The Illegitimate King / Friday Night Mistress: The Illegitimate King / Friday Night Mistress

After another silent beat, she sat up. “Hello? Are you taking another call? Shall I wait on the line until you finish talking to whomever it is you just called all those far-fetched things?”

“You see? Shameless.” Before she could answer, he went on. “But since you’re not untidy, why is your room a mess?”

Dio, the man forgot nothing, couldn’t be distracted. Figured.

She gave in. “Because it hasn’t seen a coat of paint in over fifteen years. Name any sign you can imagine of long neglect in such an old building, and it’s here. Distintegrating wood paneling, leaking ceiling and peeling paint, just to mention the surface stuff.”

An edge entered his voice. “The rest of the palace is in good condition. How is it possible your living quarters haven’t been given priority in maintenance and renovations?”

“My living quarters aren’t part of the national monument area of the palace.”

“You’re the princess of Castaldini.” He sounded indignant.

“You should see the king’s quarters.”

The silence lengthened beyond her ability to bear it this time. Especially when she could almost hear that warp-speed mind of his streaking to conclusions. It was another thing to prove how much Castaldini needed him.

At last he inhaled. Then, after a long pause, slowly exhaled. The nuances of the sounds didn’t transmit male awareness and triumph this time, but contemplation, deliberation, and if she could possibly believe it, thoughtfulness, consideration. It seemed her sensory capacity had converged on her sense of hearing. She was picking up more through his breathing and tones than from his words. And whether she was picking up right or wrong, it moved her, messed up her insides. Then—of course—he made it far worse.

“What are you wearing, Clarissa?”

His whisper, the total unexpectedness of the question, made her heart skip over a few beats like a little girl would over squares in hopscotch. She wet her aching, parched lips. “Clothes.”

“Really? Whatever happened to fig leaves?” Her lips twitched. How did he engage her sense of humor, when she wanted to murder him? “What do you sleep in?”

“What do people sleep in? But I’m no longer in my pajamas.”

“You’re not ‘people.’ And if I become the future king of Castaldini, I’ll issue a royal decree prohibiting you from wearing pajamas. A body like yours shouldn’t be encased in anything but drapes of chiffon, wraps of tulle, veils of gauze. Or just jewelry.”

“Sure. Just the things to attend Council meetings in,” she scoffed. “Fig leaves would be preferable.”

“You haven’t answered my question again, Clarissa.”

She sighed. “In the interest of preventing an inspection visit—I’m wearing another nondescript skirt suit.”

“Nothing you put on your body remains nondescript. After last night, skirt suits have entered the realm of highly erotic garments. Following the same rationalization, pajamas on you are probably the height of sexiness.” If he thought she had anything to say to that, he could think again. She was busy dealing with the impending heart attack he’d so casually caused. But he didn’t wait for her commentary. “What are you wearing beneath the jacket? Is your top buttoned, or pulled on, like the one you had on yesterday?”

“I don’t see—”

“It’s I who wants to see. In my mind’s eye. Now, do as I tell you. Take off your jacket. Slowly.”

His whispers, hypnotic, incendiary, were dragging her down into an endless well of mindlessness, incinerating rules and logic and memory. She still struggled. “Ferruccio, I don’t think—”

“Don’t think. Do it. This is where you start convincing me again. The jacket, Clarissa. Off.”

She took the phone away from her ear, stared at it, wondering if it had turned into a device that was whispering delusions. She put it back on, gritted, “It’s off.”

His whisper grew hotter, darker. “Liar.”

“How do you know if I’m lying or not?” She struggled not to pant. “Do you have my room bugged? Am I on camera now?”

“I can tell from your tone, from your breathing. From every cell in my body that’s telling me you’re still covered in layers of clothes. And you haven’t answered me. Buttons or pulled-on?”

“B-buttons…” she stammered.

“Leave the jacket on then. For now. Unbutton your blouse for me, Clarissa. Start at the top.” This time her hands trembled to obey him, as if powered by his will, his impatience. “Stop at the button just below your breasts.” She did. “Turn your phone to speaker mode. I want both your hands free.” She did that, too. “Now cross your hands inside your blouse, bellissima. Knead your breasts, then flick your nails over your nipples through your bra.” She fell back on the bed again, did as he instructed. “They’re hard now. Aching. Begging for my fingers, my lips and tongue and teeth.” And they were. How they were. “Do you remember the pressure I applied when I nipped them? Pinch them as hard.” She did, gasped, arched off the bed. “Again.” And again she did it, and every time he prodded her.

Fire raged through her. Her brain was sizzling, her chest, her eyes steaming, the heat in her gut converging to pour between her thighs, the pounding there beating to the frantic rhythm of her heart. She felt as if he’d taken over her body, was using her own hands as extensions of his lust, as if he was the one doing these things to her again. As he was. Whoever said the mind was the most powerful sex organ had been right. And he’d taken over hers.

