My Royal Temptation / Ruined

He bows toward his visibly shaken parents before making his dramatic exit.

I give myself a mental pat on the back for at least believing the stories.

The prince is a grade-A asshole.

My soaked panties, on the other hand, apparently did not receive the memo.

Perhaps they’re waiting for one with the royal seal.

CHAPTER TWO

Nikolai

“MARRIAGE? THAT’S IT, Father has lost his goddamn mind,” I mutter, ducking into the unobtrusive staircase, the quickest escape route out of the palace. Two floors down a young servant in a black dress and white apron takes one look at me and nearly drops the silver tray she carries, one laden with teapots, fine china and six different cakes. My mood is so foul that I ignore her alarmed squeal and don’t even smooth the situation over with a flirtatious wink.

She must have been assigned catering duty for the ambush upstairs, the one where my father invoked the ancient laws of our realm.

Sweat breaks out on my hairline. A sour taste fills my mouth.

My twenty-ninth birthday is just around the corner.

I am the heir to the crown.

The Royal Marriage Decree of 1674 declared that the Edenvale heir must wed before sundown on his or her twenty-ninth birthday or their claim is null and void. Plus, an Edenvale heir had to marry someone of aristocratic blood. My future bride doesn’t have to be a citizen of my country, but she does need to be nobility. Other than that, the requirements are simple: free consent.

Sounds easy enough. Except for the part where I’m not the marrying kind.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and draw a lung-searing breath before pushing through the exit that leads to the castle grounds.

Of course I know about the marriage decree. I memorized Edenvale proclamations and laws alongside my ABCs. But this is the twenty-first century. I never dared believe that Father would enforce that arcane law any more than he would the one about how no high ministers could enter the palace wearing purple, or how hunting on royal lands was a hangable offense.

Don’t even get me started on the decree prohibiting anal sex.

Hell, I tapped the back door of a hotel heiress in the castle’s highest tower last week. Not something I normally do, but she offered, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to turn it down. Not my favorite position, but sex is like pizza in Naples. Even if it’s not great, it’s still damn good.

The castle grounds are perfectly manicured with hedges cut into topiaries of rabbits and swans. Father enjoys indulging his whimsical side.

The morning sun scalds my neck.

“Sire, Sire, please, wait!” a woman cries behind me. Then she mutters under her breath how hard it is to run in heels.

My molars grind with enough force that it’s a miracle they don’t shatter. I’ve heard that lilting voice before—the auburn-haired woman from the matchmaking service that my father hired.

Marriage decree aside, this situation—them hiring a matchmaking service—is the biggest insult of all. As if I need any goddamn help finding a willing woman.

“Sire!”

I should wait. Chivalry and all that. But remember the part about how I’m no Prince Charming?

I veer into the maze, kicking at stones in the gravel path. Fuck being a gentleman. I turn left, then right, then left again. The walls surrounding me are twelve feet high and covered in leaves. This maze might be the largest in Europe, but it was my childhood playground. I always know the way out. Time to ditch this tenacious matchmaker and figure out a plan to avoid getting tied in unholy matrimony.

That’s when I hear it.

A snap, quickly followed by a sound like someone trying not to cry out.

Shit.

She’s fallen over.

Not a surprise. I caught a glimpse of her precarious five-inch stilettos when she crossed her legs upstairs in the castle hall and this path is rocky and uneven.

I also caught an eyeful of a toned calf that connected to a perfectly curving thigh. That was the best part of the meeting. Before I glanced at the folder on the table and read the gold-embossed title: Happy Endings Matchmaking Services: Making Dreams a Reality.

A cool mountain breeze brushes my face. I pause. Debating. I want to keep going. I even take a step. It’s not like I asked her to give chase. She saw that I didn’t need her advice. That I didn’t want her professional services. Yet she insisted on pursuing me of her own free will. This is her own fault. I owe the woman—a total stranger—nothing.

The image of that exquisite creamy thigh flashes behind my eyes, this time draped over my shoulder.

Okay. Correction. I don’t want her in a professional capacity.

My shoulders slump. No matter what my instincts demand, I can’t abandon an injured woman alone in the maze.

Before I know it, I’m backtracking. It takes less than thirty seconds to find her.

