His Royal Highness(64)

Whitney: Hi. Are you busy?





He doesn’t reply for two hours.

Derek: Sorry, I was at dinner with some of our London team. They were in town for the meeting this morning and they fly out tomorrow. Are you still awake? Can I call?





The next morning, I see the text and a missed call and my heart sinks.

I regret my early bedtime. Derek and I could have talked! Maybe even had phone sex!

I throw myself back onto my pillow and dig my palms into my eyes, groaning with annoyance. I need to see him.

Two weeks after the day Derek kissed me on the float, I’m working a shift as Princess Elena and it’s dragging in a way they never used to. Without Derek by my side, I don’t look forward to work. I can’t muster up the same enthusiasm when a girl looks up at me with big googly eyes and tells me I’m her hero. I want to love my job the way I used to, but there’s no ignoring the fact that my old life is suddenly not good enough. I start to realize I’ve outgrown my role as a part-time princess.

On my way to my dressing room after my shift, I have my phone in hand, trying to come up with some way to, without sounding like a psycho, convey to Derek that I’m going to spin out into a full existential crisis if I don’t see him soon.

Then a hand grabs my forearm and I’m tugged to the side, into a dark room. The door slams shut behind me and I shriek.

“I have money! Back in my dressing room. And snacks! You like Fig Newtons?!”

My abductor chuckles and the light is flipped on. I blink, quickly taking in the room where I’ll likely be held captive for the next several months. In one corner, there are boxes stacked to the ceiling. One of them says FLOUR on the side. Good, I can use it to make a sort of paste to eat so I can survive down here.

Then I look at my captor.

Derek stands there, suited up, handsome, calm in the face of my panic.

I immediately rush toward him and pound my fists into his chest. “You scared the hell out of me!”

He lets me go at him another moment or two before catching my wrists. I try to wiggle free but he doesn’t let me.

“Forgive me?” he says, bending down to kiss my cheek.

I jerk my face away.

I thought I was going to have to share my Fig Newtons or eat flour paste. I’m pissed.

He backs me up against the door, holding my wrists, annoyingly strong. I’m breathing hard, trying to slice him with my narrowed gaze. His hips meet mine, pinning me, and he bends down again, his lips a whisper against my skin.

“Forgive me?”

Then he kisses my neck, and the tension in my stomach gives way to something else. A soft, warm flutter. His mouth trails lower, closer to the edge of my deep square neckline. Since I’m still in costume, he has access to too much of my skin. His lips are everywhere, begging me to give in. I curse Costuming for not putting me in a turtleneck.

“Whitney,” he begs, and I can’t hold out.

Two weeks have felt like two years and I whimper as his lips find a sensitive spot beneath my collarbone. He hears the soft sound and it’s all the green light he needs. His lips find mine and we kiss with a frenzy, like we’re each other’s only hope for survival. Kiss me or the world will come to an end. His tongue sweeps across mine and I bite his lip, and I must draw blood. I taste it as his hand covers my breast over my dress, angry at the amount of material that separates our skin. There’s a zipper in the back of my bodice; with a sharp tug, it’s loose enough for him to tug it down and cover me with his palm. I shiver with pleasure. Impatient and possessive, neither one of us is taking the time to do this the civilized way.

His other hand is tugging up my tulle skirt, fighting against the forty-five layers until his fingers find my bare leg and then skim up across the soft triangle of fabric between my legs. Back and forth, he brushes teasingly before he tugs my panties aside. My eyes squeeze shut. Already, I’m close, hovering on the precipice, wild with want as voices drift in and out from the hallway on the other side of the door. Near us. Behind us. The door handle shakes and someone curses.

My eyes fly open.

Alarm bells ring.

Derek holds his finger up to my lips in warning and we stay silent.

“Who locked this?” a woman asks, annoyed.

“Not sure. Wasn’t me.”

“Dammit,” she groans. “I gotta go get my key. C’mon.”

“Shit,” Derek curses under his breath, stepping back, taking my heart with him. I sag against the door, trying to catch my breath.

With slow perusal, Derek carries his gaze up my body, memorizing me.

I don’t cover myself, though I want to. The adoration in his eyes pins my arms by my sides.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “C’mon. Crap. This was stupid. We need to get out of here.”

He helps fix my dress and assures me I don’t look too thoroughly ravaged. Then he cracks the door, nods, and gently pushes me out. He follows and just like that, we’re back in the hall, passing other employees as if he didn’t just have his hand up my skirt.

I feel cranky and unsatisfied.

He must feel the same way because we don’t say a word as we walk together, side by side, eyes straight ahead.

“When can I see you again?” I ask once we turn a corner.

“Tonight?”