Rather than allow Tovian to get settled in his assigned quarters, I take him to mine. My bag is already placed on a wooden stand. It stands out like a turd amongst the opulence.
I drape my travel-worn jacket over the chair beside my desk. Tovian stands rooted in place, taking it all in. The huge four-poster with a red canopy and silver tassels. The mirror and changing screen. The enormous armoire that holds only a portion of my extensive wardrobe. I’m a clotheshorse. So sue me. I can’t wait to have an excuse to wear something pretty for once.
“This is your room?”
“Since childhood,” I grin, throwing out my arms and twirling. “I have my own bathroom and everything.” I strip off the long-sleeved shirt I’ve worn for three days straight. “Come and check it out?”
Seconds later, Tovian’s clothes are on the floor. Our mouths meet hungrily. Off went my bra. Down went my trousers. I kick them away, using his shoulder to balance while I strip off my socks.
Naked, I palm his cock. He groans against my mouth.
“I’m not sleeping away from you,” he growls. “I want to wake up next to you like this.” He skimmed one palm down my back and grabs my ass. “I want to wake up with your hair stuck to my skin and breathing in your scent.”
I laughed. “I smell like horse.”
“You smell like wildfires and salt.”
“The smoke smell will never come out of my clothes.”
“An excellent excuse to go naked.”
I giggle. My lips met the curve of his shoulder. He scoops me up, legs wrapped around his waist, and carries me into the stone bathing enclosure. No glass. Only a single knob that turns on a stream of water heated to the perfect temperature.
Being a princess has its perks.
His teeth gaze over a sensitive spot on my throat. I spike my fingers into his hair, reveling in the crisp texture, molding my palm to the contours of his skull. Warm water sluices over us. Weeks of weariness melt away. Unerringly, he finds my slick center and stroked, driving my need higher. Deeper. Faster. I clench around him and cry out, the sound muffled by face buried in the crook of his neck.
Tovian lets me ride it out on his clever fingers. Before my climax fully subsides, he hooks my leg over his forearm and drives inside me. My hand curls around the back of his neck and I moan, loudly, as he sets a vicious pace. I come again before the aftershocks from the first orgasm have worn off. The sound of our bodies slapping fills my ears.
His movement sharpens. He’s close. I cup his face between my hands, trusting him not to let me fall, and kiss him. Tovian’s arms lock around my waist. We come in unison, panting into one another’s mouths, our limbs tangled together. I exhale. Tovian touches his forehead to mine.
“Welcome to River Bend,” I whisper, stroking his back. He sets me down. “I guess it’s time for you to meet my father.”
Emotions I can’t fully read shimmer in his warm brown eyes.
“I can’t wait.”
#
Dressed in traditional Mysec clothing, Tovian looks every inch a prince. Not that he doesn’t exude royal confidence in his hunting shorts and sandals, but seeing him in my people’s costume highlights his innate distinguished confidence.
I can’t help wondering whether this is how he saw me, when I was first meeting his people.
My father greets us in the throne room. If it were just me coming home, he wouldn’t bother with formality. We’d catch up in his private apartments. The display is to demonstrate respect to Tovian—or to intimidate him. Or both.
“It is an honor to meet a member of the reclusive Ansi tribe,” King Myseci begins, his gaze flicking from me to Tovian and back again. In the months I’ve been gone, my father’s thick hair has gone from salt-and-pepper to frosty gray-and-white. Few strands of his once-black mane remain. There’s a tiredness about him that squeezes my heart.
He’s getting old. He never meant to lead as king for this long. I should have stepped into my rightful role years ago instead of leaving wartime leadership to fall on his aging shoulders.
“The honor is all mine.” Tovian bows deeply. “My mother, Queen Brenica of the Ansi, has sent a gift.”
My eyebrows lift. Tovian produces a small wrapped object, deftly folding back the cloth edges to reveal a carved figurine of a dragon about the size of my fist. I gasp.
The king holds it up, turning it to catch the light. Black volcanic stone, polished to a high gloss, is inlaid with gemstone eyes. The wings and claws are delicately painted. The dragon is posed on three legs, one foreleg raised, with its wings extended. The wings are so finely carved they’re translucent.
“How did you carry that all the way from Oceanside without breaking it?” I whisper. Tovian doesn’t glance at me.
“Very carefully.”
