King Sized

She laughs.

But it quickly turns into a hiccupping sob. “Then I should very much like to cry at you.”

“Right so.” I hesitate only a moment, before sitting down on the corner of her bed. “I’ll just be here, nice and quiet. Do what you have to do.”

The princess does something I never could have expected.

She pushes off the coverlet and crawls toward me on the bed, the white nightgown enveloping her petite frame, moonlight bathing her shoulders, her tearstained cheeks.

And she curls up in a tight little ball, right beside my hip.

“Okay, here goes,” she sniffs, launching into another crying jag.

At first, all I do is sit there, my chest burning like the fucking devil. But eventually, my hand seems to sort of move on its own, my calloused, unworthy fingers stroking over her long, raven locks. I ought to be whipped for taking such liberties. She doesn’t stop me, however, so I do it with a little more confidence each time.

But I freeze when she scoots closer and lays her head on my thigh.

What do I do now?

Surely this is inappropriate. I shouldn’t be in here in the first place, let alone acting as her pillow. It just isn’t done. She’s an unmarried royal of eighteen and this breach in decorum would be a scandal. Especially because I’m a lowly guard. A former blacksmith. Not worthy of this future queen on my best day.

“Would it be presumptuous of me to ask for a hug?” Britta whispers into the darkness.

Oh, now we have entered dangerous territory. I am growing stiff in my uniform pants and I’m pretty sure that makes me a monster, since she’s been sobbing for hours on end. Ironically, my dick is kind of a…dick, however. It doesn’t much care about things like sympathy. It only knows this soft, gorgeous beauty wants to get closer. And as a protector by nature, having the chance to wrap the princess in my arms makes my blood move fast. Fast and south. “Not presumptuous, no,” I say finally, my voice ominously thicker. “But it wouldn’t be proper, Princess.”

She sits up and swipes at her eyes, visibly trying to pull herself together. “I’m sorry. You’re quite right.” She sniffs. “Do you give your sisters hugs?”

“On occasion, yes.”

In a softer, hesitant tone, she says, “Couldn’t you pretend I’m your sister?”

At that, I almost laugh the palace down. “I very highly doubt it.”

My answer seems to confuse her, but I’m definitely not going to elaborate.

“I understand, Rexington,” she says, bravely.

I grunt, willing my chest to stop hurting.

“My parents never gave me hugs. Only kisses on the cheek. I don’t think I’ve ever had one at all, come to think of it.” Her nose wrinkles. “Although there was one time when I was learning to swim and sank to the bottom. My instructor had to wrap her arms around me and kick to the surface, so I suppose that counts, doesn’t it?”

That leap out the window is looking better and better.

“You’re killing me here, you know that?” I drag a hand down my face. “Come here, then. I’ll give you a hug. Just one, though. Don’t get crazy.”

“Really?” She scrambles onto her knees, wringing her hands for a moment, as if she doesn’t know the proper mechanics of a hug. So I open my arms and she smiles, falling right into them—and that’s it. I’m ruined. I already had a sneaking suspicion she was going to hold my heart in her hands for the rest of my life, but this seals the deal.

How could she fit me so perfectly?

I’m more than thrice her size and yet her face falls right into my neck, like it has been there a million times. Her small breasts crush against my pecs, her slim torso curling around my extra-large belly. We lock right together in a way I fear will be addicting.

“This is wonderful,” she whispers, her arms securing tighter around my neck.

And then she climbs into my lap.

I almost hit the ceiling.

No. No, no, no. I’m a gentleman. Always have been. But I can’t pretend her delicious rump in my lap isn’t making me think terrible thoughts. Like how Britta is a virgin. Between her legs, between her ass cheeks. She’d be tighter than a knot in both places.

She’d squirm underneath me, all that soft, golden skin on mine.

Whimpering my name.

Enough.

And yet my arms tighten around the innocent princess, rocking her in my lap. “Just a few more minutes now, love. All right?”

Love?

Are you out of your fucking mind, calling the princess “love”?

Britta looks up at me, her eyelids at half mast, and it’s not lost on me that she’s finally stopped crying. That I helped. It fills me with a solid block of pride. “Lie with me for a little while, please?”

“I can’t do that,” I rasp, my pulse slamming into my eardrums.