Stealing Kisses With a King (Kings of Carolina #3)- Sylvie Stewart Page 0,73

managed a small smile for my benefit. “I’m fairly certain all the sex would make up for it.”

I didn’t take the bait. “What would we do for food?”

“I’d just eat you, of course.” This had my cheeks flushing again and Malcolm chuckling.

“Why do you always get that adorable flush when the subject of sex comes around? You know I’ve seen you naked numerous times now.”

I scowled at him, willing my cheeks to cool. “You sound like Tilly.”

“Oh? So you walk around naked in front of her too? That’s most unexpected.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I meant she was crass—like you.”

He stifled another laugh. “It’s not crass to talk about sex.”

I shoved him as he tried sliding his hand up my shirt. “It is when you use the type of language you two find necessary. Honestly, I don’t even understand some of the terms you come up with.” I mean, sex was lovely, but I didn’t need to speak about it using terms beloved by teenage boys everywhere.

He tried turning it on me, shifting back and crossing his arms over his chest. “I admit I’ve had the same trouble with you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He was grasping at straws.

“The words you use to talk about sex make no sense.”

What was he talking about?

Noting my puzzled look, he expounded. “You called my co—member,” he amended, “a paddy whack.”

“I did no such thing!” I was quick to defend myself, yet something niggled at the back of my brain.

“You did! I also learned that a careful enunciation of the words ‘Ding. Dong’ signifies your desire to get busy.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Not to mention you referring to your tits as little lady cannons. I admit, that one did make me laugh.”

“You’re making this up.” I laughed, hoping to God I was right.

“I most certainly am not. But you eventually got around to a language I understood.” He was being ridiculous, but I was happy to see him smile.

“Really? And when did all this supposed chattiness where I eventually ‘spoke your language’ occur?” If he claimed I talked in my sleep, I was calling Tilly to set him straight.

“Last week when you were drunk and told me you wanted to sit on my face.”

I inhaled a bit of my own saliva and began hacking. Malcolm, being ever so helpful, rubbed my back and laughed uproariously, especially every time I caught my breath for a second and moaned, “Oh God.”

“I found it charming,” he assured.

I thumped my chest with a fist. “Only you would find that charming.”

“I was thinking of having it embroidered on a pillow. ‘I want to sit on your face.’ It has a nice ring to it. Perhaps a matching pair for the sofa. And another for the formal drawing room.”

He laughed at my continued expression of horror as I began breathing normally again, and then we lapsed into a comfortable silence peppered by my occasional moan and his laughter. We relaxed on his sofa, our bodies almost melting into one another as we simply enjoyed the closeness. Despite all the cringing our conversation had caused, it was some much-needed relief from the seriousness of the day. But it was time to address the issue at hand.

“What did your parents have to say?” I already knew the bones of it, but I wanted to hear it from him.

“I don’t think either of them is flexible enough for face sitting any longer.”

I shoved him again and he finally abandoned the jokes. “They said we need to bring in a professional to work with me between now and the coronation, and tomorrow I’ll accept one of the interview requests—probably Channel Seven—and downplay the matter while shifting the focus of the interview to initiatives and projects on the docket for the coming year. We just need to hope to hell I don’t freeze up with the reporter and cock the entire thing up.” This time, his smile was anything but genuine. “I’d give it a fifty-fifty chance. What do you say?”

“No chance about it. You’ll be brilliant” I kissed his cheek. It was a sound plan, and should Malcolm sail through the interview and continue doing well with his speaking, we should be all right. The tricky part would be finding a fluid middle area between confirming the stories and denying them outright.

I sighed, finally giving voice to a thought that had been with me all evening. “We should have hired professional help from the beginning. I’m not a therapist, and perhaps I was too