Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(92)

“Shouldn’t that be prince?” he teases. His scruff tickles my cheek, making my body tingle.

“Prince Liam.” I press my lips gently to his, and Liam pulls me out of my chair, so I’m standing in front of him. He’s crouched and holding both my hands.

“You’ve got a prince down on his knees, Lucille…”

“Right where I want him.” As his mouth covers me through the fabric of my skirt, I grip his short hair, grab his shoulder.

“Liam… Oh God.”

“I’m just a prince, Luce. Not a god.” He lifts my skirt, pushes my panties aside, and challenges his own assertion, worshipping my body with his lips and tongue, scratching my soft thighs with his beard.

I can’t stand up—my knees buckle. Liam picks me up and carries me, lamb-style, to our modest, queen-sized bed, the one he says he loves because I have to sleep so close to him.

He spreads me out atop the duvet like a meal over a table, climbing in between my legs, where he takes his time peeling off my clothing, one item by one. Then he eases me onto my side, props a pillow behind me, and licks my pussy like a starving man.

I come twice—hard and loud—and leave him grinning, with a giant boner. I reach for it, petting through the fabric of his basketball shorts.

“What have we here?” I murmur.

I take my time teasing him through his pants, reaching up along his bare thigh so I can brush up against him with the side of my hand. By the time I pull his pants down and his boxer-briefs off, Liam is rock-hard, his head pointed toward his navel and his balls drawn slightly up.

“Crown jewels,” I tease him, cupping them.

“All yours,” he breathes.

Over the next two months, he shows me that it’s true. Liam picks me flowers, cooks my favorite foods, even cleans our little cabin—or tries to—when I’m feeling extra tired.

We move into a home in Clary for the last month of my pregnancy, so we can be near the royal OBGYN. March in costal Gael is sunnier than I expected, cold but not too cold. Liam spoils me with designer gowns and jackets tailored just for me and baby Ollie.

The month passes in a steady stream of visitors, from Amelia to my sisters. A week before I’m due, Liam and I drive up toward the mountains on a mystery excursion, which ends with me picking out a foal from the royal stables near his father’s castle.

As we’re getting in the car, we’re startled by a knock on Liam’s window. I know in the span of a heartbeat that it’s Liam’s father, King Gregory. He looks a lot like Liam, except with gray-blue eyes and darker, salt and pepper hair.

Liam mutters something, but he rolls his window down. “Father.”

“Liam—and Lucille. How are both of you?”

I think the king is keen on making up with Liam before the baby comes. I know he invited us to share in the Christmas festivities, which is why we went to the states instead.

“No bad,” Liam says. “Just picking out that foal for Lucy.”

“Which one did you like?” he asks me.

My cheeks heat up with my nerves. “The brown one. The Arabian.”

“Good choice.” He looks from me to Liam. “That will be Oliver’s?”

Liam nods. “It’s like I told you. Lucy wants to keep Eeyore.” He smiles at me.

“What? He’s a good horse.”

I realize slowly, as we talk, that Liam has been in touch with his father. When we leave, two hours later, having had tea in a beautifully appointed parlor with Liam’s stepmother, Liam gives me a sheepish smile.

“You didn’t tell me you’d been talking to him.”

He shrugs. “Just a few times on the phone. Nothing major.” He drums his fingers on the wheel as we head back toward Clary. “He said he was sorry.”

“Did he.”

Liam nods.

“And?”

He shrugs again. “It seemed sincere I guess.”

“Wow. That’s good. I’m really glad.”

Liam takes my hand, and we listen to music on the drive back. Late that night, when we’re spooning in bed, Liam’s lips on the back of my neck, his length against my bare thigh, he whispers, “It’s your fault.”

“What is?”

“That I talked to him. I did it for you.”

“What?”

He wraps an arm around me, settling it underneath my breasts and above my baby bump. “Lucy… You make me want to be…better. Braver.”

I turn toward him, laughing at the effort required. I cup his face and kiss his jaw. “You are brave. I don’t think that’s a problem. Or has ever been.”

Later that night, after a midnight bathroom break, I remember what I told him in the bed and hope I’m right, that both of us are brave.

Because… “My water broke.”





*





Liam





Lucy in labor is incredible.

Incredibly terrible.

Incredibly amazing.

We’ve got a driver on standby to take us to the hospital, just a few blocks from where we’re staying. On the way, we pass the empty flat of one Drucilla Gibson. I take comfort in knowing she’s in prison, joined not long ago by her father, finally released from rehab for the gunshot to his chest.