“Yes, very good hands.”
His words prompt my gaze to drop to the hands clasped together in front of him. Long fingers, neatly clipped nails, golden tan skin. Strong hands. Capable hands. My own fists clench at my sides as I force my brain not to go there. The place I’ve been fighting against for over twenty years.
I glance up to find the American eyeing me curiously. A stray dark curl has fallen over his forehead and I decide to extricate myself from the situation before I do something ridiculous, like reach out to brush it back. With a curt nod, I turn on my heel and stride from the room, making a beeline for my private study where I take a seat at my large mahogany desk and start sifting through the pile of papers that have been left for me.
As the king of a parliamentary monarchy, my role is largely ceremonial, but as the Head of State it’s my signature that’s needed for any laws passed through Parliament to be ratified. And because I prefer to understand everything I’m putting my name to, I spend a fair amount of time reading through parliamentary minutes and examining the wording of new laws that have been passed by the houses. It’s incredibly rare for a monarch to block a law once it’s been passed. The members of Parliament have been elected to represent the people, after all. But even so, I like to keep myself informed. I also need to keep abreast of the Cabinet minutes—the discussions and decisions that happen behind closed doors and without any need for my approval. It’s important I remain as impartial as possible, and while the Prime Minister will keep me in the loop on any major decisions, more often than not it’s the government that will give advice to me rather than the other way round.
At the moment, the biggest issue seems to be Tomas’s schooling. I am eager for him to attend Eton like I did, but the government feels that inadvisable given Britain’s exit from the European Union.
And because he’s likely to be attending school in France or Germany, he needs someone to teach him those languages…
I feel my features bunch in skepticism as I recall my meeting with the young American tutor. I find it hard to imagine him being as qualified as Veronika claimed. He looked as though he’d be better suited to life as an underwear model than a tutor.
My mouth goes dry as an image flicks into my brain: The American wearing nothing but a pair of tight briefs, posing for the camera, nearly every inch of his tan skin on display.
The grip on the pen in my hand is white-knuckled, my jaw tight as I banish the image from my mind. But it’s too late; my body is already responding, the front of my trousers tightening as blood rushes to my cock.
I stare at the page in front of me, my brain failing to process the words as I simply focus on the paper, willing my body to relax and my erection to wane. I can’t have this. Not now.
“Future kings are not faggots!” The sharp echo of my father’s voice is all it takes to sap away any lingering shred of desire.
“Your majesty?”
I startle at the sound of the voice so close to me and glance up to find Lachlan Boyd, the head of my personal security team hovering at the other side of my desk.
“Apologies, sir, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Boyd says in his Scottish lilt. “I was concerned when Lena buzzed through and you didn’t answer.”
Shit. I hadn’t even heard the buzz of the intercom on my desk.
I wave his apology away. “It’s fine. What’s the issue?”
His brows crawl up toward his hairline. “It’s ten o’clock, sir. The Prime Minister’s here for his weekly meeting.”
Fuck. “Of course. Send him in.”
3
JAI
After my meeting with the king—and boy was that an interesting encounter! —I head back to my suite for some private time. I know I should probably be using this time to get the lay of the palace, but I’m just way too exhausted from the long trip, and I’ve got all tomorrow morning to figure things out.
I throw myself onto my plush, queen-sized bed, still pretty much mortified I told the king of Korova I care about his pleasure. I throw my hands over my face and let out a loud groan of humiliation. Haven’t even started work yet and I’ve already fucked up completely.
But can you honestly blame me? If he wasn’t the king—and my boss—I’d be all over that walking wet dream like a dog that needs fixing. So it’s probably a good thing he is the king...
I’ve seen plenty of pictures of King Lukas III, but damn, they do not do him justice compared to the real life version. He’s taller than I realized—at least six three—and although he always appears smartly dressed and well-groomed in pictures, they do nothing to show off just how amazingly a perfectly tailored three-piece suit can mold to the broad shoulders, narrow waist and incredible ass of a man like King Lukas. I also never realized how beautiful his eyes are: deep set in a chiseled face and framed by thick lashes, they’re the kind of green that makes me think of tropical beaches.
But the real clincher? His voice. I’ve never heard him speak before and I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. His accent is mostly British from the time he spent at school there, but there’s a faint hint of a Korovan lilt, all wrapped up in a gravelly tone that makes my balls tingle. It’s no wonder this guy’s been voted World’s Sexiest Head of State three years in a row.
I roll over onto my stomach, burying my head in the pillows and letting out another groan of frustration. Why can’t he be old and bald and fat like the last king was? The absolute last thing I need when starting off at this new job is to be chubbing out every time I see my new boss. Or, if right now is any indication, any time I even think about him.
I need to get a fucking grip. Nothing is ever going to happen. And not just because I’m barely a tutor and he’s the freakin’ king. He’s straight. Straight. Straight. Straight. He was married to a woman. He had kids with her. He’s straight.
It was definitely my over-active imagination that saw him subtly checking me out earlier. He was only trying to size me up to gauge my suitability for the job at hand. No way was he staring at my hands and imagining them wrapped around his dick. No way, whatsoever. That was totally in my head.
I hear the ring of my suite’s doorbell and with a sense of deja vu, I reluctantly pull myself off the bed to go answer it. On the other side, I find a woman who I’d guess to be in her late thirties. She’s attractive, with a curvy frame, rich auburn hair, and a sweet smile. But, as we’ve already established, she’s decidedly not my type.
“Uh, hi?”
“Jai Winters—am I right?” Her British accent is most definitely upper-crust.
I nod. “That’s me.”
She sticks a hand out for me to shake. “I’m Penny Tamlin. It’s lovely to meet you.”
My brows shoot upward as I absently take her hand to shake. “You’re Ms. Tamlin? The other tutor?”
She offers a wry smile as we drop hands. “Let me guess, you were expecting a stuffy old woman?”
“Uh, yeah, kind of. Veronika said you’ve been here since Prince Aleksandr was a boy.”
She nods. “I have. I started when I was around your age. I actually went to school with both King Lukas and Queen Lesia, so a smidge of nepotism may have come into play.”