Forbidden Prince Page 7

  “Fuck!” I breath in and let go again. She keeps going until my legs stop jerking. “Holy shit.”

  Abi sits back on her heels, a smile on her lips as she wipes them with the back of her hand. “Good?”

  I don’t chuckle softly this time, I have a good laugh. “Good? Hell! Woman, if that’s what you can do with your mouth...”

  She beams up at me, proud of a job well done. That voluptuous body of hers is only the more tantalizing in the dancing flicker of firelight. Sumptuous Abi.

  Time to exercise the royal prerogative. I was born to command, what better time than now to make use of my executive power? “That’s some damn sexy lingerie, Abi, but I want it off. Now.”

  Not missing a beat, my virginal vixen snaps the bra clasp behind her back, a hint of uncertainty shading her features as she fumbles with her lingerie. “I’ve never done this before, Henry.”

  Fuck me if that innocence doesn’t give a one, two punch to my heart. “Let me help.”

  It’s my turn to hit my knees, and I come close to her, reaching for the straps of her bra. I drape the elastic bands over my fingers and pull it toward me, sliding my fingers down to the lacy cups holding her tits. I pull the fabric down. Abi lets it come, exposing her full breasts. I dip my head and take her nipple into my mouth. Abi whimpers out a breathy gasp followed by this little high-pitched moan, and my entire existence becomes about doing whatever it takes to make those sweet sounds keep coming.

  I apply backward pressure, and Abi angles her shins out from under her then sits on her pretty behind. More pressure, and she’s on her back on the bearskin, the flames flickering across her skin. I roll her nipple between my lips then suck, using a hand to cup her breast into my mouth. Fuck me if she doesn’t taste better than wild honeysuckle.

  Propping myself beside her on one forearm, I send the other hand down her stomach and into the waistband of her black, lace panties. “Your turn,” I tell her. “Show me how to pleasure you.”

  Even in the dim light, I can see the flush creep up her neck and onto her cheeks. “I’m sure you’ve done this plenty of times.”

  I capture her lips, kissing her deep and sweet. “Not with you. You are something altogether different. Now, put your hand on top of mine.”

  Abi purses her lips together as her fingers trace down my arm, her palm settling over the back of my hand. She looks to me for direction. Teach me, those eyes say. Tell me what to do.

  “Match your fingers up with mine, one on top of the other.” A thrill runs up my spine as I watch her fingers disappear below her own panties, her fingers settling in an exact if smaller match over mine. “Now use me to touch yourself.”

  Her eyes search mine and then dart this way and that, her shyness taking hold. I break the intense study I’m conducting of her beautiful face and nudge my nose into her neck. Abi tips her head back, and I kiss the soft flesh under her jaw. She sighs silently, and her body relaxes.

  Her fingers begin to work on top of mine, dipping my middle finger into her folds while pressing down with the heel of my palm. She guides me lower, stroking as we go. I match my lips to the rhythm she’s setting, and soon, her entire body is matching it. Her shoulder blades rise and fall, her hips and ass slowly pump, her spine arches, and her legs open.

  I kiss her neck, her beautiful tits, her shoulder, tracing a line of wetness with my tongue everywhere I can reach.

  Abi’s grip tightens, and so does mine. Her fingers curl in against mine, pushing my middle finger into her pussy — not much, just a bit, but it’s enough to drive me wild. She bears down, her tight pussy contracting around my finger, and I flex my knuckle, stroking her inner walls.

  I’m trying to ignore that I’m rock hard again and my cock is throbbing, twitching to be slid into of that wet hotness instead of my finger. I need to distract myself from the urge to pin her to the floor and piston my thick cock inside of her.

  So I bite. Gently. But the contact of my teeth to her neck makes Abi gasp then cry out. I nibble at the skin of her neck and shoulders as she guides my hand, her breathing becoming rapid, little gasps mixed with long, low moans. God, I love the sounds of her arousal.