She’s kicked off that lethal-looking shoe and sits rubbing a swelling ankle. Her toes are painted a glossy classic red.

Okay, damn. I like that.

Her lips are flawless, painted in exactly the same shade.

I like that even better.

I’d like it best streaking my shaft.

My cock twitches in agreement.

Fuck. This matchmaker—and maddeningly sexy woman—is the enemy. But try telling that to my asshole dick. Sometimes an overactive libido comes with serious drawbacks.

Then her gaze fixes on my face, and with one look at those tear-filled baby blues, my brain fucking flatlines.

Kate

It takes everything for me to hold my prince’s fixed stare, not to wince at the white-hot pain in my ankle. But there is no way I’m letting this guy—prince or otherwise—get the best of me.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Of course not.” I glance at my ivory skirt, the side slit ripped even higher. I’m also sure my ass is one big grass stain. And let’s not even discuss the hair. I’d gone for professional with the French twist, but now my auburn waves hang in my face, which is probably for the best. His steely gaze is too close.

“Just—show me the way out,” I say, attempting to push myself up, but as soon as I put pressure on my bare foot, my knees buckle and I almost hit the ground again.

Almost. Because Nikolai Lorentz, Prince of Edenvale and heir to the throne, catches me.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You are hurt.”

“And you smell like you hit a limousine minibar,” I say, trying to cover my reaction to his hands on me with disdain.

But my breath still quickens. He carries me with a concern I can feel in every nerve of my body.

“It was a Rolls, but you’re very perceptive, Miss—”

“Winter,” I say, having no choice but to throw my arms around his neck for purchase, my broken shoe still dangling from my fingers.

“Aha,” he says, that devilish grin taking over his features. “Have you read Romeo and Juliet? Doesn’t Juliet ask what’s in a name?” He begins to walk.

My cheeks grow hot, and the tips of his fingers—his palm where it touches the bare skin of my thigh—sends sparks right through me.

I clear my throat. “You read Shakespeare?” I ask, though it’s obvious.

“You’re as icy as your name implies.”

I huff out a breath and push as far from him as I can while the rogue still has me in his arms.

“I’m no such thing! You—you’re the one who likened my services to a dating website. My work is nuanced and relies on personal metrics and psychology, thank you very much. You’re also the one who just cost me a day’s work. So pardon me if I’m not exactly warming to your famous charm.”

He stops dead in his tracks. We’re still in the maze, and I can’t tell if we’re any closer to making it out of here or if he’s taken us deeper.

His eyes dart in every direction, as if he’s checking for intruders, before they land on mine. Stone gray and burning with intent, I can’t look away if I try.

“I will not marry,” he says, his voice cool and even. “Is that understood?”

I nod. “And I will not walk away from this job.”

“Then I guess we’re at an impasse.”

The air between us is warm, charged with the mingling of our breaths. His skin against mine sizzles. My head tells me that everything I’m feeling is wrong, but the physical need brewing inside me throbs at my core.

I haven’t been with a man since my fiancé, Jean-Luc, died BASE jumping in Alaska. He was the love of my life, but he loved the thrill of adrenaline more than me. Afterward, I joined my big sister Madeline’s business to devote my life to what I was denied: a happy ending.

It had been two long, careful years of self-denial and occasionally my own hand. Before that it had only ever been Jean-Luc.

But the hand against me now is big, strong and unfamiliar. All it would take is his fingers sliding an inch more, and he’d feel that need, wet and pulsing.

He swallows, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. That’s all it takes to let me know that whatever this is, it’s not only me.

Maybe this is what it feels like to live in the moment, take a risk, something I never let myself do because I had to be careful for both of us. I had to move in with Madeline to save on rent. Never have I let myself simply want.

But this stranger’s hands on me are warm. Strong. And for a second I imagine what they could do. It’s intoxicating, this growing need and the possibility of satisfying it right here and now. I feel drunk and squirm in his grasp, hoping he’ll simply think I’m readjusting myself in his arms, but I miscalculate and my lips brush against his.

He sucks in a breath, and this makes me grin.

“I don’t like you,” I say. Truer words have never been spoken.

“Likewise,” he answers, his voice low and rough.

