“Oh. I know.” Her face nuzzles deeper into my neck and she sighs with feminine satisfaction, making my dick throb. Painfully. “That was a silly thing to ask.”
Don’t say what you’re thinking. Don’t do it. “I suppose you could order me to lie down with you. Then I wouldn’t have much choice.”
She sucks in a breath and I think she’s going to scold me, smack me across the face, throw me out of the palace. Instead, she says, “That’s a fantastic idea!” She wets her perfect, bow-shaped lips. “I hereby order you to lie in my bed and hug me until I fall asleep, Rexington Monroe.”
Sensing my own doom, I run toward it like a love-struck idiot. “Anything for the princess.”
Britta bounds off my lap, her ass taunting me with sexy swishes as she crawls on hands and knees back toward the pillows, throwing herself beneath the covers and gesturing me to follow. It’s humiliating how the bed creaks and groans beneath my weight, but I manage to make it to the headboard without breaking the furniture, slowly laying my head down on the pillow beside Britta’s.
“I’ll stay on top of the covers,” I say hoarsely.
“Okay,” she responds cheerfully, green eyes sparkling.
And then the princess, the future queen of the entire bloody kingdom, snuggles right up against me, tucking her little hands between my pecs. I put my arms around her and she smiles up at me with teeth, ruining me for any other woman on the planet, and drops into a dead sleep, her breath warming my throat.
“Congratulations,” I mouth into the darkness. “You are fucked.”
2
Britta
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
That’s what they say—and it’s true.
Because this crown weighs around seventy pounds.
Honestly, I’m going to have the neck of a gladiator in a week’s time. Something has to be done. Perhaps I can wear a crown of daisies? Or no crown at all? Now that would be preferable. I could just give the garish, bejeweled thing to someone else and let them make all the hard decisions. Spend my days wading in the river and writing sonnets.
I’m sitting on the throne my mother used to occupy.
An hour ago, I was hastily ordained queen in a private ceremony.
Now the palace advisor, Richard, is standing before me with many questions. I have the answers to none of them.
I am a smart girl. I think. My tutors have said as much. I’ve sat in this great hall my whole life and listened my parents make decrees, judgments, give opinions. My inability to focus probably has a lot to do with the giant guard stationed by the wall. He stares straight ahead, as always, not a hint of the gentle understanding he showed me last night. No character, whatsoever. But I know it lurks under his armor. I’ve witnessed his humor and compassion and the greatest hugs in the known universe.
No matter that I’ve only experienced one hug.
I don’t need to test other embraces to know he has the best one. All warm and cushioned and safe and cherishing. Right before I dropped into the deepest slumber of my life last night, I swore his mouth ghosted over my hair and that simple gesture gave me…dreams. Dreams that stain my cheeks red in the light of day.
I dreamt of Rexington Monroe naked.
I should be ashamed.
This dear man showed me such kindness and here I am, objectifying his…excitingly large body. Saints alive, if the castle were falling, he could probably prop it up with one hand and not even break a sweat. There is weight around his middle, his thighs and backside are thick, impenetrable slabs of muscle and fat. His arms are big, meaty weapons. He makes the other guards look like schoolboys. And yet, he was so gentle with me.
There is definitely hair on his body. The question is, how much? And where?
Is it coarse? Would he like me playing with it?
Stop at once, Britta. You are shameful.
“Now then, Queen Britta,” drones Richard. “I know this is a most difficult time for you, but we are in a vulnerable state, you see. Without a king on the throne, Downsriver might appear…vulnerable to our enemies. It is in the kingdom’s best interest for you to take a husband as soon as possible.”
My spine snaps straight. “A husband?”
For some reason, my gaze shoots to Rex. He is still staring straight ahead, but a muscle is now bunched up in his cheek.
“Yes, Queen. A husband fit to wear your father’s crown.”
“I don’t understand,” I manage, massaging the sudden pounding in my temple. “We aren’t absent of a leader. I am capable of guiding the kingdom.”
Mostly.
Okay, barely.
But I can fake it until I am.
Can’t I?
This small continent we share with three other kingdoms suddenly seems quite vast. Full of people who depend on their leaders for resources. For their chance at livelihood and families. There is one river running through the center of our continent, which is nestled in the sea between Ireland and the Great Britain. Two empires reside on either side of the mighty river, and we are the farthest south. We each have particular goods to offer and I assumed our relationships with the other nations were peaceful, but I am beginning to think I know very little of the politics between kingdoms.