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It’s just the two of us, for the most part, for the next ten days. We are far from Cara. No one in the U.S. really knows who we are. Yes, she’ll be spending some time with people who are easily recognized and followed to some extent. Certainly, when she’s with the senator, there is a chance for photographs. And it won’t take long for people to figure out who she is. Her connection to Astrid and Alex is enough to make her pseudo-famous, and her additional connection to Cara is enough to make any sighting of her with a U.S. senator very interesting.
But if the two of us walk down a D.C. sidewalk to a coffee shop, no one’s going to notice or care.
And that’s dangerous.
Because if I hold her hand or pull her into my side with my arm around her waist, or press her up against a wall and kiss her, no one will blink. No one will make note of it, no one will report it back to anyone. Iris will never know.
I’ve been able to rein in my emotions while we’ve been in Cara, in the palace, around all of the eyes and ears who know that me kissing and touching her is not allowed.
No one here knows that.
I pull the door to the hotel open and hold my breath as she steps past so that I don’t inhale her scent.
She gives me an irritated look.
It’s better this way. If she thinks I’m being an asshole, then she’ll keep me at arm’s length, too.
That is a really good idea. The more space between us, the better. But it’s also better if I don’t listen to her get passionate about some subject she’s excited about. It’s better if I don’t hear her laugh. It’s better if she doesn’t tell me that she’s worried about these dates and doesn’t know what to do.
The last thing I should, or can, do is help her date another man.
Thank God she doesn’t need my help.
I was not exaggerating when I said all she needs to do is wear one of those fucking dresses and smile at the guy. James Hill and Christian Waite will be falling over themselves to get closer to her.
The fact that she’s inexperienced and so damn genuine turns me on more than anything about any woman I’ve ever met before.
And I’m sure other men will feel the same way.
I always thought I liked women who knew what they liked and wanted in the bedroom.
But judging by my nighttime fantasies, and the number of times I’ve had to wrap my hand around my cock over the past several months, that’s not actually true.
Linnea Olsen and her inexperience with men, her innocence with kissing, and anything more, taps into a deep, primal part of me I was not aware of.
Perhaps it’s the protector in me that is never fully satisfied, but I want to be the one to show her all the things she’s been missing. All the pleasures there are to have, all the things her gorgeous body can do, all the things our bodies can do together.
And the idea of someone else showing her those things makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
This trip is a really bad fucking idea.
“Checking into the presidential suite,” I tell the woman behind the desk.
She nods, taps on the computer, then looks up with a frown. “Mr. Greene?”
I know. “Yes. And Miss Olsen.”
“Yes. We have been trying to get a hold of your contact.”
I feel my neck tighten. There’s a problem. Fucking perfect. The palace staff—specifically, Torin’s assistant, Samuel—made these arrangements. I haven’t arranged a hotel room in probably ten years.
“Our contact was in bed,” I tell her.
“We just wanted to let him know there is a slight problem with your room. Nothing major,” she rushes to add. “Just a minor inconvenience.”
I scowl. “Such as?”
“It is a full suite, with a living area, kitchenette, and dining area. There are two bedrooms and two bathrooms. However, one of the bathroom’s showers is being repaired. We thought it would be finished by now, but they got behind.”