All my life I’ve played it safe, and where did it get me? Lost and alone. But this man exudes raw power, a power that draws me into his orbit, a pull stronger than gravity. I feel myself inching toward some sort of internal cliff, and the woman I thought I was relinquishes control.

“You said you’d sooner fuck me than let me arrange your nuptials.”

He nods. “I certainly did.”

I lean close to his ear, nip at his lobe, and step across the line of comfort I’ve hidden behind for far too long and whisper, “It’s sooner.”

I expect a savage response, but instead I feel him adjust his hands, and then I gasp as his thumb hits the crease of my panties.

That’s all it takes. I leap off the cliff with a whimper of need and straight into pure pleasure.

He growls.

“You’re fucking soaked.” He drops to his knees, still holding me like I’m precious cargo, and lays me gently on the grass. “And I want to drink every last sweet drop.”

Without another word, he hikes my skirt up and slides my panties down my thighs, over my knees and then off. I feel them snag on the heel of my remaining shoe but don’t care. He shoves them in the pocket of his pants, and I know I’m not getting them back. The thought makes me giddy, and I writhe under his gaze.

“Now, Nikolai,” I say, and he levels me with his grin.

The next thing I know, my hands are tangled in that jet-black hair as he licks the length of my folds from bottom to top until his tongue swirls around my swollen clit.

I moan and buck against him as he sucks me between his lips. I relish the feel of his stubble against my thighs, the slight pain only heightening my pleasure.

“Use fingers,” I command, and he obeys immediately.

One finger plunges deep while he continues to take his fill with his mouth. Then a second joins the first, and my vision clouds with stars. My body bucks with shivers of reaction.

“God, I wish you could fuck me,” I say, daring to voice what I long for—what I’ve gone without for what seems like an eternity. I try and fail not to whimper as he reaches a spot inside me that almost makes me black out.

Two years. It’s been two freaking years since a man has touched me. The thought—coupled with his hands on me, in me—threatens to unleash something more than just the adrenaline rush, but I swallow the impending wave of emotion. Because that’s not what this is about. These feelings aren’t for the prince.

He peeks from between my legs and slides his fingers from my aching pussy. He takes care in licking each one clean.

“You said it was sooner, sweetheart, and I’m always prepared for sooner.” From the pocket that does not hold my ruined panties, he pulls a foil packet and holds it up for me to see. “Your wish is my command.”

CHAPTER THREE

Nikolai

HER TASTE IS ADDICTIVE—honey, salt and rainwater. I hate the idea of matchmaking. But matchmakers? I take my time drinking in the woman panting on the grass, her conservative blouse opened a button too far, exposing delicate white lace, creamy skin and lush, womanly curves.

Yes. I believe I could learn to like matchmakers.

“Sire. Hurry.” She stares through a fringe of dark, thick lashes. Her red lipstick is smudging off her plump lower lip. I’m responsible for that, and the fact draws my balls tight against my engorged cock, clearly outlined through the panel of my tux pants. My muscles ripple with suppressed need.

I fold my arms, making an elaborate show of regarding the condom foil, and set my face into my trademark arrogant sneer. It’s my mask. The one the public expects a prince to wear, especially a prince with the world at his feet. It comes easy as instinct, which is good because I am not used to being unsettled. And this woman is—unsettling.

“Interesting business you run.” I lower my voice to a sensual drawl.

“No, not mine. I mean... I am not... It’s not mine...um... It’s my sister’s...her business,” she babbles, skimming one hand over the ragged tear in her prim skirt, the one currently offering me an eyeful of the thighs I’d feasted on. Her eyes darken, pupils dilating at my blatant appraisal.

“And do you provide these services—” I clear my throat and raise an insinuating eyebrow “—to every client?”

A dusky rose color flushes the skin of her throat as she catches my insinuation. She’s pissed. Angry and turned on, my favorite combination in a woman. Hate fucking has all of the fun and none of the responsibility.

“Of course not,” she snaps.

I dip a finger between my lips and give it a long lazy suck. The muscles in my neck cord. It still tastes like her. My mouth waters. “Mmm-hmm. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Damn it.” A tear spills from the corner of one gorgeous eye, trickles along her high cheekbone. “I don’t know what came over me.”

