head. The all-important royal kingmaker had landed on the cushion, but both of his legs were splayed off the sides. And he was still in his damned coat.
This couldn’t be more of a shit show.
“Your Highness?”
Well, he’d sure jinxed himself. Christian didn’t need to be able to see to recognize Mallory’s voice.
Christian gave in to gravity and rolled off the ottoman in a somersault. Kept rolling until he regained his feet. Giving up on removal, he shrugged fully back into his coat. Smoothing his tie—why the fuck was he still wearing a tie, too?—he said, “Lady Mallory. It’s a pleasure to see you this evening.”
She stepped fully into the throne room, and the footman on the other side of the door closed it behind her. “No guard?”
“He’s outside.”
Mallory sauntered down the length of the thick purple carpet, stamped with golden pinecones down the edges. A smirk thinned her lips. “What was that…thing I just witnessed? Are you a secret student of modern dance? Did you have a cramp? Or did your jacket get taken over by a demon, summoned by the King of Lithuania to assassinate you in a way that would leave no trace and thus leave Moncriano open to pillaging?”
The smirk had transformed to full-blown giggles by the time she finished.
“Lithuania doesn’t have a king,” he said shortly. Guess she hadn’t noticed that he was having a moment. That he needed sympathy, not snark.
“Ah. I see. Their lack of a king is the problem. Not the fact that there hasn’t been a successful demon summoning in, oh, ever?”
Fuck it.
Christian knew it was a stupid thing to have a temper tantrum about, but he’d been circling his breaking point for weeks. And accepting his king-to-be uniform—or the realization that he had—tipped him over the edge.
So he’d take a chance on letting Mallory see him at his worst. That was a perk of having a real girlfriend, right?
He gripped her shoulders, rested his forehead on hers, and said with a solemn intensity, “I don’t want to be wearing this coat. I shouldn’t be. Not now.”
There was a beat of silence. An awkward one, what with his face on hers meaning they were literally exchanging breaths. It was probably her catching up on his mood. Or rather the ridiculousness of his mood.
One that shouldn’t be shoved onto anyone else.
It was a mistake.
But then a miracle happened.
After smiling up at him with all the warmth as if he’d just complimented her, Mallory said, “Let me rescue you from it.”
Ever so slowly, Mallory flattened her palms onto his stomach. She pushed them up, framing his tie, then out to slip the coat from his shoulders. She kept the pace slow as she tugged it down to his elbows.
Then she took one more step in. It brought them touching; thigh to thigh, chest to chest. And going up on tiptoe, she also brought them lip to lip. A whisper-soft brush, back and forth.
Christian tried to embrace her, but she’d imprisoned him in the jacket. So he stood and just let her minister to him. Tiny kisses up to his cheekbone. Back down around to the other side. While she kissed, her fingertips made soothing circles on his scalp.
Stepping back again, she tugged the tie loose of its knot. Still moving in slo-mo, Mallory kept pulling, uncurling it from around his neck. Once it dropped to the floor, she unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white shirt. Peeled open the collar and pressed a kiss just below the hollow of his throat.
Only then did she push the coat down, past his wrists. Hooking it from one finger, she asked, “Is that better?”
“Immeasurably.”
Better than three shots of scotch. Better than a four-handed massage. Better than the combination of both of those. She’d soothed him, distracted him, and melted away the rough edges of frustration and temper.
She dropped the coat next to his tie. “Rough day?”
“Long day. Rough five minutes right before you came in.”
Mallory turned in a semicircle. Her gaze deliberately flicked over the purple velvet-topped ottomans holding a plate of plump persimmon cookies coated in a thick white glaze, the iPad, and the phone blaring rockabilly jazz. “What were you doing?”
“Officially? Planning Elias’s thirtieth birthday blowout.”
One arched eyebrow inched up. “In the throne room?”
Why not? Everyone kept telling him it was where he belonged. On the throne.
He’d spent his whole life avoiding it. To Christian, it represented sadness. It symbolized the eventual death of his father. The unremitting march toward taking his place.
Christian cracked