Not Fit for a King?

He knew she’d never been spoiled by her parents. If anything, her parents had been hard on her, holding her to an exacting standard that she could never meet, which made Emmeline desperate to please. The world might see her as a glowing, confident princess but her father had warned Zale that she could be difficult and at times, terribly insecure.

King William d’Arcy’s warning had worried Zale as he did not need a difficult and insecure wife, much less a fragile, demanding queen.

But Zale’s late father had wanted this match very much. In his eyes, Princess Emmeline had been the perfect choice for Zale, and although his father had died five years ago, Zale wanted to honor his father’s wishes, hoping that once the beautiful Emmeline reached Raguva she would settle in, settle down and become the ideal bride his father imagined her to be.

They’d reached her suite and for a moment neither said anything. “It’s been a long day,” he said at length, breaking the uncomfortable silence, even as he wondered how he could marry her with so many doubts.

But she was here, another part of his brain argued. She’d come when she’d said she would, and she’d behaved perfectly proper tonight. More than proper, she’d been beautiful, approachable, likable.

“It has,” she agreed.

“Tomorrow night will be far less formal. There is no state dinner, just a quiet dinner together, so that should be relatively easy.”

She nodded, looking up at him, her blue eyes dark with an emotion he couldn’t decipher. “I’m sure it will be.”

He stared down into her face, wondering how this warm, appealing woman could be the remote, cold Emmeline of the past year.

“Is there anything you need?” he asked now. “Anything that hasn’t been provided?”

“Everything has been wonderful.”

Her answer baffled him even more. “No special requests? You’ve my ear now. I’m happy to oblige.”

She shook her head.

“You’re happy to be here then?”

Her full mouth curved into a tremulous smile. “Of course.”

He didn’t know if it was the inexplicable shimmer of tears in her eyes, or that uncertain smile, but suddenly Europe’s most beautiful princess looked so very alone and vulnerable that Zale reached for her, putting his hand low on her back and finding bare skin.

Her head tipped back, her blue gaze finding his. Zale’s hand slipped lower, his palm sliding down warm satin skin.

He heard her soft intake of breath as he drew her closer, holding her against him, her full, soft breasts crushed to his chest. He dropped his head, covering her mouth with his.

It was to have been a brief kiss, a good-night kiss, but when her lips trembled beneath his he felt a rush of hunger. Desire.

Power.

He drew her closer still, molding her to him with pressure in the small of her back.

She shivered against him and his pulse quickened, blood pounding in his veins, making his body hot, and hard.

The need to possess her filled him, consuming him, and ruthlessly he deepened the kiss, taking her as if she already belonged to him.

The insistent pressure of his lips parted hers, and the tip of his tongue flicked the softness of her inner lip making her squirm. The urgent press of her hips against his made blood roar in his ears and he nipped at her mouth, small bites that made her shudder with pleasure.

God, she was sensitive. Responsive. Her body trembled against him, and he slid his hand from the small of her spine down, lower, over the pert curve of her backside, which made her gasp, her nipples hardening, pebbling against his chest through the thin silk of her gown.

Blood coursed through him.

Desire pounded through his veins.

She was deliciously smooth, deliciously curved and he wanted more of her, all of her. His body throbbed.

God, she was hot and tasted sweet. He wanted to rip her gown off her, strip her voluptuous body bare and explore her curves and hollows—like the dip of her spine, the space behind her knee, the softness between her thighs.

He wanted between her thighs. Wanted to part her knees as wide as he could—

Reality returned. What the hell was he doing? They were in the hall. In full view of the hidden cameras broadcasting images to his security detail.

His hand stilled on her hip. He removed the other from beneath her breast.

Slowly he lifted his head to look into her eyes. They were dark and cloudy, her lips swollen, her expression dazed.

“I’m afraid we’ve given my security a show,” he said, voice pitched low and rough.

Color rushed into her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

He brushed a blond tendril from her flushed cheek, finding her nearly irresistible. “I’m not. Good night, Your Highness.”