Prince of Secrets (By His Royal Decree 2)

“That’s the point,” she whispered back.

He shook his head. “You’re not swallowing your first time. You don’t know if you’ll like it.”

“You’re being bossy again and this is not the bedroom.”

Ignoring her less-than-stern admonition, he pulled her into his lap, maneuvering her so she could continue to touch him. Then he handed her a napkin from the table.

She grinned and almost asked what it was for to tease him, but the light in his eyes had gone feral. And really, she wasn’t looking to get arrested for public indecency, which might well happen if his control slipped his leash completely.

So she finished him with her hand, catching his ejaculate with the napkin and his shout with a passionate kiss.

When he was done, he slumped in the chair, though his hold on her remained tight. “You did that on purpose.”

“To give you pleasure?”

“That, too.”

She snuggled into him. “I’m not giving you an answer tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Really?” She kissed under his chin, a little startled by the reality of his suit and tie still pristinely in place.

“Yes, but that will not stop me taking you back to my condo and showing you what our married life will be like.”

“I’ve got no doubts about the great sex.”

“We will make sure of that by morning.”

“Should I call in at work tomorrow?” She didn’t want to try to do the complicated calculations for their current phase on no sleep.

And the look in his dark eyes said while she might get to know his bed very well, she wasn’t going to be doing a lot of resting there.

“I think perhaps you should.”

She did. In the early hours of the morning after he made love to her through the night in his condo that turned out to be a penthouse taking up the entire top floor of one of the more historic Seattle buildings.

*

Demyan woke her with kisses and caresses a few hours later.

Their lovemaking was slow and almost torturous in its intensity. He seemed set on proving something to her, but Chanel wasn’t convinced it was what she needed to know to agree to marry him.

When she was once again sated and relaxed, he informed her he’d called her sister and arranged to invite Chanel’s entire family, including Andrew, whom he was flying up for the weekend in his private jet, for dinner the following evening.

“My parents are coming here?” Postcoital bliss evaporated like water pooled on a rock in the desert as she jumped out of his king-size bed and started pacing the darkly masculine bedroom. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you think you should ask me first?” she demanded.

Looking smug and certain of his answer, he said, “You were asleep.”

“You could have waited until I woke up.”

“I was bored.”

“Right. And you had nothing else to occupy your time but calling my sister. How did you even get her number?” Had he gone snooping through her phone?

He averted his gaze without answering.

She sighed. “You got sneaky and underhanded, didn’t you?”

It wasn’t exactly a challenging conclusion to draw. As if there was any other way to get her sister’s private cell number without waking and asking Chanel.

“The prospect does not make you angry?” he asked with a cautious look.

Nonplussed, she stared at him. “You aren’t worried about how annoyed I am that you made plans with my family, just how irritated I am about your method for getting my sister’s number?”

He shrugged.

“News flash—I find it a lot less upsetting that you scrolled through my phone’s contacts while I was sleeping than the fact you used said contacts to set up a dinner with my family.” She shook her head. “Well, this ought to be interesting.”

With that, she went into the bathroom for a shower. It was her turn to lock the door.

Being the sneaky, underhanded guy he was, Demyan found his way inside regardless. Chanel hadn’t expected anything else.

So she didn’t jump when his hand landed on her hip and his big body added to the heat behind her from the shower. “You told me you wanted me to meet your family.”

“I said my sister,” Chanel gritted out.

The man was far too intelligent not to have made the distinction.

He turned her in his arms, his expression more amused than concerned. “You know I will have to meet all of them eventually. Why not now?”

“Because I’m not ready!” She made no effort to control her volume, but she wasn’t a yeller by nature, so the words came out sounding only about half as vehement as they did in her head.

The argument might have escalated, but he had the kissing-to-end-conflict technique down to a fine art.

They made love, moving together under the cascading water, his body behind hers, his arms wrapped around her so his hands could reach her most sensitive places.

As he brought her the ultimate in pleasure, he promised, “It will be all right, sérdenko.”

She desperately wanted to believe him, but a lifetime of experience had taught her otherwise. “You’ll see me through their eyes.”

“Or I will teach them to see you through mine.”

Maybe, just maybe, his supreme self-confidence would guide his interactions with her family down that path.

