Royally Matched (Royally #2)(73)

“But Henry, if that’s true, why did you wait so long to come here? Why didn’t you call or text or even write me a letter?”

“I had to be sure I was doing the right thing, I didn’t want to risk hurting you again. And there were . . . arrangements that had to be made. Things I had to get in order.”

“What things?”

He waves his strong hand. “That’s not important now. What matters is that I’m here, for you. Nothing’s changed for me and yet, everything is different. How I see the world, the part I want to have in it, it’s all different because of you. And I’m ready now—I can be the man you deserve. Steady and consistent, unselfish and adoring. Your very own Colonel Brandon.”

It seems so foolish now. A silly girl’s thoughts. Henry doesn’t compare to Colonel Brandon—he’s so much more. He’s real and true and wild and romantic, all the things I once thought only existed in books.

“I’ve spoken to Grandmother about us; she can’t wait to meet you. And . . . I want us to be like Jane and Guildford . . . only without the whole head-chopping part.”

I laugh and start to cry.

“I want to change the world with you at my side, holding your hand. I love you, Sarah, and whatever happens, I promise there won’t be a day that I don’t love you with all that I am.”

He takes my hands and leans in close.

“Will you have me, love?”

I shudder in a breath and my face is wet with tears. I shake my head at him, silly boy.

“Have you? Are you mad? You are every dream I never let myself believe could come true.”

And then I’m in his arms, kissing his face and holding him close. He lifts me up and carries me to the bedroom. He lays me down and strips me bare and I run my hands up and down his beautiful chest. And we make love, over and over again.

Outside the window, tiny snowflakes begin to fall, but we don’t notice. Because we’re lost in each other and no matter where we are, from this moment on—whether it’s in a drafty castle, a grand palace, or a little flat in an old, quiet town—it will be Henry and I, together for always.





FOR THE NEXT SEVEN DAYS, my life is perfect, because I slip seamlessly into Sarah’s. She still goes to work at the library—I meet her boss, Mr. Haverstrom, and her git of a coworker, Pat. I chat football with George the bachelor retiree and flirt with Maud, the nearsighted widow volunteer. But mostly, while at the library, I just watch Sarah—basking in the joy of seeing her in her element, soaking up every smile and laugh and committing them to memory.

I also fuck her in the aisles, late at night after closing—and the reality of it, the naughtiness of lifting the sexy librarian’s skirt and pressing her up against the shelves, the way her moans and my grunts echo off the walls, like an erotic symphony . . . it beats the hell out of my fantasy.

And we don’t stop there.

I make love to Sarah in her shower and she rides me hard on the floor of her parlor. I take her in her tight, tiny kitchen, from behind, with her beautifully bent over the counter, and she sucks the life out of me, on her knees in her hallway, while I hold her head and thrust wildly into her eager mouth.

Sarah cooks us dinner while I kiss and nibble and maul her . . . and she makes me hard with her blushes and dirty jokes while I wash up the dishes afterward. I play my guitar for her and she hums her little songs and some nights, she reads out loud while I drift off to sleep, with my head against her soft breast.

I meet Sarah’s interesting mother and wiggle my way back into Penny’s good graces. She likes me again, which is nice since she’s leaving for the States soon—Los Angeles, to pursue her acting career.

One Saturday afternoon, we test the strength of Sarah’s bed frame, fucking rough and loud and sweaty, but afterward, it’s all tender touches and sweet whispers. On the radio, “Little Wonders” by Rob Thomas comes on and Sarah sighs.

“I love this song.”

I brush my hand up her stomach. “I love your tits.”

Sarah swats me on the head, laughing. But when I cover her nipple with my mouth, sucking and flicking with my tongue, her giggle turns into a long, serrated moan.

“And I’m glad you love the song, sweets.”

And it’s all so grand and perfect.

But the clock is ticking like a time bomb, and there are things I have to tell her that can’t wait any longer. So the next day, Sunday, I make us peppermint tea and sit down in the chair in her parlor and put it all out there, as gently as possible.

“I have to tell you something. You’re not going to like it.”

She squints behind her glasses, cautiously.

“All right.”

I pull her up and arrange her in my lap, her arse over my groin, her legs together, dangling over my thigh, my arms around her middle, holding on tight.

“I’ve reenlisted.”

She goes very still and her lips pale.

“You’re the Crown Prince . . . you can’t . . .”

“Turns out, I can do a lot if I set my mind to it.”

“But the Queen—”

“Is not happy with me, but she understands that this is something I need to do. It’ll be a real deployment this time, in a regular unit. I’ll be registered under an assumed name, so I won’t put the other men in danger.” I give her a squeeze and try to joke. “You’ll have to help me come up with a fitting pseudonym—Finley Bigdick the Third or John Thomas Longhorn.”