The swedish prince Episode 23

🌹🌹The Swedish Prince 🌹🌹
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🔞🌹Chapter 23🌹🔞
This chapter is rated🔞
Maggie’s P.O.V💞
“Going to have breakfast with you.”
“With me or on me?”
“Both.”
He pours a bit more, b!tt!g hisl-ip.
“fv¢k. Your skin is just like the cream. You have no idea how ha-rd I am right now.”
“I might.” My hands reach around below, gr-abbing at his robe and tugging at it, trying to expo-se him, to feel him, but he shifts just so that I can’t t©uçh him.
“I like to torture myself,” he explains before running his hand between my brea-sts and slowly l!çk!ng the cream off of his f!nger, his long ton-gue ri-ding up the side, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I think you might be torturing me while you’re at it,” I tell him, my hands going into his thick hair and giving the strands a pu-ll.
His eyes close with a gr0@nand he starts mas-saging the cream over my brea-sts, my n!ppl!s ha-rd ening into ti-ght little peaks, so s-en-sitive that every time he brushes over them I want to scream.
This man, this man, he’s undoing me.
There will be nothing left of me when he’s done.
Nothing left of me when he’s gone.
He lowers his head, his stubble scra-ping along my skin and bringing me back around to the here and the now.
All I have is here and now.
His mouth di-ps down to svçkmy n!ppl!s into his warm mouth, ma-king my back arch. “fv¢k,” he m0@n s, the vibr@tions running throu-gh me until I am so fv¢king we-t. “You’re so perfect.”
His hands spre-ad the cream down over my stomach and between my legs, dragging the we-tness over my cl!t.
My grip ti-ght£ñs in his hair and I g@sp again, my h!ps bucking up automatically, desperate for friction, for purchase.
“Come inside me, plea-se.” The words nearly choke on my ton-gue.
“I’ve only started feasting,” he says, sliding his f!nger inside, his thumb ru-bbing my cl!t. I clench around him, ha-rd , until he pu-lls his f!nger out. “Do you see the way you taste to me,” he says, l!çk!ng his f!nger again.
Jesus.
“Better now,” he says. “You make it sweeter. And yet it will be sweeter still.”
He reaches over and gr-abs the small jar of honey that c@m£ with the toast, unscre-wing the cap and di-pping his f!nger in. He brings his f!nger to myl-ips, ru-bs the honey over them before sticking his f!nger into my mouth. I can taste myself, taste the sweet honey. Most of all I can see the lvst in his eyes, the raw, s-en-sual de-sire he has for me.
No one will ever look at me like this again.
I shut my eyes, trying to drown out that voice.
“What’s wrong?’ he asks.
“Nothing,” I tell him, opening my eyes. He looks so concerned, he might break. “I’m just…”
Trying to hold on to the moments we have together.
Trying to ignore what’s about to happen.
Trying, trying, trying.
“Make me come,” I tell him, my voice coming out ragged. “I want you inside me, I want you to make me come.”
Rip me from my mind. Make your b©dy salvage my b©dy. Damage me until I can’t think, until there’s nothing left to feel but you.
“I want to paint you with honey,” he says, moving back to paint squiggly lines of honey down my brea-sts and stomach. “I want to paint you with my ton-gue. I want to take my time.”
We don’t have time!
You have a plane to catch.
A country to return to.
But I manage not to say it because I don’t want to ruin the last time we have together.
The last time.
“Take your time,” I say quietly, lying further back into the sheets, closing my eyes.
I can feel him hesitate before he slowly, tea-singly, li-cks the honey off of me.
Off my brea-sts, my collarbone, my stomach, my h!ps, my inner th!ghs.
My b©dy tenses with each pas-s of his warm, h0t ton-gue. It’s so decadent and rich the way he devours me, like I really am a feast to him.
He settles between my legs, his f!ngerspressing into my th!ghs, pushing them further ap@rt.
“Now that you’re all clean,” he says, “I’m going to get you dirty again.”
My eyes fly open.
His robe is discarded behind him and his mas-sive b©dy is prowling between my legs like a big cat stalking its prey.
I would never get tired of this sight, of his ba-re, ha-rd b©dy hovering over mine.
The ease in which his hands work me, like I’m an instrument being tuned.
The way that he pushes inside me, always with this breathless g@sp that turns into a m0@n that turns into sweet nothings that shake with his want.
The sounds of his skin sl@pping against mine, the feel of his sweat dripping on me as he works me so fv¢king ha-rd , his face crea-sed with the effort of it all.