She could hope.

*

The following night, her entire family showed up at Demyan’s condo right on time.

Chanel was so happy to see Andrew and Laura that her stress at seeing her mother and stepfather didn’t reach its usual critical levels instantly. That might also be attributed to the way Demyan kept one comforting arm around her throughout introductions and the launch into the usual small talk.

He’d brought in catering with servers so Chanel didn’t have to cook or play hostess getting drinks. Somehow he’d known that those domestic social niceties had always been a source of criticism and failure with her family in the past.

She hadn’t invited her parents to her apartment since moving out as a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old. Chanel had thought that having her own place would make a difference in how Beatrice and Perry responded to her efforts at cooking.

She’d learned differently quickly enough when they’d made it clear she fell short in every hosting department. The meal was too simple, the drinks offered too narrow in choice and even her bright stoneware dishes from a chain department store were considered inferior.

As could be inferred by her mother’s gift of appropriate understated chinaware on Chanel’s next birthday. She’d donated it to Goodwill and continued using her much less expensive, bright and cheerful dishes.

Since then, Chanel had assiduously avoided her mother’s inferences and even direct suggestions that Chanel might like to host one of the smaller family get-togethers over the years. In the ten years since that first debacle, Chanel had made sure there were no situations in which she’d have to invite her mother or stepfather into her home for so much as a drink of water.

Perry was clearly impressed by Demyan as a host, though, the older man’s expression shining with approval over the high-end penthouse and being offered his highball by a black-clad server.

Demyan kept them occupied with small talk, redirecting the conversation any time it looked like it would go into the familiar let’s-criticize-Chanel direction. He was also overtly approving, verbalizing his appreciation for Chanel in ways that could not be mistaken or overlooked by her parents.

His protective behavior touched her deeply and Chanel found herself relaxing with her family in a way she could not remember doing in years.

“So, you work for Yurkovich Tanner?” Perry asked Demyan over dinner.

“I do.”

Chanel added, “In the corporate offices.”

A vague answer never satisfied her stepfather and she wasn’t sure h

er addition would, either, but she could hope. She didn’t want to spend the rest of the evening listening to Perry grill Demyan about his connections and job prospects.

She realized moments later that she needn’t have worried.

Demyan adroitly evaded each sally until Perry gave up with a rather confused-sounding “Well, maybe you can put a good word in for Andrew. I tried contacting them on his behalf, you know, because of Andrew’s connection to one of the original founders.”

Andrew wasn’t the one connected to Bartholomew Tanner. That was Chanel and her connection was tenuous at best, but trust Perry to dismiss her blood relationship to the founder and receipt of a Tanner Yurkovich university scholarship as unimportant altogether.

“I haven’t heard back.” Perry shrugged. “It was a long shot, but business is all about contacts.”

Demyan nodded and then looked away from Perry to smile at Chanel. “I’m always happy to put a good word in for family.”

Oh, the fiend. Chanel kicked Demyan’s ankle under the table, but he didn’t even have the courtesy to flinch.

So, that’s why the dinner tonight. He’d said he was okay with waiting for her answer on his proposal, but really he had every intention of getting her family on his side. He had to realize it wouldn’t take much.

Beatrice Saltzman had given up hope her oldest daughter would ever marry, and had never had any that it would be advantageously. She would be Demyan’s biggest supporter once she realized the plans he wanted to make.

Chanel was going to kill him later, but right now she had to deal with the fallout of his implication.

It wasn’t her mother or Perry who picked up on it, either. They wouldn’t

“You’re getting married?” Laura gasped, her eyes shining. She grinned at Chanel. “I told you that outfit was going to hook him.”

“I wasn’t looking to hook anybody. We’re not engaged.”

“But I have asked Chanel to marry me.”

Chanel’s mother stared at her agape. “And you haven’t said yes? No, of course you haven’t.” She shook her head like she couldn’t expect anything else from her socially awkward eldest.

“I’m thinking about it.” Chanel glared daggers at Demyan, but he smiled back with a shark’s smile she was now convinced was not her imagination.

“Don’t think too long. He’s likely to withdraw the offer,” Perry advised in serious, almost concerned tones. “You’re not likely to do better.”