My hands twitch to comfort her. Christ. I did not see that response coming. I should regroup, charm her thighs open and plunge into her from behind, working her fancy hairdo and composure loose in brutal doggy-style strokes. Bet it would make her bum ankle feel a lot better than two ibuprofens and an ice pack.

So why am I pocketing the condom? Or brushing a wayward lock of hair on her forehead.

“Look. It’s been...” She flinches from my touch with a bitter laugh. “A while. And you...well, you’re royal sex on a stick. It’s a lot for a normal person to take in.” She closes the gaping button on her shirt. “An error in judgment that won’t happen again.”

Looks like I’m not the only one who slaps on a mask when the going gets tough. In a blink of an eye my feisty sex kitten has retracted her claws and is now back to Miss Prim and Proper.

“Pity,” I rumble, trying not to appear disconcerted. “Errors in judgment happen to be my specialty.” I take my time adjusting my cock, the proud, hard length straining inside my pants.

The point of her pink tongue makes a quick appearance, dabs her lower lip. The kitten reemerges for a second. “You do seem quite...specialized.”

“And you have once again proven my long-tested theory correct.”

“Which is?”

I tap the tip of her nose with my index finger. “Inside every good girl is a bad girl waiting to get out.”

She fingers her pearl choker. “I’m not going to argue with you there.” Her laugh is high-pitched—nervous. “I’ve always been the good girl. Oral in a royal maze is a first and so, so not me.”

I believe her. She looks like an angel. I might have sucked her sweet clit, but those doe-like eyes speak to nothing but innocence. That’s when I’m slammed by a vision of a woman naked in my bed, long legs spread wide, hiding nothing, each pink honeyed fold exposed for my pleasure. Her delicate wrists and ankles bound by thick ropes of pearl.

I blink. My shoulders go rigid. I’ve never invited a woman into my royal bed. The west wing of the palace is my personal sanctuary. No one is welcome there save for my brother Benedict. Not my dalliances. And not my father or stepmother. It’s the only place that is just for me. Where I can be—me.

The world gets my dick. No one has a right to my soul.

“This was obviously a mistake,” she murmurs to herself before rising unsteadily. “We got off on the wrong foot.”

“You got off on the wrong foot.” I nod at her bare right foot, the one on which she can barely place any weight, and I offer her my arm. She takes it, but not before rolling her eyes. “We got off on more than that,” I add. My cock jumps like a dog hungry for a treat. “At least you did.”

She sniffs. Who’d imagine this ice queen could melt into such a passionate, bright, fiery lover?

Interesting.

She limps but is able to hold her own now. I like to think it has something to do with my talent between her legs, that my skillful tongue has a healing effect. I guide her out of the maze. Grass stains mar her perfectly tailored ivory skirt, a visible reminder of what we just did, and just like that, I’m hard as a rock again.

“From the tabloids,” she says, “it sounds like you won’t suffer for long. Tell me, how long has it been since you were inside a woman?”

I shrug with studied nonchalance. “Mouth or pussy?”

She gasps as my words sink in.

I pretend to count my fingers. “Six hours for pussy. Seven for her mouth. Give or take fifteen minutes. And if her brother hadn’t barged in on us this morning, I’m guessing those numbers would be significantly smaller.”

“You’re a pig.” Her brows slam together. “A rutting, depraved boar.”

“No. I’m a prince.” I draw myself to full height. “Your prince.”

“And I’m here in service to my king.” She juts out her jaw, gaze unbowed, refusing to cave at my power play. “Sire, you are my client. It’s been royally commanded by your father and my liege lord, which means we need to get to work. I will return tomorrow to do your personality profile.”

“My what?”

“It’s protocol for all our clients.” There is a note of finality in her clipped tone. She means business.

I click my tongue, half annoyed and half impressed. “You’ll never marry me off, sweetheart.”

“Tell that to my matchmaking success rate of 100%.” She offers a smug smile. “See you tomorrow, Highness.”

Once out of the maze, she releases my arm and continues alone. But she’s still injured, so her haughty exit falls flat, even as she takes off her other shoe. I bite back a laugh before realizing the joke is on me. Because guess who still has a hard-on the size of the Matterhorn?