The moment he brings me to that razor edge and I willfully fly over it.
The world spins before I tumble, shaking and twirling throu-gh spasms that put me upside down and up again. I’m wild, I’m crazed, I’m disoriented, I’m spent, I’m…
This is…
As the intensity of the Orgasm wanes, the intensity of my emotions slam over me like a wave.
This is it.
I keep my eyes closed, fighting back the tears. I hate that I’ve cried with him alre-ady this trip when I opened up about my parents, I don’t want to cry again, not during S-x, not now.
But the h0t, damp knot in my che-st grows and grows until I have to g@sp for breath.
I’m not sure Viktor notices. He’s coming too, gro-an ing and gr-unting and swearing in my ear, those feverish sounds that I love so much.
“Maggie,” he whispers throu-gh a ragged breath, k!ss!ngme r0ûghly on thel-ips. “Maggie, I…” he breaks off and exhales so ha-rd the be-d shakes. “This, just this,” he says. He wra-ps his arms around me, holding me ti-ght.
Time seems to slow with our heartbeats.
The sweat on my skin cools.
Someone outside, so far away, jumps into the pool with a splash.
I want to lie here forever.
“Maggie,” Viktor whispers to me. “I am so sorry but I have to go. We have to get going.”
I nod. Forever isn’t enough. “Of course.”
I practically drag myself out of be-d. No point in makeup when I know I’m going to cry it all away. I put on the same clothes as yesterday, brush my teeth, sli-ck on some deodorant, pu-ll my hair back in a ponytail and I’m re-ady to go.
I take one last look at the h0tel room and realize that it changed me. The person who stepped in here, nervous, anxious, on Thursday night is not the same person who is walking out of here on Sunday morning.
We get his car from the valet, the blue finish sparkling un-der the sun, and after a few wrong turns and wanting to strangle the Waze app, we get on the right freeway heading to LAX.
There is so much tension between us, so much worry and sadness, that I don’t even have the words to talk. I’m afraid to, afraid to say the wrong thing, to say something that will make it ha-rder for both of us.
The thing is, as much as Viktor whispered sweet nothings to me this morning, as much as he’s told me how ha-rd it will be for him to say goodbye, I don’t think he can possibly feel the way I do. I’m even surprised I feel the way I do.
I’m a rational person. I use logic. I’ve had enough of life sl@pping me upside the head to have a jaded and cynical outlook on it. I err toward the negative rather than the positive.
I don’t believe in love at first sight, in soul mates, in happily ever afters.
But with Viktor…he makes my soul feel br@nd new. Not something tired and weathered and trampled upon. I feel as if just being with him has scR@p£d off all the rust, letting a p@rt of me, all of me, shine. Maybe for the first time he’s helped me discover who I really am.
Maybe there is no logic in love.
Maybe you just have to let it in when you see it, when you feel it.
Maybe you just nee-d to believe in it.
On paper, it looks like I ba-rely know this man and therefore I couldn’t possibly love this man. But I’ll burn that damn piece of paper to ash.
I do love him. My heart knows it, I know it, and even if I pretend otherwise, even if I tell myself it’s impossible, it won’t change a damn thing.
I look at Viktor, at his hand on the steering wheel, the glint of his watch, the way his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the tan of his skin. He’s wearing his sunglas-ses, the wind coming in throu-gh the half open window and mussing up his hair. His eyes are on the road as far as I can tell and every so often he worries his bo-ttoml!pbetween his teeth.
Then he looks at me. “Taking a picture with your mind?”
I nod. Clear my throat. “Listen, uh, I can’t remember. Am I taking like an Uber you arranged back to Tehachapi or is it a shuttle or…?”
He frowns at me. “Uber?”
“You know, a cab.”
“I know what an Uber is. Why would it take you back home?”
“Because you said you arranged for my transportation back. Is it a Greyhound? I seriously don’t mind.”
A smile spre-ads across his face. “Maggie, Maggie.” He shakes his head. “Miss America. Min sota lilla persika.”
“What?”
“You’re taking the car back.”
I stare at him. Blink.
“Huh?”
“The car,” he says, sma-cking the dashboard. “She’s yours.”
“What?”
No way.
No fv¢king way!
“What did you think I was doing with the car?”
I shrug, trying to find the words but it’s coming out all flvstered. “I don’t know. Selling it?”
