Christmas In The City (Imperfect Match 1.50)
“He just thinks he owns—”
“You?” I cut in, a serrated edge in my voice.
“I was going to say my time.” She shakes her head, a small wry smile kissing her full lips. “I’m not sure why I’ve told you half the things I have tonight, but I hope nothing I’ve said led you to believe I’m being mistreated. I’m not.”
“A person can be mishandled, but not mistreated. I hope you’re not either of those.”
Her dark eyes cloud with recognition, understanding, but before she can respond, a beautiful young woman with dark skin and a scarlet headdress approaches with the queen’s wrap.
“Thank you, Vashti.” Noelani stands still as the young woman slips the wrap over her shoulders.
One of the guards holds the door open to the front entrance where several vehicles are queued up, awaiting dignitaries and leaders. I walk with the queen to the front porch and down the stairs. City lights illuminate the night sky and shine down on the beautiful woman in front of me. She glows, a net of snowflakes startlingly, fleetingly white in her dark hair for a few seconds before they melt. We’re surrounded by her entourage and standing at the center of power for this nation, the center of attention, but there’s a newborn intimacy in the look that binds us together on the steps. It’s too quick and too deep for the few words we’ve exchanged, but everything we said to each other was real. Too few people know how to be real, how to be themselves. That she, who has been molded and shaped all her life, constantly scrutinized and sheltered, has found a way to be real is extraordinary.
“I guess this is it,” she says when we reach the bottom of the steps. A black SUV idles, two guards flanking the open back door. Vashti stands there, too, waiting for the queen to climb in.
“It was an honor meeting you, Your Majesty.” I take her hand and bring it to my mouth for a swift kiss. I’m sure that’s a liberty I’m not allowed, but I wanted to see how her skin would feel under my lips. It’s like warm velvet, and I want to take that tiny thumb into my mouth and suck. She’s so small, and I can only imagine how tight she’d be on my dick.
She’s the queen, you horny motherfucker.
I swallow my ill-timed lust and release her hand. When I look back to her eyes, they’re dark and smoldering. Burning. Longing. She dips her head, acknowledging me and turns on her heel to stride toward the car. I watch from the bottom step, and am about to leave when she strides back, determination in her gait and the set of her mouth.
“You said you grew up in Hawaii, right?” she asks, her voice abrupt and husky.
“Yes.” I frown, unsure why she returned or where this is leading.
“Then you know the significance of the flower in a woman’s hair.”
A woman wears a flower on the left side if she’s taken, and on the right if she’s available.
“Yes, I know.”
With deliberate movements, eyes never leaving mine, she raises her hands to the dusky fall of hair pinned back on the left side. She removes the flower and with visibly shaking hands, repins it behind her right ear. Her breath comes heavy, blowing frosted clouds from her mouth and heaving her breasts.
“I’m at the Imperial Hotel,” she whispers. “The presidential suite. If you’d like to come after midnight, Vashti can be trusted to get you in.”
Shock and frigid air freeze my response for a second, and then my dick and every part of my body except my head answer with a resounding holy shit, yes. But a quick survey of our surroundings tells me her actions have already garnered unwelcome, disapproving scrutiny. It would be one night with her, one wild night if she would give this hot little body over to me to do with as I would like, but tomorrow, I’d be on my way. I’d have memories of that beautiful queen I fucked, but for her . . . the consequences might be more severe.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Your Majesty,” I force myself to say the right words, even though they’re at odds with everything I want from and for her tonight.
The honey brown skin stretched across her cheekbones goes that rose gold with a flush of embarrassment. She tilts her chin, pride and defiance not quite hiding the startled hurt in her eyes.
“Yes, of course, you’re right.” She gathers the long hem of her dress and turns. “I understand. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grimsby.”
“Noelani,” I say before wisdom convinces me that to even say her first name is a violation of protocol, much less all the other ways I want to violate her. “It really is for the best. Trust me.”
She holds my stare over her shoulder, and a bitter smile twists her full lips. “I’m surrounded by men who think they know what’s best for me. Why would you be any different?”
And with that, Her Royal Highness walks away briskly, climbs into the back seat ahead of Vashti, and rides off, trailed by a caravan of cars and guards.
Chapter 3
Noelani
“Will that be all, Your Majesty?” Vashti asks, pausing in the middle of the suite’s sitting room. “I can have some food sent up, if you like? Or drinks, if you don’t like the selection up here?”
I wave a hand. What I want isn’t on any menu, and what’s worse, the more I think about it, the tighter the knot in my throat becomes.
What I need, however, is to wipe the makeup off my face and then scream into one of the presidential suite’s two-thousand-dollar throw pillows. And then maybe cry into a nice, big drink. All things that can only be done alone.