Page 13 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy (Spies and Royals #4)

She sucked in her breath. Their close quarters might be her father’s doing, but even so… “If you think you’re the next Henry the VIII, you’ve got a rude awakening coming!”

He turned to her with sudden amusement dancing over his lips. Apparently, her reluctance to pretend they were eager newlyweds had relaxed him. “What do you want me to be? Anne Boleyn? And you can be King Henry?”

“No, I’m exhausted,” she said. “Let’s just go to bed.”

“Headache, huh?”

“Yeah. Whatever you want to call it. This ‘married stuff’ is new to me and I’m not uh…”

“… in the mood? Hey, Bris, I think you’ve adjusted to married stuff real fast.”

She huffed out and marched to the bathroom. “I’m not in the mood for your teasing either! Goodnight, Casanova!”

As soon as the door was closed behind her, she was faced with a new dilemma—getting out of her wedding dress.

C’mon, it wasn’t like she wasn’t used to undressing herself!

There was absolutely no way she was asking for her new husband’s help.

She wriggled and jumped, shimmied until she could reach the zipper and then holding her breath, she managed to slide down the metal pull past a few teeth before she could reach it from another angle.

And she was taking forever. Achilles must think she was stuck in here… which she was; it turned out. After a few more acrobatic configurations, she slid off the dress, breathing easier, for a lot of reasons. Feeling much less restricted, she threw her hand over that silky nighty.

Why, oh why was her father so intent on making things worse for her?

Now she had to pretend that it was just her regular nightly attire.

She slipped it on over her head—a much easier process than getting off that bone corset wedding dress.

And… no, absolutely not! Too short! This nighty was out of the question!

Ripping open the door, she stuck her head through. “I know you brought an oversized shirt in that duffle bag, Achilles, and I want it!”

He let out a low growl of laughter and stuffed something soft in her hands.

The door clicked shut again, and she threw that on next.

The fabric was soft and worn, smelling faintly of his detergent and something distinctly masculine.

The hem fell to her knees, and she let out a breath of relief.

Sure, Achilles had seen her in her share of swimsuits.

She practically lived in those on Venice’s yacht, but she just preferred comfort right now. Was that so wrong?

A few seconds later, she stepped out of the bathroom, seeing him bare-chested and in his shorts at the sink—a usual look for him. He was brushing his teeth.

He took her in and grinned. “Well,” he said. “This should make up for your snoring.”

Was that a compliment? She glared, feeling… she wasn’t sure what, only that she was more uncomfortable than she’d ever been in her life. Her fingers tightened into fists, and she flounced to the other side of the bed.

Her face must be scarlet for how hot it felt. She tried to pull at the comforter, but her hands were shaking too hard.

“Hey, Bris.” Immediately, he sounded contrite.

He set down the toothbrush and lunged across their monster of a bed to take her hands.

“Hey, look at me.” His fingers slid through hers.

“C’mon, Prissy, look at me.” Her chin jutted up, and she met his eyes.

They were warm, though she detected they hid his panic as he tried to reassure her.

“It’s okay. Nothing is going to happen between us. I promise.”

Her stomach dropped. Ever? She didn’t have the courage to ask what he meant.

“I’m trying to…” she lost her nerve before she told him that she wanted this to work between them…

eventually! Just not tonight… and then she remembered Charisse…

Bris had been so sure that she was one of his flings.

Was she wrong about that? “Is it Charisse?” she asked. “Are you still in love with her?”

Disbelief crossed his features before he shook his head. “Nooo, she was just a… nice girl.”

Was Bris just a nice girl too? She let it drop. “Okay, let’s just…” Try to fall in love someday?

“… go to bed?” he finished for her.

She nodded. Who did she think she was to win the elusive Achilles? Her heart could only take so much drama for one night.

He released her fingers and started the process of closing doors and turning off lights. He left the one next to his side of the bed alone. Bris was pounding out her pillows when he climbed in.