“I don’t nee-d the money. And you could use an extra car. And if you don’t like it, sell it. Keep the money. Just make sure Pike does the sale so that you know what it’s worth.”
“Viktor…I can’t possibly accept this car.”
He’s nonchalant. “It’s a gift and I want you to have it. In fact, I nee-d you to have it.”
“I…I don’t know Viktor….”
His car. His S-xy, beautiful, incredibly rare car. I couldn’t possibly take it. And I would look like an idiot driving around town in it.
🌹🌹The Swedish Prince 🌹🌹
🌸🌸(ROYAL r0m@nç£) 🌸🌸
🌹Chapter 25🌹
Viktor’s POV
“You are a bigger idiot than I thought, Viktor,” he says. “fv¢king moose is right. Big dumb moose.”
“What?”
He throws his arm out, spilling champagne. “Haven’t you seen The Notebook? Or any movie where someone is writing someone love letters and those love letters never seem to reach the person they are intended? This is bull$h!t.” He leans forward and taps his girl on the shoulder. “You’ve seen The Notebook, yes?”
“Oh I love that movie,” she says excitedly in an incredibly nasal voice.
“It was $h!t,” Magnus swears, pounding back the rest of his drink and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He points at me with his empty glas-s. “And this boy over here is trying to re-enact a scene.”
“Awwww,” the girl says, looking at me like I’m a puppy. “That’s so adorable.”
“It’s not fv¢king adorable,” Magnus grumbles “It’s $h!t.”
And then he puts his arm around her and starts ma-king out.
I cautiously make eye contact with the other girl, the one Magnus tried to get for me, knowing she’s going to expect the same.
“I’ve seen The Notebook too,” she says proudly.
I just nod, finish my drink and put down my glas-s, sl@pping a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve got to get going. Give my regards to Prince su-ckface. I’ll leave a key in the door for him.”
Then, trailed by my guards, I go out the way we c@m£ in and get in the waiting limo. I’ll make sure it comes back for Magnus later.
Until then, I have a flight to book.
Maggie’s POV❤️
There is a vacancy that grows in your heart after someone you love leaves you. When they leave, they take everything with them. All the furnishings, all the artwork, even the flooring, until you are str!pped ba-re. Cold. I am one big empty room that echoes with the loss of him.
At first people indulged me and my heartbreak. After I returned to Tehachapi and after everyone was done losing their mind over Viktor’s gift, the mustang, they put up with my crying and blubbering.
Annette and Sam especially consoled me and my grief, letting me talk about him for hours, letting me wonder over and over again if it had been a mistake to go to LA, if it had been a mistake to not follow him to Sweden. Of course I knew I couldn’t go but it doesn’t st©p me from wishing things had been different.
People like Pike would tell me that I was crazy for thinking I was in love with him. They still didn’t know he was a prince, everyone just thought he was some handsome, foreign rich dude (except for Callum, who still thinks he is the Swedish Chef).
They thought I was infatuated with him because of his money, because of his promises he must have made me. They thought it was just a crush gone wild and that in time I would realize that it wasn’t love at all.
How could you love someone after a week?
It didn’t seem possible.
And yet I knew if I even tried to pretend that I didn’t feel this way, if I tried to ignore the pain in my heart, the depth of my feelings for him, that I would be hurting him in some way.
So I decided to hurt instead.
And eventually, I wasn’t allowed to talk about him anymore. If I opened my mouth about him, they’d switch the subject. Even Sam, Sam who I’ve been there for throu-gh so much drama and breakups, even she once told me, “You nee-d to get over him right now. That was never love, it was lvst and both svçkto lose, but if you don’t forget about him, you never will.”
Everyone thought I would get over it and it would go away.
Everyone thought I should get over, at the very least.
But the more that time went on and the months ticked by, the more I thought about him, ached for him, nee-ded him.
The more I realized that this empty room I carried around inside me wasn’t getting filled. I hadn’t even attem-pted to decorate, there wasn’t any point. Nothing would do except for my prince, except for Viktor.
It wasn’t all a loss though.
We’ve stayed in t©uçh for the most p@rt.
I first heard from him a day after he left, when he arrived in Stockholm.
After that weekend, my b©dy and soul felt like it had been dragged throu-gh the mud. I looked like hell too. Whatever S-x-filled rosy glow I had turned to the pallor of heartbreak.
That first day back at work I’d sle-pt in a little and rushed to get the kids to school. I took the minivan since driving the mustang felt strange (though it was hella fun to drive), then did what I could to get throu-gh the day. It wasn’t my best and I knew it, Juanita pointing out some pillow cases I forgot to change, but I got it done.