  Her hips thrust up, and her hand clenches down on mine. I slip the tip of another finger in and begin to push deeper, but she rocks her hand back, putting the brakes on. So instead of penetrating any deeper, I just stroke my fingers inside her faster and faster, rubbing against her clit with the heel of my hand, as Abi guides me in bringing her to orgasm. Her wetness spills over, running down my fingers, wetting the silken strands of fiber beneath us.

  Her breaths come hard and fast, then her soft curves harden, and her thighs flex. I vibrate my fingers inside of her, and feel her walls crush down on them as she comes.

  All at once, she relaxes, her body going elastic, and she rolls her head against the soft rug. “Oh my God…”

  Her breath evens out into longer, deep lungfuls with a near sigh at the end of each.

  “Good?” I repeat her question from earlier.

  She glows with post orgasmic bliss, her hair an absolute mess from the static charge of the rug. “Whew… Henry, if that’s what you can do with your fingers...”

  Our eyes meet. For a moment, it’s there. The permission. The need to be ravished, right here, in front of the fire. To be fucked hard and fast, for me to roll on top of her, spread her gorgeous legs, and take her with the same intensity I see shining in her eyes. I run my palm up her stomach and to her breasts. She arches into my touch. She wants it just as much as me.

  But I promised I wouldn’t. I told her I would wait. She’s not going to regret one second she spends with me, and I know it’s too soon. No matter how much lust is in her eyes right now, she’s not ready.

  So, however much I will kick myself for it in the morning, I roll away and stand up. I feel the void I leave in my wake and her hurt eyes following me as I pace toward my four-poster and seize the bedspread and a couple pillows.

  I turn and loft one of the pillows toward her, watching with amusement as it fluffs down straight on her face. A giggle comes from beneath the pillow, and a part of me feels like we’re kids again as I settle back down beside her, covering us both with the blanket.

  She fluffs her pillow and I stare at her, still amazed that this gorgeous creature beside me is the same girl from my childhood. “If someone had told me ten years ago that one day I would be lying naked beside my best friend’s kid sister, Ms. Annoying As Shit Abi, and I would have bet my crown against it.”

  She runs a finger across the hot skin of my chest and grins. “Let’s just say, it’s a good thing we aren’t kids anymore, Henry. Because you make me want to be very naughty, in the most adult ways possible.”

  I shake my head with a grin. “I had a lot of fun growing up. But this? There’s no comparison. I much prefer these activities. I guess the days of you hiding in trees and spying on your brother and I, are long over, aren’t they?”

  Her smile is easy and beautiful. “Most certainly, I would say. But tell me, Prince Henry, what has happened between you and my brother? You two don’t seem to be glued together these days like you used to be.”

  “Ah, I’m not sure,” I say as casually as I can. I don’t want to bring up my frustrations at Spencer’s apathetic attitude, or the terrible fucking choice of company he’s keeping lately. She might already be painfully aware of his lack of concern about her wellbeing, and I don’t want to throw salt in the wound. “Perhaps we’ve grown apart a bit lately.”

  She turns to me, propping her fist against her temple as she lay. “I suppose you’re coming into a lot of responsibility, aren’t you? Besides approving the floral arrangements, that is.”

  I know the track of thought she’s pursuing. Spencer might be doing his damnedest to avoid becoming involved in the politics of the Strathmore family, but I can’t escape my responsibilities any longer.

  “Yes, I am. As are you, it seems. I’m not entirely convinced you’re coming home to get married bec
ause you have a deep, abiding desire to marry a baron, earl, or duke.”

  Her eyes fall from her eager perusal of my exposed chest, and I wish I hadn’t brought it up. She rolls to her back, one arm behind her head. “A prince has his responsibilities, a lady has hers.”

  I run the comment over in my head. Surely, she can’t mean what I think. Courtly affairs in Ostwyn can be archaic at times, and I know matches have been made with politics or status in mind, but...

  A series of three hard knocks sound against the thick, mahogany doors to my private suite. The deep voice is muffled through the hard wood. “Your Highness. The last of the guests have emptied the halls, and the palace is quiet. We can escort Lady—” there’s a pause as Pierre thinks better of saying Abi’s name even now “—your guest back to her suite whenever she’s ready.”

