Christmas In The City (Imperfect Match 1.50)

“Have you ever been someone’s job, Mr. Grimsby?”

His gaze sharpens, and it feels for a moment that he really does see me. No one ever really does. Even the attendants who help me out of my gowns and jewels, who prepare my bath, who see me naked—don’t see me at all. They see the regal queen. The grieving widow. The loving mother. The dedicated regent.

Who sees the woman? The one who aches for a touch, longs for a kiss at night? A hand to hold on a walk through the garden?

“The paths we choose often have pitfalls we never anticipated,” he says. “If being too safe is one of yours, count yourself lucky.”

“You think I chose this path?” I ask with a bitter little smile. “People like me don’t get to choose. I was born to be the king’s wife.”

He watches me for a moment, and his eyes narrow in curiosity, realization. Understanding.

“And what would you have chosen to be if not a queen?”

Chapter 2

Grim

She blinks up at me as if the thought has never occurred to her; as if indeed, like she said, no path was ever open to her that didn’t lead to the throne. Her pretty mouth, rounded into a surprised “O,” slowly stretches into a wide smile.

“What if I said a teacher?” she asks teasingly, her English flawless, but lilted with the slightest bit of an accent. “Or a pastry chef?”

A smile so rarely used it almost creaks curves my lips. “Somehow I can’t see you wearing an apron.”

But then I do.

An apron and nothing else.

In my imagination, she wears an apron as red as her lips, tied tight at her slim waist, straining over the flare of her hips. Her pretty ass is bare, the dark gold skin reddened from a slap to each rounded cheek. The loop of the apron around her neck sags so her full tits push at the neckline, the brown nipples peeking over the edge.

Shiiiiiiit.

This is a queen, not one of the escorts I fuck when I need to nut. Nothing fogs a clear mind like horniness, so even I have to take the edge off every once in a while, but there’s no emotional attachment. No feelings. Queen Noelani—with her hair, a fall of midnight down her back and over her shoulders, velvet skin, and dark, luminous eyes—is a feelings woman. How could a man not feel something for a woman like this? I’ve never met anyone like her.

You’ve never met anyone like her because she’s a queen, you stupid son of a bitch.

I’ve met queens, but none quite like Noelani of Manaroa. I kill my rare smile and frown, searching the room until I spot Rangi, her security guard, standing by Hehu, her advisor.

“I better get you back to your people.” I take her elbow gently. “I’ll walk you over to your team.”

“Do I really seem that fragile?” she asks, resisting my pull and standing her ground. “That I can’t walk across a room alone without getting myself killed?”

The gold evening dress loves every curve of her petite body. A tiare flower made of diamonds and yellow sapphires pins back the thick, dark waves of her hair on one side, and even in heels she only reaches the middle of my chest. Yes, she seems fragile and breakable. And so very fuckable.

And somehow precious.

If she were mine, I wouldn’t leave her alone for ten seconds, much less the ten minutes her guard Rangi has been across the room.

He’d be fired if she were mine. And punched in the face.

“I’m sorry,” she says, lashes lowered into thick fans shielding her eyes from me. “I’m sure you have better things to do than entertain a spoiled royal.”

“I don’t think you’re spoiled.”

The opposite. Unspoiled. Even wrapped in layers of wealth and sophistication, there is an obstinate innocence to her.

“Yes, well, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” The lush lips settle into a resigned line, and she squares her elegant shoulders as if for battle. “You can take me to them now.”

“Where would you like to go?”