Still, I should follow her to the castle lest she goes to the tabloids with some trumped-up story about how poorly she was treated on palace property.

“I am fine to proceed alone,” she says, reading my thoughts. An unsettling experience.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” I say, taking the few steps needed to catch up to her.

“Please.” Her composure slips a notch. The mask not fully secure. “I—I need a moment alone.” A sign this unexpected dalliance affected her, as well.

She turns and makes her way toward the palace gates, clutching her heels, only the slightest limp still evident. Miss Winter has spunk. I’ll give her that.

A woman like this could bring a less controlled man to his knees. Good thing that I’m no such man. This angel is more dangerous than any devil.

Kate

I don’t care if it hurts to walk. Nothing is more important than distance. And by distance I mean space between me and Nikolai Lorentz.

The only problem? When I slip through the gates onto the main grounds, I can’t get to the front of the castle without swimming the moat.

Good Lord. He lives in a palace. With a moat. And I almost slept with him in a freaking maze. I begged the prince of our realm to fuck me as I lay in the grass with my skirt hiked up over my hips. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t fuck anybody. I have lovely, meaningful sex with men who love and care for me—and who put a ring on it. At least, I did have that once.

As I contemplate my next move, an older man—probably in his late thirties—approaches me from a nearby garden.

“Pardon me, Miss Winter, but I have been instructed to take you home.”

I shake my head. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. If you could point me toward the most direct route to the main road, I’m sure I can get a taxi.”

I look behind me, expecting to see Nikolai approaching, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Miss, there is no direct route to the main road other than through the palace.” He looks me up and down. “And I am assuming you’d like to make a discreet exit?”

I sigh and cling to the last shred of my dignity, holding my head high even as my just-been-finger-fucked hair falls into my face.

“I’m quite content walking through the palace...” But I trail off as I note myself gesturing with my shoes in my hands—as threads from my torn skirt tickle my thigh—and I immediately deflate.

“So...you were instructed to take me home?”

The man nods, the hints of silver in his dark hair glinting in the sun, and it’s only now that I realize his impeccably tailored suit, his straightened spine and hands clasped in front of his hips. His jaw is chiseled and his brown eyes are dark and knowing. He is not royalty. I can tell that much. But he exudes an undisputable authority nonetheless.

“Yes, Miss. His Royal Highness the Prince texted me with the order to see you home safely. I can lead you through the kitchen and out the servants’ exit to avoid any unpleasant encounters upon your departure.”

I hold out my arms, shoes dangling from my index fingers. “I guess I’m not in any shape to run into the king and queen again, especially if I want to keep this job.”

The man doesn’t even crack a smile but instead offers me a single nod.

“This way, Miss.” He motions toward the garden from which he came.

I limp in his direction, trying not to read into the prince’s gesture of making sure I get home safely. There is no way Nikolai Lorentz cares what happens between us from here on out other than him opposing my very being here.

“You can call me Kate,” I say, once I reach his side and he holds out an arm. I grab both of my shoes with my right hand and take his arm with my left—not because I need to but because it would seem rude to decline.

I breathe in sharply as my hand grips muscle so tight and corded that I can feel it through his suit.

“As you wish, Miss Kate,” he says, and I roll my eyes.

“Maybe you could drop the Miss altogether? Makes me sound like a prim-and-proper governess.” I let out a nervous laugh. What just transpired between me and the heir apparent was not behavior becoming of a governess. Or the me I thought I knew, for that matter.

“As you wish, Kate,” he says, his voice devoid of any hint of emotion.

“You got a name?” I ask as he pushes open a door hidden in the brick of the palace’s side wall.

“His Highness calls me X,” he says, ushering me inside a small corridor. The servants’ quarters, no doubt.

“What do your friends and family call you?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “I have neither, Miss—my apologies—Kate.”

My stomach sinks at the thought as he leads me through a white six-panel door. But I forget the heartbreaking answer just as quickly as we enter an enormous kitchen and my senses are assaulted in the best possible way. The aroma of garlic wafts in our direction, and my mouth immediately waters. I skipped breakfast this morning because—hello—I was ordered to the palace. Who can eat with that kind of pressure? And now that I’d been satiated in a whole other way entirely, I was famished. There’s also something sweet in the air, a richness I can almost taste.