“Pull your skirt up, touch your buttocks as I did, squeeze them.” She obeyed, unable to suppress her whimpers anymore. “It’s me doing it, pulling you against my erection, grinding into you. Spread your legs, Clarissa, let me have better access, open yourself and take more of me.”

She opened herself, could swear she felt him bearing down on her, the throbbing where he said he was, but wasn’t, becoming erratic with her heart’s short-circuiting rhythm.

“Now, do what you wanted me to do—what I would have done if you didn’t stop me. Cup yourself, Clarissa, tight. You’re burning now.” She was. And she couldn’t bear it. “Slip your hand inside your panties, spread your lips open. Now slide your fingers through your flowing nectar.” She did, keened, trembling on the edge now. His voice thickened, became harsh as gravel. “You’re melting, empty, losing your mind, unable to breathe with the hunger. I can see you, Clarissa, quaking on the edge of release. I can scent your need. I can feel your heart stampeding, your body tautening, your core demanding me.”

He stopped, drew in a shuddering breath.

Her lips trembled on a smile. He was as affected as she was, as distressed. His breath, when it rushed out, felt as if it filled her, the stimulus that almost tipped her over. She waited, needing it to be his words that did.

“But this stops here, mia magnifica. Anything more, you’ll have to come get it.”

Everything stilled, froze. The world. Her body. Her heart.

“I’m flying back to Castaldini as we speak.” His voice was crisp and distant all of a sudden, all intensity and intimacy evaporated. “I had to tend to some business, but I’ll be back in my mansion within the hour. You’ve gone a long way toward convincing me. I expect you to continue your…persuasion, then.”

Chapter Five

It was hours before Clarissa made herself leave her bed.

The first hour, she could barely move, think, breathe.

The frustration, the humiliation, had been paralyzing, suffocating. She’d tried to escape into oblivion. And to her enormous surprise, she succeeded. It seemed her nervous system had taken all it could, had done the one thing that would spare her real and lasting damage—shut down.

She woke up disoriented, sobbing.

More hours passed while she tried to regain semblance of equilibrium. She’d stood beneath scalding water and tried to let it wash away her confusion and anger—and most of all, the insidious craving Ferruccio had infused in her blood, the memory of those moments when he’d remote-controlled her, driven her to the brink of insanity, before withdrawing and leaving her feeling like she’d never stop falling. The next hour was spent going through the motions of drying her hair and getting dressed—and not in a skirt suit. Then she’d sat down at her computer table and finally let herself think. Let the one thought that now filled her being take the form of words.

She didn’t want to see or hear of Ferruccio ever again.

But she had to.

He’d demanded that she report to his mansion.

And she’d made her decision.

This ended tonight.

She’d tell him where he could stick his demands and terms. She was done being more fuel for his planetary-size ego. If he wanted to to punish her, and appease said ego, she’d assure him, he’d dealt her a blow that should satisfy him for the rest of his unnatural life. Then she would show him why he couldn’t refuse to be Castaldini’s crown prince, what was in it for him. So many things that didn’t include her. She’d persuade him, all right. To leave her out of the bargain and still go ahead with it.

With that fortifying hope powering her, she sprang into action.

The moment she left her apartments, Antonia descended on her like a disapproving mother eagle.

“Clarissa, can you tell me what exactly you’re trying to do here? Signore Selvaggio’s envoys arrived ten hours ago, saying you have an appointment with him!”

“And you didn’t swoop down on me the minute they arrived? That must be the minute hell froze over.”

“I did swoop down, many times. You were dead to the world. In your clothes. I gave up hours ago.”

“Take heart. It must have been that final trial that succeeded in yanking me out of my stupor.”

“What’s wrong with you, Clarissa? You sound…intoxicated.”

Clarissa barked a mirthless laugh. “You know what? I think you’re absolutely right, since intoxication happens when something rises in the blood to the level of toxicity.”

The woman looked as if she’d said the sun was checkered purple and blue. “You’re saying you’ve been consuming alcohol…or something even worse?”

Clarissa smirked. “I’d say arrogance and testosterone are definitely worse.”

Antonia looked to be at a total loss. “I’ve never seen you in this condition, Clarissa. Are you really sick? Or are you just trying to gloss over the fact that you disregarded an appointment with a man of Signore Selvaggio’s importance?”

Clarissa gave her a serene look. “Hey, I’m just fashionably late. That’s a woman’s prerogative, isn’t it?”

The raven-haired, green-eyed battleship of a woman, whom Clarissa loved dearly, dragon ferocity and military discipline and all, tutted. “You’re inexcusably, obscenely late. And you’re not ‘a woman,’ You’re a princess.”

“Believe me, bambinàia, right now I wish I wasn’t either. I’m in this damned situation because of those damned double X chromosomes and that damned accident of birth.”

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