It wasn’t until I got home later and was walking past the mustang into the house that I heard ringing from the glove comp@rtment.
Puzzled, I opened it and found an iPhone in there.
A br@nd new iPhone.
Ringing somehow with a Post-It note attached to it.
The note said Answer Me and my first thought was of Alice in Wonderland when she’s picking up the food and drink. What if I answer it and I’m su-cked into the phone, straight to Sweden?
So I answered it.
“Hey,” he’d said and hearing his voice, even though I’d heard it twenty-four hours before, nearly brou-ght me to my knees again. His accent, the warmth and polish of it all. I never realized how used to that voice I had got.
“Hey,” I said back, suddenly overwhelmed with everything all over again. “You’re here. And you’re on a phone that was in your car’s glove box. Did you mean to leave it in there?”
I heard him sigh patiently. “I told you that you nee-ded a new phone.”
“Viktor, I can’t accept a fv¢king mustang and a new iPhone.”
“And a moose, plea-se don’t forget that moose.”
“I can accept the moose. No one will take him after what you did to him.” I paused, ru-bbing my palm against my forehead. “I just…why are you doing so many nice things for me?”
“Why?” he asked, sounding both shocked and insulted. “Why would you think? You’re everything to me, Maggie. I feel like I can’t do enough. And, well, selfishly, this way I can talk to you every day. I got you a good calling plan.”
“Isn’t it late right now?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t wait. Is it okay that I called?”
I’d never talked to him on the phone before this, so it was funny how slightly awkward it was, showcasing just how new we were to each other.
But as time went on, keeping in t©uçh bec@m£ more and more difficult. Those first few days he was back in Stockholm, he was still adjusting to his new life and getting it all together. Not always easy to do when you get back from a long vacation. And because of it, I think he was given a lot more slack by his family and whoever else keeps him in line. We talked often.
Then the phone calls tapered off and the time change and his rigid schedule bec@m£ more of a big deal, so we started texting. I would text him and it would be eight hours until I got a response and visa versa.
Then there were love letters.
Oh yes, the art of the love letter isn’t dead.
And even though Viktor’s never mentioned the word love, I felt it in his words so elegantly scribbled on paper I could have sworn smell like lavender.
This was my favorite way to communicate. Even though he told me he hand-delivered them to the post box and they never had a return address, so I couldn’t answer him back, I still felt like his words were reaching into my soul. I was seeing a Viktor that I wouldn’t have heard over a phone line, that wasn’t so pithy and quic-k as he was over text.
In these letters he took his time. He took his time writing them, took his time describing how he felt, took his time with all the details, much in the same way he took his time when we had S-x. He was so thorou-gh and in return I felt so wanted. So…loved. True, he never used the term love (though he did use the term älskling, once, which apparently means the same) but I felt it in his every word.
But slowly, as summer turned to fall and then now, as fall turns to winter, the frequency of the letters dropped off and I’ve been too scared to text him and ask why. There’s a distance between us now that seems greater than the distance between here and Sweden.
It makes that cold empty room that much lonelier.
* * *
***
* * *
“So I’ve been doing a lot of re-ading up on your Swedish Prince,” Annette says to me over her beer.
I look at her in surprise. After LA I confided in her that Viktor wasn’t just a pretty face but the crown prince of Sweden. Though I still haven’t told my family and probably never will, I couldn’t keep it from Annette, and I thought I owed it to her since she took care of everyone while I was gone.
She took it all in her very dry, cynical stride. Which I appreciated. Sometimes a dose of cynicism is nee-ded when your heart is feeling things it shouldn’t.
But since it’s been months since he’s left and I’ve tried my ha-rd est not to talk about him with anyone anymore, I’m not sure why she’s suddenly bringing him up.
Maybe it’s because we’re at the Faultline again. Annette actually moved to Bakersfield a few months ago. Got a good job, a small ap@rtment. Started d@t!nga guy, a dad of three kids, she calls The Dude because he’s like the king of bowling or something. She’s in town today because she met with her lawyers to finalize her divorce and we’re celebr@ting.
Naturally there’s only one place to do that here.
“re-ading?” I question. “Like, history of the royal family?”
“No,” she says. “Like tabloids. Internet gossip sites. Swedish ones. I just use the translate app. I believe everyone thinks he’s having an affair with his butler. as-suming butler is butler in Swedish and doesn’t mean, like, farm animals.”
