“Adrenaline,” she said, running her hands up and down her thighs. There was nothing she could do to stop the shaking, the mild nausea, not until her body had leveled out. “It’ll pass.”
“Question,” he said, still twisted to face her. “Is my code name really baby?”
She snickered and made the mistake of glancing at him. The desire in his eyes reverberated through her. “Yes.”
“Because I’m yours?” he asked, the false innocence of the question drowned out by the dangerous undertone. A swollen heat inside her shuddered at the thought of him using the pet name on her. C’mere, baby, he’d growl in her ear, his hands on her skin, I need you to do that again.
“Because you’re the youngest,” she said firmly.
“Sure,” he said. “What’s Tommy’s?”
“Chip.” For the chip in his front tooth. “Mark is Jack and Ava is Pixie.”
Kris opened his mouth, but it was several seconds before he said in bafflement, “Jack?”
“Mark’s totally a Jack,” she said. “You know, the trustworthy hero in every action movie ever.”
“That is very weird,” he said. “I like mine the best.”
Of course he did. With his panic easing, Frankie sensed the prickle of his earlier restlessness settling back into place. He stretched, returning his palms to the cobblestones behind him. But this time, one hand crossed over into her space and he leaned into it, bringing his shoulder so close her whole arm seemed to blush. His attention, when she darted a look at his face, was roaming over her bare legs.
Ignoring the arousal that feathered low in her abdomen, she said, “You’re in a mood tonight.”
He hummed, a deep resonant sound that vibrated down her spine. “Can’t shake it.”
She bit the inside of her mouth, praying for strength, until something he’d said a few nights ago finally registered in a gut-drop of realization.
He hadn’t been with a woman since arriving in Kiraly.
This sex-fueled cowboy was brimming with lust, an overfilled bucket left under a waterfall with no one to empty it, and the last thing anyone needed was his sexual frustration gushing over into his daily life. It would distract him from his training, his duty. Make him brash and careless. Horse riding and intense gym workouts weren’t enough to free this man from his primal urges.
Philip had given her this job because she alone knew these untrained princes. She knew the security they needed. How to prevent trouble, he’d added, and maybe that was true after all, because she knew the man beside her wasn’t built for abstinence.
Well, this was going to be as fun as a bludgeon to the heart.
“I think we both know what might take the edge off,” she said very quietly.
His look was flat-out incredulous.
“I can line up an NDA,” she said, aiming for matter-of-fact. “We can head back to the bar. You won’t be short of willing—”
“Stop talking.” He swooped in, twisting his body around to crouch in front of her, planting his hands on either side of her hips, bringing his face inches from hers. His eyes were bright, burning in the soft garden lights, and his voice was rough as gravel as he said, “Never suggest I have sex with someone who isn’t you.”
She rolled her lips together.
“I’m going to figure this out,” he said, his thrumming body so close that her own ached to open to him. “I’m made of gunpowder around you, Frankie. One look and my blood sparks and my heart flares and my whole body braces for combustion.” His chest was pressed against her knee, and instinctively, she slid her leg outward to give him space, only for it to position him squarely between her spread thighs. “This restlessness, this frustration, it’s all you. It’s finally caught up with me. Knowing you want it too—I’ve got no way to calm it down. I need you. Frankie.” His voice dropped to a growl. “I’m on fire for you.”
She couldn’t move; she didn’t want to move beneath the heat of his breath. He smelled like morning-after sheets on a bed she’d never want to leave, and his steady gaze betrayed he had no intention of pulling away without being asked.
The silence was his question—and slowly became her answer.
Features harsh with desire, his attention slid down to her neck. Her blood beat harder at her throat, flurrying, a hand impatiently ushering him closer. She shouldn’t do this—shouldn’t open herself up to him like a purse with a broken latch. In one deft movement he’d take everything inside, right down to the gold coin caught in the lining. She’d have nothing left when he moved on—just emptiness and the fading memory of the way he’d brushed up against her. But she knew. Despite a friendship of caution and constant evasion, she knew.
That coin had always been his to take.
Breathless, she angled her chin up just a fraction. An invitation, an opening.
He took it, lashes dropping as he leaned in to her neck.
It was a clean touch of his lips, yet still she gasped, spine arching as if he’d bore his full weight down on her. Kris. He stilled, before inhaling deeply, his back expanding as he breathed her in, his nose pressed to her skin, his untamed hair at her jaw. Then his lips found her again and it was the searing heat of his open mouth, the wet thrill of his tongue against her throat. Her hand tangled in his hair, soft as flowing water, and he groaned, opening wider, tasting her, his shoulders shifting as he brought himself closer, his hands moving to grasp her hips.
“Frankie,” he said on a strained whisper. Buried in her neck, he spoke her name as a question, a request, a desperate plea.
Hot and aching all over, she closed her eyes. She wanted to give in, take the step that thrummed like a rope beneath her feet, almost too taut for her to maintain her balance. He’d steady her, hold her up for just long enough to feel the weightlessness of his embrace. But then—then she’d fall, hollowed out right down to her very lining.
And his duty wouldn’t permit him to catch her.
“No more,” she whispered.
His body grew rigid with restraint; he didn’t move.
She forced herself to speak. “You said you didn’t expect anything from me.”
Another moment passed before he groaned, very different than the last, and drew back out of the frame of her thighs. He dropped beside her, fist pressed to his forehead. “I don’t. But I want it.”
Something frail splintered inside her. “I’ve told you I can’t.”
“I’m not expecting you to bear me children,” he said, practically hoarse with restraint. “I’m working on it.”
She pressed her knees together, uneasy. “Working on what?”
“There must be a way.”
“There isn’t.”
“Don’t expect me not to fight for you.” He crackled like a live wire beside her.
She’d failed spectacularly at calming him down.
“There are ways,” he said. “We can be a modern royal family. Or Tommy, he might—”
“Do not put pressure on Tommy to produce heirs.”
“There are ways,” he said again, firmly.
No. Nothing could erase her upbringing; nothing would stop their children being referred to as royal juvies or the state’s own delinquents. Illegitimate heirs would be preferable to those borne by a criminal. They wouldn’t be trusted; their every decision would be raked over hot coals. If Kris’s uncle Vinci were alive today, he would refuse the very notion in an indignant, horrified rage.