The Crown Prince's Bride (Royal Duology 2)

She half hoped he’d say he wanted to get some air and saw her as a pure coincidence. The other half of her hoped he’d come out to find her.

“To find you,” he answered.

Oh. Oh.

The doors to the terrace creaked, and then closed. Whoever had been out here before had gone back inside and closed the doors behind them. The laughter and music were muffled now, and instead Stephani could also hear the soft sound of the breeze and the mesmerizing shush of the water in the garden fountain.

“I asked a question earlier and you said you didn’t know. Maybe I should ask it again.” She lifted her chin, scared to death, yet filled with rich anticipation. “What are we doing, Raoul?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was hoarse. “I shouldn’t be out here. I shouldn’t have held you so close when we were dancing, or looked into your eyes. I shouldn’t have kissed you at my birthday last year. I shouldn’t want to kiss you right now, but I do.”

She could barely breathe. “Why shouldn’t you?” She wanted him to say it. To either put an end to the madness or surrender to it.

“Because you’re my assistant. Because you’re Ceci’s cousin. Because I’m not over her.”

That was it, wasn’t it? Steph was almost ready to back away when he finished, “And because I want you so much I can’t think straight.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Dios mío.

Heat rushed up her body into her face and she clutched the jacket lapels tighter. She’d known Raoul for a decade, maybe a bit longer. Her fascination with his title and status had long faded until she saw only the man and not the monarchy. But just now, hearing him say those words, she was momentarily struck by the fact that a prince—the crown prince, no less—had just admitted that he wanted her.

That he desired her.

That he was so clouded by it he couldn’t think straight.

Impossible. Only . . . it wasn’t. Because he wasn’t some two-dimensional Prince Charming. He was Raoul Navarro. Her boss and her—dare she say it—best friend, now that Ceci was gone. They worked together. They’d mourned together. And right now he was touching her face with gentle fingers while her eyelids fluttered closed.

“It’s not just me, is it?” The uncertainty in his voice reached into her heart. Him, insecure? If she weren’t already so overwhelmed, she’d laugh. Instead, she leaned into his touch.

“It’s not just you. Not even a little bit.”

He kissed her then. The last time he’d had too much Scotch and wasn’t thinking straight at all. Maybe this time they were swept away in the day or whatever spell had bewitched them, but a few glasses of wine weren’t enough to cloud anyone’s judgment. She was fully aware of who she was, where she was, and who she was with. And so was he.

His lips were soft, warm, and seductive. While she knew it was in his power to be commanding, to take charge, this was a side of Raoul that few ever saw or could appreciate. There was tenderness and patience. A willingness to explore that made her head swim with delight. He was a man who knew how to be decisive, and also knew when to step back and let things unfold. This moment was one of the latter, and she was ever so glad. The way he kissed her was so swoon-worthy she thought she might have to let go of the lapels and hang on to his shoulders just so she didn’t melt into a puddle at his feet.

He nibbled at her lower lip. “Mmmm.” His mouth slid over her jaw until he nipped at her earlobe, which sent several points of arousal to full attention. “Oh,” he murmured, his voice rich and warm. “I see.”

Then he nipped at it again and Steph swallowed a groan. She had to be quiet. No one could know they were out here.

As if he sensed her thoughts, he pulled her with him so they were shadowed by a tall potted tree. In the process he tugged on her hand and she pitched forward, her body pressed against his, clenched fists still between them.

Then she dropped her hands; the jacket slipped off her shoulders and tumbled to the terrace stones. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him forward, just enough that they were kissing again, with less restraint and patience than before.

His hand slid over her shoulder, warm against her bare skin, and goose bumps ran down her arms. Their breaths grew short as urgency grew, and Raoul’s palm slid over her breast. She pressed into his hand, needing to feel close to him, to feel connected. To . . . reach him in some way, and make him see it was her. Steph. She was the one here, flesh and blood, in his arms, kissing his lips, moaning into his mouth as he touched her.

More than anything, she wanted him to finally, finally see the woman she was. Below the surface of job titles and casual relationships. She wanted him to see her the way she saw him.

“Steph,” he whispered, slowing the kiss a little, running his lips over her forehead. “We shouldn’t be doing this out here.”

She swallowed her fear and leaned back just enough that she could look him in the face. “Then do you want to take it somewhere else?”

The naked yearning on his face gave her the answer, but his words contradicted it. “I can’t. Not that I don’t want to, but . . .” He lifted his hands and cupped her face. “It’s too soon. I don’t want to . . .” He frowned. “I don’t want to make a mistake.”

Ouch. It hurt to hear he thought being with her would be a mistake. But he must have seen her reaction, because he quickly amended, “Not a mistake being with you, but a misstep. I don’t want to be careless with you.”

For a brief second, Stephani wished she was the kind of woman to inspire a man to make missteps and mistakes. The kind of woman to awaken a great passion, rather than a strategic response.