I frown. “Farm animals?”
She shrugs. “He’s everywhere, honey. The press can’t get enough of him. Makes me un-derstand better why you couldn’t either.”
I really wish she hadn’t brou-ght him up, my plan for the night was to not think of him for one second. It has been a week since we last texted and it was along the lines of “How are you doing?” and “Fine, how are you doing?” and it pains me to feel so much distance, to be reduced to just text on a screen.
Then again, I suppose thinking about him was inevitable since we c@m£ here. It almost feels like that night I found him in the bar all over again. The only difference is now, thanks to Viktor’s mustang, I’m the one buying Annette drinks and not the other way around.
“I don’t look at those things anymore,” I tell her and it’s true. For the first month I was keeping up with all things Viktor by looking at the Swedish sites and British tabloids and Sam had gotten me hooked on Royalty Monthly (where I also bec@m£ intrigued with a few of the monarchs that I knew Viktor had mentioned, such as Prince Magnus of Norway and King Aksel of Denmark).
But after a while there were too many rumors about Viktor that I didn’t want to believe, and the press was so intrusive. I also think it added to the distance between us, seeing him in his official royal garb with his hat and his sash and medals at ceremonies, or in his sharp suits at ba-lls and galas. He looked so…unt©uçhable. Unreal. Like I was watching a character in a film instead of the living breathing warm and generous Viktor that I knew.
“Cheer up,” she says, raising her beer to me. “Tonight is all about new beginnings. For the both of us.”
I pick up my martini and carefully tap it against hers. “Yes”I tell her.
“So how is it going with April?” she asks.
I sigh and give her a steady look. “It’s…going great.”
“And Tito?”
“Tito, thankfully, is in prison now. Not even here. He’d gone to Las Veg@s and got arrested for drug dealing and as-saulting an officer or something like that so that $h!thead is out of our lives forever. I hope.”
“And April?”
“April on the other hand…” I shrug. “She pretty much hates me even more now. Blames me for taking him away. She can hate me all she wants at this point, I’m just glad she didn’t end up pregnant.”
“Until she finds another low-life…”
“You’re not helping, Annette.”
“I’d always told your mother that that girl was going to be trouble. Even at a young age, she wanted to rebel against everything. But you were both pretty close, weren’t you?”
“There’s a nine-year age difference between us so we were never as close as I would have liked,” I admit. “Maybe when she gets older she’ll st©p hating me and figure out she can relate to me more than anyone.”
“You aren’t an old fogey like me,” Annette says, placing her hands on the side of her face and stretching back the skin. “Do you think I should get a face lift?”
I laugh. “Not if it makes you look like Lady Cas-sandra.”
“Lady Cas-sandra? Is she a royal too?”
“Never mind,” I tell her, knowing she hasn’t seen Dr. Who. “And st©p tou-ching your face like that.”
“Hi,” the perky waitress says to me, suddenly appearing at our table with a sh0t of something in her hand. “The gentleman over there wanted to buy you a drink.”
“Gentleman?” Annette repeats, looking impressed. “I didn’t think there were any gentlemen in this town.”
“Who?” I ask the waitress, craning my n£¢k around the booth and looking around.
She points down at the booths by the door. “Just right there. I poured it myself, so you can trust it. You don’t have to accept it either. That happens here all the time.”
I only see one person at the booths and all I see of them is a long p@n-t leg sticking out the side.
Something about that p@rticular long leg makes my heart pick up the pace.
I look up at the girl. “What does he look like?”
She grins at me. “Handsome like I’ve never seen the likes of. Has a bit of an accent, too. I’m very jealous,” she adds, tapping on the table for emphasis before she walks back to the bar.
A few things happen all at once.
One is that I watch as the bartender and the waitress talk behind the bar and the bartender is narrowing her eyes at the guy in the booth and then she looks over at me in surprise.
Same waitress as the last time we were here, the one we did the favor for and had to deal with unconscious Viktor.
Two is that I pick up the sh0t and smell it and wince at the familiar pungent aroma.
Caraway seeds.
Aquavit.
And three, three is that every single cell in my b©dy is tapdancing on fire. Every nerve is a livewire, crackling and humming and re-ady to ignite me.
This can’t be a coincidence.
“What is it?” Annette asks me, brow furrowed as she reaches for the drink and has a sip. “Good lord, what the hell is this?”
I can only swallow, staring at her with wi-de eyes. “It’s him,” I whisper.