  Still uncomfortable from my question, Abi stirs and begins to rise. I catch her arm. “No. Not yet. We don’t have to talk about it. You can tell me about Africa and the water crisis, and oh! I’ve heard rumors that there’s a story about you involving muck boots and elephant shit — I need to hear that one.” I give her a wide, inviting smile. “Just stay a little bit.”

  “A while longer?”

  “Yes, a while longer. Come on, lie back down with me.”

  I pat the bed and Abi lies back on the pillow. I rest my arm over her, my hand between her bare breasts.

  I lift my head and call out toward the door. “We’re fine for now, Pierre. Thank you.”

  “Very well, Your Grace,” comes the muffled reply.

  She interlaces her fingers with mine, a mischievous smile gracing her beautiful lips. “You really want to know about Africa?”

  I pull the blankets over top of us and bring her in closer. “Yes. Tell me everything.”

  “Well, it’s big, and hot... and so was the elephant shit, by the way…”

  Chapter Eleven

  ABIGAIL

  I’ve been seated in the small conference room in the business center annex of the palace for twenty minutes now, waiting for this dreadful meeting to get started, but everyone is still chattering on like a flock of starlings. I know Henry is waiting for me to sneak up to his suite the moment I’m free, and all I can think about is his handsome face and strong, muscular body, laying across his huge bed, naked and warm, just begging to be touched and kissed and…

  I wipe the back of my hand against my mouth because I’m literally drooling at the thought.

  The senior advisor, Sir Eldridge, clears his throat. “Let’s get to the matter at hand, shall we?”

  The chatter of the small council advising my family quiets down, and all eyes turn to Sir Eldridge. I fidget in my seat, already eager to leave since I hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. But I’d rather be here than have them all talk about me behind closed doors. Sure, they’d say they’re talking about the future of the House of Beauregard, but right now, I’m responsible for the future.

  My mother places a hand on my lap, pressing gently against my leg, her signal for me to be still. I wasn’t even aware my foot had been tapping madly. On the other side of me sits my father, Lord Strathmore, Baron of Beauregard. The remaining six seats are taken up by four of my parent’s most-trusted advisors, including Sir Eldridge, and two gentlemen from the Historical Council.

  Sir Eldridge stands, always one for dramatic tradition, and puts a hand across his chest, grasping onto the lapel of his suit as if he is about to launch into a long speech. Please God, no.

  “As we all know, the Historical Council discreetly brought a matter to our attention earlier this year. Since that time, the information they exhibited has been thoroughly researched and examined. From all accounts, it appears to be valid, which presents quite a quandary. According to the paperwork discovered by the Historical Council, the entire estate of the House of Beauregard is held in trust, stemming from an agreement drawn up over three centuries ago.”

  I’m back to fidgeting. I’ve heard this before. In fact, we’ve all heard this before. The unnecessary repetition of these meetings are going to be the death of me, I know it.

  Studiously keeping his eyes averted from my general direction, he continues, “It requires that all female children born to the reigning nobles of the House of Beauregard must marry before reaching the age of twenty-three. Otherwise, all holdings of the House of Beauregard, including the principal home of the Baron and Baroness, and all other assets that have been passed down through inheritance, such as properties, goods, and monies, shall transfer in ownership to the eldest son of legal age of the most recent generation in Master Goutley’s direct lineage.”

  Finally, Sir Eldridge concludes his long-winded summary and sits down. He gestures at the men from the Historical Council. “Please proceed with your report now, Mr. Howell.”

  All eyes shift to the end of the table, where an elderly white-haired man blinks slowly before pointing at the much younger man to his left. “If it please the council, I will let Mr. Crofts provide the update.”

  “Of course.” Sir Eldridge nods, dismissing the weary older noble from his duties and waves a hand for the younger man to stand.

