His Majesty's Mistake

“Let’s test that theory, shall we?” he asked, dipping his head, his mouth slanting across hers.

As Makin’s head dropped, he breathed in her fragrance—fresh, light, sweet—and he hardened instantly. But he kissed her slowly this morning, taking his time, aware that he had all the time in the world because she would be his. She’d be his wife. His lover. The mother of his child. Call it fate or karma, but she was meant to be his, and now he kissed her as if it was the first time and he was just discovering the shape of her lips, and the softness of her mouth.

He felt Emmeline tremble against him, leaning toward him, and he held her closer, but even then, he refused to rush.

Maybe one day she could be a knight or brave prince, but she wasn’t there yet. She didn’t believe in herself yet. Didn’t even know who she was yet.

Right now Princess Emmeline reminded him of Sleeping Beauty. She needed to be woken with a kiss, a proper kiss, a kiss that would let her know she was beautiful and desirable and safe.

He’d never hurt her. He’d always protect her. She needed to know that first. And then she needed to know how much he wanted her.

Because he did.

He slid the tip of his tongue along her upper lip, finding nerves in the delicate skin, and felt her nipples harden against his chest. His tongue flicked the other lip and he heard the hitch in her breath.

She was growing warm and pliant against him, her body molding to his, and it took all his self-control not to unbutton her blouse or pull up her skirt to get at her bare skin. He wanted to feel the seductive softness of her skin, and explore her tempting curves. He ached to have her naked and wet and open, but he’d make sure she was ready. Not just physically, but emotionally.

Emmeline’s first time had hurt her. Her second time needed to be perfect.

Reluctantly he lifted his head. He gazed down into her eyes. They were darker now, deep purple, and cloudy with passion. “Marry me, Emmeline.”

“And what do you get out of this, Makin?”

His lips brushed hers, sending an electric shiver dancing up and down her spine. “You.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

THEY were supposed to be having a pre-dinner cocktail with her parents that evening in the elegant wood-paneled chamber her father favored, but her mother hadn’t yet appeared.

Emmeline was sitting on the narrow loveseat with Makin at her side but she couldn’t get comfortable, not when his thigh pressed to hers.

He was warm and making her warmer. And she couldn’t relax. Her thoughts were absolutely chaotic and running wild at the moment.

But then, they had been all day, ever since she’d woken up and discovered that Makin had asked her father for her hand.

Which made no sense. At all.

Why would Makin do that? He said he wanted her. But that made no sense, either.

It really didn’t.

Emmeline shot Makin a mistrustful glance from beneath her lashes. He was big, powerful, wealthy, gorgeous. he could have anyone … and he said he wanted her?

No. Impossible. Her father had to be paying him something. But Makin was one of the richest men in the world. He didn’t need money.

“If your father wasn’t here, I’d kiss that look off your face,” Makin growled at her, his voice pitched so low only she could hear him.

Emmeline cradled her glass of ice water closer to her stomach and hissed, “Stop acting like a caveman. I’m not something you can just tackle and drag next to the fire.”

“No? I quite like the idea.”

She cast him another reproving glance. He didn’t quell in the slightest, but then, Makin was tall, strong, thickly muscled. “You’re unbearable. Now please scoot over. You’re crowding me.” Which was true. They were smashed together on this tiny settee as if they really were a newly engaged couple. A couple in love.

He was a horrible man.

A horribly confident and terribly appealing man.

She wondered yet again what he’d be like in bed.

Emmeline’s insides suddenly flipped, her breath catching in her throat, her breasts exquisitely sensitive.

“It’s called cozy, Emmie.”

“Well, I don’t like it.” Because sitting this close to him, she couldn’t see, hear, feel or think of anything but him. And the way he kissed. And how his hands felt on her. And how she felt when he was holding her.

She liked it when he held her. Liked his mouth on hers, and her body against his and she’d never felt this way about anyone before. She’d never wanted anyone before and she wanted Makin. But she wanted more than just lips and hands and skin. She wanted all of him.

Which was so confusing.

“I didn’t pick this room, or the couch,” he retorted.

True. This was the room reserved for close friends and family, and despite the high ceiling and tall windows framed in rich dark green velvet curtains, the chamber was filled with petite antique pieces that had been passed down for generations. Pieces that had been made hundreds of years ago for people who were definitely smaller than they were today.