“Who?”
“It has to be him.”
And now I’m getting up, my b©dy light and I’m moving as if I’m in a dream.
“Maggie?” she says but I ba-rely hear her.
I’m moving down the row of booths, past the entrance, pausing just before I’m about to walk by his.
I’m staring at his p@n-ts, how perfectly tailored they look, the shine of his shoes. This man is dressed well, no longer in the jeans and boots I’d come to know.
Maybe it’s not even the man you know?
The last thought scares me for so many reasons.
But I keep walking, just a few steps more.
St©p at the booth.
Stare at Viktor.
Viktor.
How could it be him? How could this be?
I have to be dreaming.
“Hello Maggie,” Viktor says in that beautiful rich voice, that accent, that everything that seeps right into my heart.
“I told you I’d come back for you.”
I can only shake my head, staring at him in disbelief.
“How is this…how is this possible? Is that you? Are you really here?”
He smiles and I’m automatically melting at the sight of those white teeth against tanned skin, the crinkles at the corners of his warm eyes, sparkling blue, the scruff of a beard which somehow makes him both older and more handsome. I didn’t think it was possible.
He gets out of the booth and stands in front of me and I have to crane my n£¢k back to look at him and I’m so overwhelmed, I don’t know what to do.
It’s him.
He’s here.
I start to sway on my feet. He’s giving me vertigo.
Viktor quic-kly reaches out and gr-abs my arm to keep me steady and then seems to hesitate a moment before he reaches out with his other hand, slides it behind my w@!st and pu-lls me right to him.
“I’ve got you,” he says, cu-pping my face in my hands. “I’m here.”
“How? How?” I whisper, fighting to keep staring at him because I’m afraid if I close my eyes he’ll be gone when I open them. At the same time, the feel of his hands on my skin, the warmth of his b©dy pressed against mine, and my eyes want to close, to let him sink in.
I finally feel at peace.
I stare at him. “How did you know I was here? What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?”
He gives me a wary smile, his hands dropping away from my face. “I didn’t know if you’d even want to speak to me. When you didn’t answer my letters, when you didn’t mention them…I thought it was best if I saw you in person and I didn’t want you to have a chance to say no.”
“Letters? I got your letters.”
“This last month?”
“Well, no. The last one I got was in September?”
“There’s been more.”
“I never got them.”
“fv¢k,” he swears, running his hand throu-gh his thick hair. “Magnus was right. That bastard.”
“What?” My mind is tripping back, trying to figure out where his letters could have gone. I was the one going to the mail box on the street every day and checking for them.
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m here now.”
“How did you find me at the bar?”
He looks sheepish. “I went to your house first. It was dark. Threw pebbles up at your room but…I got April yelling at me instead.”
“Oh jeez.”
“She told me you were here.”
“Well at least she didn’t give you directions off a cliff or something.” I close my eyes, ru-bbing my forehead. It still doesn’t feel real. When I open my eyes though, he’s still there, still staring at me, maybe with the same amount of anxiety as he did before we walked into that lavender-covered h0tel room. “You’re here,” I say again. “I’m not sure when I’ll believe it.”
He bites his l!pfor a moment, his eyes searching mine and then he leans in, k!ss!ngme. His mouth is soft and familiar and safe and I find myself melting into him, into this sweet, rich k!ssI feel all the way in my toes.
“Do you believe it now,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Or do you nee-d more proof?”
His hand disappears into my hair.
He’s here.
He’s here!
I’m his.
“So we meet again,” Annette says from behind us, her voice giving me a jo-lt and causing us to break ap@rt.
I can’t be annoyed though. Not with her, not with anything anymore. “Annette!” I practically yell. “This is Viktor.”
“Viktor,” she says in a posh voice and she gives him her hand. Like, actually gives him her hand.
And being the god damn prince that he is, he takes her hand and k!sses the t©p of it. “The plea-sure is all mine, Annette.”
Even she seems to swoon, just a little. “I suppose I should call you Your Royal Highness, shouldn’t I? Maybe curtsey, too?”
“You could,” he says, giving her hand back. “Except we’ve alre-ady met once, un-der rather messy circu-mtances, being unconscious and all. I think we’re past all the formalities now.”
“Now that you’re back with Miss Maggie here, you could say that.”
“He’s not back for good,” I find myself saying to Annette. “He’s got a country to be all…princely over.”
🌸T. B. C🌸
Our prince is back💃💃🥂🥂🍾🍾😃😃😊