make room for her when he tugged her to her feet.

“But not now,” she said quickly. She had to get the necessary paperwork ready.

“Not now,” he agreed. “I told Gabby I’d come find her after I showered.”

“When, then?” She sounded needy. Maybe that was okay, though, because she was needy.

“After dinner,” he said.

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “After Gabby goes to bed.”

“I think,” he drawled. “This Hallmark movie is about to get a lot more interesting.”

Chapter Fourteen

Dinner was, of course, interminable. Marie felt like an exposed nerve. In addition to being on edge about her father—she felt like she had to be on constant alert so she could smooth things over as needed—she could feel Leo’s attention. It was heavy and palpable and . . . delicious.

Marie had thought having sex with Leo Ricci was going to be fun. It turned out that not having sex with Leo Ricci was also remarkably delightful.

“Will you pass the butter, please?” He nodded at the dish that was sitting between them. Though it was slightly closer to Marie than to him, it was well within his reach.

He did something with his face as she passed it. It was a smirk, but that wasn’t, on its own, a sufficient descriptor. It was a smoldering smirk, though such a combination should have been impossible.

“Thank you,” he rasped, as he let his fingers slide down her inner wrist before closing them around the crystal dish.

She started to worry that everyone could see the pulse in her throat. She felt like she’d swallowed a bomb. There was a ticking bomb lodged in her throat, pulsating shamelessly, a billboard advertising her desire.

Miraculously, no one seemed to notice. Well, no one besides Leo. He kept dropping his gaze to that exact spot. Which created a bit of a spiral in that his attention on that spot made that spot . . . more of a spot.

She was doing it, too, though. She couldn’t stop looking at his lips. Which was silly. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen them before. They were so . . . pillowy. Thick and lush, like a supermodel’s. Lips that vain women the world over paid good money for. Especially the bottom one. She wanted to lick it. She wanted to—

She jumped when he licked it.

Probably because the soup—a beef consommé—was thin and therefore a little dribbly.

She sighed and forced herself to tune into the conversation. It was going remarkably well, which was good given that she was utterly failing in her attempts to stay on top of it. It almost seemed like her father was trying to be civil.

“I was so surprised when she came back home to find her mother gone, too,” Gabby said. She was chattering about a book she’d found in the library, Liesl, a classic Eldovian novel from the nineteenth century about a girl who, through a series of unlikely plot twists, is forced to survive on her own in a remote part of the mountains for a summer. It was a beloved story that all Eldovians grew up on. Even her father had a soft spot for it, judging by the fact that he seemed to be giving Gabby’s observation serious consideration.

“But in retrospect, don’t you think there were hints?” he said. “The way her mother gathered so many eggs that morning, for example.”

Gabby nodded sagely. “I think you might be right.”

Well, my goodness. A détente?

Marie darted a glance at Leo. He wasn’t paying attention at all. To her father and Gabby, anyway. He was, however, paying attention to Marie.

He licked his lower lip again, did his smirky smoldering, and said, “Pass the salt, please.”

So. Many. Fucking. Courses.

Soup. Salad. Fish.

And here Leo had thought the fish was it. Was the “main” course. But after that had come a plate of prime rib.

And cheese.

Some kind of apple strudel–type thing.

And, of course, chocolate.

He’d been worried he was going to end up catatonically full. That when it came time to get it up, instead of delivering the “Do me like I’m not a princess” goods, he