My Forbidden Royal Fling

‘Yet you sound unimpressed.’

‘Because you’re living a lie.’

I gasp at the statement, so certain, so hurtful.

‘Am I?’

‘Your life is one of calm and measure, your smile cold, your dress so formal.’

My lips part, poised to ask a question, but I never get a chance to form it.

‘Yet you are not cold, you are not calm. At least, you are neither of these things when I kiss you.’

And, before I can guess his intentions, he does just that––dropping his head, his mouth claiming me, his lips pushing mine apart as our tongues clash, our bodies welded together. He kisses me until I’m everything he just said—the complete opposite of calm and cold.

My body is flushed with awareness, my nipples almost painful against the confines of my bra and my insides squirming with need, heat pooling between my legs. My feet refuse to stay on the ground; one lifts and locks behinds his legs, clamping him to me as my hands lift and intertwine behind his neck, pulling him to me. I’m half-terrified he might stop kissing me now he’s made his point, and that’s the very last thing I want.

His hands shift to my hips, holding me there, drawing me to him. I moan low in my throat, the power of his erection impossible to ignore, striking power and a hint of fear into me, because I’ve never done this before, and it’s all I can think of. Kissing him is sensual and perfect but it’s not enough. I want so much more.

Driven by an ancient rush of feminine power, by instincts that are an essential part of my soul, I pull up against him at the same time he lifts me, perching me on the edge of the bench. I have a vague recollection of his wine glass being somewhere nearby but I’m incapable of connecting the dots and breaking apart from him to move it. To hell with it. Other things are far more important right now. My fingers curl into the hair at his nape, pressing my breasts to his chest, and his hands at my hips find the fabric of my shirt, lifting it to reveal a bare stomach, then going higher to my bra. We separate, purely so he can rip the shirt off my head and toss it to the floor at his feet; it’s a momentary, necessary pause and then his mouth is back on mine, dominating me, awakening me...

‘This is who you are.’ He pushes the words into my mouth at the same time he unclasps my bra, so my breasts spill out, only to be caught in the palms of his hand. There’s pleasure in his possession, a thousand arrows darting through me at the intimacy of this contact. I have never been touched like this but it doesn’t feel strange. On the contrary, it feels perfect and right, those same instincts removing any hint of uncertainty. This is who you are.

I can’t analyse his statement, I can’t read into the truth or otherwise of it, because I am only capable of feeling right now. But, yes, every feeling in my body convinces me of what he’s said. This is who I am. I have never felt more authentic, more real, than right now, laid bare and vulnerable to this man, yet powerful too, because the fabric of an ancient ritual is overtaking my soul.

His fingers glance across my nipples and I groan, pleasure spreading through me, a desire unlike anything I’ve ever imagined, much less felt, eliciting a drugging sense, like the beating of a drum over and over and over again.

He drags his mouth from mine, lavishing kisses on my collar bone then shoulders, before taking a nipple in his mouth and flicking it with his tongue until my breath becomes laboured, my breathy cries filling the room. I feel him smile against me, then his stubbly jaw shifts sideways, his mouth tormenting my other nipple as his hands cup my bottom. He lifts me effortlessly from the kitchen counter and carries me through the suite, his stride long and confident. His mouth finds mine again and his kiss obliterates thought.

This is his hotel, his presidential suite; he finds his way to the master bedroom easily, shouldering open the door and crossing the plush carpet to the bed in the centre. He lays me down gently,

his body coming with mine, barely breaking the kiss. It’s only when he shifts to remove our clothes completely that we pull apart, but there’s not enough time for reality to fully intrude. I’m glad. Reality might bring with it caution and sense, reasons to avoid this, but the truth is, I can’t.

I’ve never known this heady rush of longing before. I’ve never felt desire, chemistry, sexual need. I’ve never felt a spark of attraction, let alone this. One day soon I’ll be Queen and I’ll be formally engaged to a man I barely know and certainly don’t desire. My future has been laid out for me from birth with no room for deviation. A reality I have long accepted suffocates me now, and the only relief is in this tiny act of defiance, a small, inconsequential indulgence of my own needs before I assume the duties of a kingdom.

Santiago is a man who takes women to bed without much forethought. This means nothing to him, and it will mean nothing to me either. It’s just sex. But it’s sex with someone I choose. It’s all my choice. Not the requirement of my country, the will of my parliament or the sensible need for a royal heir.

A spirit of revolution hardens my resolve, so I know now that wild horses couldn’t draw me away from this.

As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, he hovers above me, standing. His chest has a tattoo of a bird flying just above his heart, and there’s more cursive script running across his hip. His chest moves with the ragged drawing of his breath, his eyes probing mine. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’ It’s a husky, hungry acceptance of what will and must be.

His eyes glitter as he spins away from me. Rustling his trousers from the floor, he flicks open his wallet and removes a condom. ‘I never take chances,’ he explains.

I amuse myself with what he’d say if I told him I’m a virgin, that sex with me is completely safe––before the penny drops and I realise he’s alluding to children, an unintended, lifelong consequence of a reckless night of passion.

‘No baby del Almodovárs on the horizon for you?’ I murmur as he rips open the foil square and rolls the condom over his arousal. My eyes cling to the action, and I’m jarred out of my slumberous, all-encompassing desire because of his obvious size.

His smile tilts the earth off its axis. ‘Definitely not. I never intend to have children.’

I’m curious as to his reason. I have never given this issue any thought, for the simple reason that having children is yet another purpose of my existence. As a royal—the sole surviving royal of my house—I have been aware for a long time that I must have babies, and several of them. I don’t know if it’s what I would have chosen otherwise, but a cursory examination shows that I like the idea. I’m more excited about being a mother than I am about being a wife.

There is no more time to analyse this. He brings his body over mine, his smile gone, his expression hauntingly beautiful as his knee nudges my legs apart, his body weight on mine a pleasure in and of itself. His kiss is slow at first, his tongue languorously exploring my mouth, my breasts tingling beneath his hair-roughened chest, my fingers tracing his tattoos by memory, a question in every strike of my touch. I am lost, buried under the weight of need, full of wanting him. I’m unable to think, breathe, talk so that, when he nudges the tip of his arousal against my sex, I can only groan in the base of my throat. There is no time for anticipation or fear; he drives into me, his full, powerful length hard, strong and dynamic, pushing past the invisible barrier of my innocence, his body possessing mine for the first time.

He freezes, bracing himself on his elbows. His eyes meet mine, surprise obvious on his face, a question in his gaze.

‘Freja...’ My name is squeezed from between his teeth. Is that an accusation I hear? Anger? Briefly, darkness eclipses my pleasure, but then he begins to move again and any hint of discomfort his first thrust invoked dissipates, leaving only pleasure in its path. Intense, soul-destroying pleasure.