  Mr. Crofts pushes his chair back and stands nervously, the papers in his hand shaking slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to share. We’ve been working diligently to trace the lineage of the original signer, Master Goutley, but we have yet been unable to complete the task. To date, the only official records we have of his name are on various legal documents like the one in question today. We can’t find him in any marriage or christening records.”

  My father leans forward. “So, you have still not identified the gentleman who would serve as the current representative of Master Goutley’s agreement?”

  “That is correct.” Mr. Crofts licks his lips and swallows. “We aren’t even sure there is a legitimate heir, but unofficial records of the time seem to point to his having eventually married and produced male heirs, yes.”

  “Do you have an estimate on how soon this task will be completed?”

  The gentleman looks down at his elderly colleague, but he remains silent, staring straight ahead. Mr. Crofts looks back up at my father, who is waiting expectantly.

  “Um, no, my Lord, I don’t have an anticipated timeline on that. We — we’re trying to create a family tree. We have scholars combing the church records for marriages and births, and the name Goutley does, indeed appear, but as there have been at least eleven generations that we’re aware of since the agreement was ratified by the eighteenth-century court, it’s… it’s quite an undertaking.”

  My father sighs and leans back in his chair, frowning. On my left, my mother raises a finger and speaks up.

  “Have you been successful in learning more about the history of this agreement?”

  “Yes,” the gentleman says, a look of relief washing across his face at the change of topic. “We found two letters and an old journal — undated — of Master Goutley’s in the Doremont University Library that bring some clarification to the issue. Apparently, in the early 1700s, the Strathmore family fell on hard times and required a sizeable loan to maintain Beauregard and the other properties. Master Goutley offered his hand in marriage to Catherine, the middle daughter of the Baron and Baroness, in exchange for a large donation. One of the letters indicates that it was a very generous sum, but the daughter refused. He then offered his hand to the eldest daughter, who also refused.”

  The young man pauses and pulls at his collar, sweat running across his brow. “The youngest child was still a mere infant, so there were no further options. Fortunately, the Baron was still able to negotiate an agreement to borrow the funds from Master Goutley, which according to the ledger, were eventually repaid in full within ten years.”

  “Then what is this ridiculous clause about?” my mother asks. “Why insist that the women of Beauregard be married in order for the family to continue as rightful owners of the estate?”

  Mr. Crofts clears his throat and motions to the el
derly Mr. Howell. “Perhaps my colleague is better prepared to explain.”

  I steal a glance at my mother, who looks quite impatient, perhaps as much as I do. Why on earth this needs to drag on so long with silly formalities, I have no idea.

  I’ve already decided I’m going to get married for the sake of the agreement and my family’s estate. I silently pray for the meeting to speed up. Just tell us the news and let us get on with our day, for goodness sake — I have a very sexy, very naked Prince waiting to do all sorts of naughty, delicious things to me. But it’s not like I can blurt that out and excuse myself, so I just sigh quietly and go back to fidgeting, which at least gives my mother something to fuss about instead of feeling sad for me.

  Mr. Howell doesn’t rise. He shifts in his seat to look at mother and gives her a deadpan expression. “It wasn’t unusual for marriage clauses to be in the last will and testament of influential families of the time. Fathers didn’t want their daughters turning into spinsters, they wanted them properly married to someone of good standing, to continue the status and influence of the family.”

  My mother purses her lips disapprovingly. “But this wasn’t a will.”

  “Right. I was just explaining that these clauses weren’t terribly unusual for the times. However, you are correct, this was not the watchful eye of a father wanting to ensure his children were well married. No, what we have here is a simple case of temperament.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Simply put, Master Goutley put the clause into the agreement because he could. After being turned down by the middle daughter, Goutley was sure the elder would accept, since for the times, she was becoming rather old to find a match amongst her peers. She was twenty-four, you see. He had rather ripe language for her in his diary, if you’ll excuse my bluntness, Baroness. It’s no wonder no one wanted to marry him, even for money, because he was a mean old bastard, and that’s putting it nicely. According to every mention of him that we’ve come across, he was a very unpleasant man who enjoyed the misery of others, especially if he was the cause.”