The Royal and the Rebel (Royally Pitched 2)

14

28 February

Xavier Hall

Rowan had many concerns. Chemistry was not one of them.

He still remembered the moment Juliana’s mouth had met his and the tunneling of his vision, her tentative response to his nip on her bottom lip, the sweet taste of her; the involuntary response of his body; and the tightening of his hold on her. When he’d withdrawn from her embrace, he’d experienced the most incredible regret—for the abruptness of his retreat and the knowledge that he’d never get another opportunity to dive back into her. He sensed an innocence in the kiss, a sort of wonder at the experience of it, yet a tenacious yearning to know more. And he had to shut down an almost caveman-like desire to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off somewhere to see what else he could discover about her as his body ravaged hers. Later, he chalked the experience up to his desire to thwart all things royal. And he’d wanted to thwart her in the most debauched way.

He’d wondered about her after that. Not often and not obsessively. But thoughts of her would catch him at odd times. On the flight to an away match, during a workout, or flipping through channels, the remote clutched in his hand. There hadn’t been much news of her. Most reports from the palace were of the debacle during the gala, Ele’s flight, the queen’s increasing talk of succession. Juliana had been conspicuously absent.

Once, after he and Alicia had parted ways for good, he’d done a little Internet digging. He didn’t begin his search with anything particular in mind but found himself looking for pictures of her with men, searching for specific liaisons. To his surprise, there were none. She was either a master at keeping her couplings quiet or she hadn’t had serious or even semi-serious men in her life. He’d felt surprisingly happy about that, but after that discovery, he’d shut down his curiosity.

He watched her now, as she took in his words. He observed the dip of her throat as she swallowed. And he waited. He knew she would come to him. She was absorbing the command. She’d needed to ask the question, but she hadn’t anticipated this response from him.

He leaned forward a tad and spread his legs a little wider, making space for her. His injured leg stuck out straight, the brace keeping it immobilized. But there was no pain, and he wondered if the natural dopamine coursing through his body right now was numbing the sensation.

Juliana stood and walked toward him. There was no hesitancy, no nervousness. She was no dead man walking. She stopped just out of his reach and looked down at him. He didn’t say anything. She knew where he wanted her, but she was going to have to make the choice to get there.

He waited.

She stepped between his legs, and Rowan let his hands remain where they were—one on his injured leg, resting on a rung of his brace, the other on the arm of the chair.

He looked up at her. “Can I touch you?” he asked.

She looked surprised, like her consent had been implicit in her walk across the room. But he’d learned young that a woman needed to be explicit in her want to be touched. Juliana continued to stare down at him, and he waited.

“Yes or no, princess?”

She smirked. “I’m here.”

He tilted his head, annoyed, and glared.

“Yes, jeez.”

He nodded his approval. With deliberation, he placed his hands on the back of her thighs. Her boots gave her a couple more inches, so his head was even with her navel. He applied pressure with his fingertips, and she automatically moved closer. Her scent enveloped him, and he was transported back to that moment in July, when their mouths had been fused, their tongues tangling, their bodies flirting with touching each other. He gripped her a little harder, his fingers pulsing. Then, he let his hand drift down to the back of her knee before settling under her ass. He was so tempted to push her, but he stopped, even as a tiny, quickly swallowed gasp escaped her. His touch ghosted over her ass before landing on her waist. He spread his hand along her side while his thumb curved around to her stomach. He squeezed and was surprised to find her belly firm. She gave the illusion of being thin, but instead, she was toned. He’d noticed her arms the day before, the muscles nicely defined. And just with the few touches, he knew she was active.

His other hand followed the same trajectory—back of knee, barely there touch of her ass, resting on her waist. Her breath stuttered, and her chest rose. He glanced up, and her nipples hardened, as if they wanted to make sure he knew they were there. He bit back a grin. Her responses were so genuine and quick. He wondered if she was wet for him. He thought she might be. But he shoved the thought aside. This wasn’t about seduction. It was an illustration of the chemistry that existed between them.

Rowan was a bit surprised she didn’t remember what it had been like when they kissed. That she questioned their ability to generate heat.

Rowan gazed up at her face. Her lips were parted, her eyes closed, her freckles stood out against the heat of her desire.

Juliana had been photographed in all manner of poses. Products had been sold based on the way Princess Juliana personified sex. But in this moment, with his hands encircling her waist and her want evident, he wondered what this photo could sell for. He appreciated her beauty. But he was starting to think there might be more here to appreciate. Not that he could. Not that he would. This farce could only play out for so long. Much like the snap back to reality when they’d kissed, Rowan realized how much he’d like to find out what was waiting for him under her clothes. It seemed like every time he got his hands on her, he lost his famous control.

He set her away from him.

The abruptness of it startled her.

“Chemistry is not going to be an issue,” he clipped, even as he acknowledged self-preservation might.

Disoriented, Juliana struggled to come back online, like a computer needing a reboot. Rowan’s hands had been on her body. Running up and down her legs, her back, her waist. There’d been no lip-lock, hardly any eye contact, but she’d felt him everywhere. Her nipples peaked, begging for his attention; her lips tingled, wanting to taste his; her fingers itched, wanting to feel the line of his muscles. She was wet and needy. She knew he knew what was happening in her body, and she wished it all away. She hated that he was the one man who made her shaky with desire, rampant with need. Why this man had this effect on her, she didn’t know. He was toying with her, probably laughing at how easy she was to rev up.

When she’d asked him about Tristan and Ele, she hadn’t intended to discuss their sexual chemistry, although, of course, that was part of it. But her sister and Tristan had this connection that traversed the physical. An invisible tether bound them together, and it was impossible to be around them and ignore it. If Rowan and she could project a fraction of the caring energy, no one would be able to refute their claims. She wasn’t sure how to be part of a couple. And if they couldn’t project intimacy, they could claim whatever they wanted, but no one would believe them. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to say that to him.

She stared down at him from a couple steps away. His injured leg was stretched out in front of him. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of gym shorts. He was still smaller than he’d been before his injury, but he looked more fit than he had when she arrived a couple of days ago. He just looked healthier. She had to wonder if trying to thwart his father was helping his recovery.

For the last ten weeks he’d been here, against his will, with nothing but rehab to occupy him. His life before the injury had been purposeful and busy. He’d been the skipper of his club and national teams, in the middle of his season. She knew he did community service. He was in the paper often, shown working with children. To go from that to the isolation of this place had to have wreaked havoc on his mental health, impeding his recovery.

“I wasn’t talking about just that kind of chemistry,” she said.