The Thrusters arrive back in Copper Valley around 5 AM a few days before Halloween. We’ve spent the last week on the road, in Calgary and Vancouver and Edmonton, including back-to-back games that ended in a bloodbath for us in Lavoie’s hometown. But I did my royal duty in giving interview after interview about what it’s like to be a prince playing hockey and how much I miss the fjords and northern lights back home, and acknowledging that yes, the Thrusters’ promotional video was quite enjoyable to create, though my teammates keep ribbing me about my royal status.
I can only hope the increased press coverage of Stölland is helping guide more tourists our way.
Because though I have little experience with being poor, I’m familiar with math, and something is always greater than nothing.
The larger the something to go against our debt to Austling, the better. And most of my paycheck from the Thrusters is going toward my living accommodations and seeing to it that the heir I’ll never be able to acknowledge is well cared for.
I bloody hate every word on that legal document I had to send Gracie, but it’s for the best.
The lady is too lovely and kind to be mixed up with the likes of my family. She deserves better. I merely wish I could offer her more than money.
Ares and I, and Viktor of course, tumble into my penthouse as the sun is shining its first rays on the Blue Ridge Mountains out my wall of windows. Lovely as the view is, I’m ready for a few hours of sleep before I’m due for a charity appearance as a judge at a children’s talent show on the military base north of Copper Valley.
Where I’ll also extol the beauty of my country for any parents in attendance.
But sleep is not in the cards.
Because Elin is awake.
“Where have you been?” she demands. Her monkey is sitting on my counter, nibbling on something that I hope is food and not a piece of any of my wardrobe or hockey gear.
“Western Canada,” I reply. “A mere six hours by plane and two more hours through Customs. You’re right. I should’ve been home sooner.”
“You’re supposed to be charming.”
“This is charming, darling.”
Ares pulls a cookie from his back pocket. The monkey darts off the counter, climbs Ares like a tree, snagging the cookie along the way, and sits on his shoulder. Ares grunts, which translates to good night, and disappears down the hall to his bedroom.
Elin’s shoulders go tight beneath her short dark hair. “You need to kick that thing out.”
“If you don’t like the monkey, you shouldn’t keep it as a pet,” I counter, knowing full well she’s referring to Ares.
Her amber eyes flash.
Were she a woman with a soul, she’d be quite attractive.
“You seem unhappy, darling,” I interject quickly when she opens her mouth. “Perhaps a trip to the sea would be in order. I hear Bermuda is lovely this time of year.”
“We have a wedding to plan.”
“Your joy is overwhelming.”
Her lips purse. “Must you be so unpleasant?”
“Terribly sorry, madam. It seems sleeping on an airplane after back-to-back hockey games makes me a poor conversationalist. Perhaps you should rub my feet whilst I tell you of attempting to take the ice with a rubber stick. Quite the entertaining story. My teammates have gotten more creative with their pranks.”
Somehow she’s managing to curl her pursed lips, and she looks rather like a rabid duck. I can only imagine what my own smile must look like, because it’s not pleasant.
“No foot rub then?” I ask. “Of course we’ll save intimacy for marriage, but I shan’t tell if you feel a need to rub other parts of me as well.”
“You’re despicable.”
“Missed you too, darling.”
I grab a plum from the bowl of fruit someone has left on the island and drag my tired limbs upstairs to my bedroom. I took a puck to the calf two nights ago, the fire alarms went off just after we’d settled in to sleep at the hotel in Calgary between games, and the flight home to southern Virginia was quite bumpy last night.
I don’t wish to argue with the woman I’m to marry.
I wish to collapse in my bed and lose myself to unconsciousness.
But after I’ve locked my bedroom door, stripped out of my travel suit, and flung myself onto my bed, I find I can’t sleep.
Because once again, images of a warm, sensual, happy baker fill my thoughts.
I’ve not heard a word from her in the week since my legal consultation with a discreet attorney who specializes in such things.
I’ve also not heard that my offer has been accepted or countered, though I am aware it’s been delivered.
Despite having utterly no right to, I let my mind’s eye wander to my last vision of her. To the memory of the swell of her breast as it disappeared into her apron. The curve of her hips behind the lacy white material. Her slender legs gift-wrapped in bright pink leggings.
Her shoes, simple black trainers with smiley faces drawn in puffy pink paint over each of the toes.
I mentally replace the trainers with the remarkable rainbow platform shoes that she wore beneath her dinosaur costume, and the feel of the tight, slick heat between her thighs welcoming my cock overcomes my willpower.
My royal member stiffens, and I grip it in my fist.
It’s a poor substitute for her sheath, but it’s all I have. I stroke myself up and down, hardening tighter, remembering the flush of her cheeks, her sooty lashes lowered over aroused, darkened eyes, the bold liberties in which she indulged with her mouth, her hands, her legs.
My first view of her, standing in a golf clubhouse, stars in her eyes as she drank in the athletes, musicians, and actors also in attendance at the charity golf affair. My second view of her, when she bumped past me on her way to helping a server about to drop an overly-laden tray.
My first words to her, when she finally looked at me.
It’s hardly unusual for a woman’s gaze to snag on me and linger.
Nor is it unusual for me to freely return a woman’s interest.
But it’s highly unusual for the simple act of offering a woman my arm to cause gooseflesh to rise beneath her touch and pebble my skin all the way to my opposite fingertips.
I grip myself harder and stroke from base to tip, tip to base, squeezing with the same might as my desperate wish that she were beside me. That I could pin her to my bed, claim her mouth, glide my tongue over hers while I stroke her pussy and feel her wetness. That her scent—vanilla and peaches and earthy, aroused woman—could be imprinted on my sheets as much as her body’s heat.
I hadn’t the time to fuck her with my fingers in the locker room. To explore her center with my tongue. To leave her so entirely breathless, boneless, and euphoric that she was unable to form coherent thought.
Once was not enough.
The night we met, a month before Nashville, she’d paused in the middle of the rapidly darkening fairway and tilted her head to the sky. Ambient city light illuminated her olive skin, tinting her cheeks bronze in the dusk. I’d followed the curve of her neck down the slope of her slender shoulders, took a moment to admire her lovely breasts, and when my gaze returned to her face, her soft smile took my breath away.
Where are the stars? she’d asked.
Hiding from the city, my lady, I’d replied.
She hadn’t replied, but instead stood staring a moment longer.
I’d wanted to know what thoughts danced in her head, but I hadn’t asked.
I should’ve asked.
My fist is jerking hard now, up and down my cock, my bollocks tight, a sheen of sweat accompanying my rapidly increasing pulse and quick breath.
She should be here. Moaning my name. Wrapping her legs tight around my hips, welcoming me home while I thrust so deep inside her it would be impossible to not leave a part of myself behind.
I remember the tight feel of her hot channel squeezing me, and my release overtakes me, spilling into the sheets with Gracie’s name on the very edge of my tongue.
I’ve no right to call her name. I’ve no right to think of her. I suspect she’s quite furious with me right now, and rightly so.
But I desperately hope that, one day, she’ll understand that my decision was for the best.
Sometimes, the greatest gift one can give another is freedom.
I’d far rather she hate me than be shackled to this life.
No matter the cost to my own life.