The bed might be gigantic, but she still felt his side press down at his weight. Turning her back on him, she forced her eyes shut.

“Hey…”

Her eyes snapped back open. He scooted closer, pressing his elbow against the middle pillow. “I don’t care if you snore, you know.”

She felt her lips tip up. “I don’t snore.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”

He was so naughty. She sat up, her legs twisting under her as she got on her knees. “You’re not going to pass off your snoring on me, buddy! If anyone snores, it’s you.”

“Good idea! That’s what we’ll tell the staff.”

She shoved at him, surprising them both when her hand met his warm chest. His eyes widened. Instead of diving back to her side of the bed in mortification, Bris tried to play it off. “Sorry, I just can’t resist touching my devilishly handsome husband.”

He reached over and squeezed her knee in response. Immediately, she jerked back. More than anyone, Achilles knew how ticklish she was. She scowled, pushing up on her elbows. “I’m not ticklish anymore,” she said. “I grew out of that!”

“Yeah?” He danced his fingers to her other knee to prove her wrong and seized it.

She collapsed backwards, kicking this time.

He let out a grunt, which meant she must’ve got him with her foot.

Good! But she could do better. She snaked out her hand and found his exposed armpit.

His head slammed against the soft headboard when her fingers found his skin.

Ha! She wasn’t the only ticklish one here. She jumped over him, determined to win this fight. “Surrender!” She attacked both his armpits now—someone should’ve worn a shirt to bed!

He grabbed at her again but stiffened helplessly when she refused to release his arm’s most ticklish spot. Bris couldn’t remember how they’d discovered that in their tickle fights, but it was definitely when they were much younger.

She laughed “I’m your queen! Now… you have to do what I say.”

His lips tightened, and too late, she realized he already had a grip on her knee.

He squeezed and sent her backwards with a shriek.

He climbed over her, grabbing her arms before she could try to get to his armpits again, and then easily transferred both her wrists to one hand, making her shout in annoyance.

“Oh, not so full of yourself now,” he said, laughing down at her.

His breath ran over hers—it was ragged while the velvety look in his eyes completely stole her breath away.

He had one hand free, ready to play havoc on her knees again.

“How the tables have turned,” he said. His expressive lips nearly touched hers.

“Let’s see, what demands should I make of my Prissy? ”

His Prissy? Well… that’s ridiculously adorable!

She laughed up at him, already planning her next move when she noticed how he studied her lips.

Her heart knew what was happening before she did, the moment stretching between them like spun silk, tender and fragile.

There was something achingly sweet in his expression, as if her soul was connecting with his across some invisible bridge.

Was he going to kiss her? Was she going to kiss him?

Her breath hitched, her lips parting of their own accord as she waited for the impossible to happen.

Achilles’s hand loosened over her wrists.

“Briseis,” he muttered. A shadow passed over his expression like a cloud on a sunny afternoon, and he moved back.

He let out a shaky breath and an even shakier laugh, pounding on his pillows as he inched even farther away. “I guess that means I won,” he said.

She shot up in bed, no longer caring that he’d messed up her hair. “No way! That’s a surrender if I ever saw one.”

“Okay, you’re right… I give! You’re tougher and bigger and stronger and I’m tuckered out. Goodnight!”

Lame! What happened to all that food he’d ordered?

And she gave herself a mental shake. They weren’t arguing about bedtime here.

He turned to face the wall, and she noticed the ant tattoos on his heel that showed he was a Myrdon rebel through and through.

That was the true division between them—their loyalties.

Put him under your thumb.

Did Achilles suspect that was what she was doing? Maybe, but that couldn’t be further from the truth; even if she knew how, she’d never do that to him.

Bris leaned back against the headboard, looking down at her reddened knee.

She could still feel everywhere he’d put his hands on her.

Clutching at her pillow, she resisted smashing him with it and instead, shoved it under her head.

What was wrong with her? Why did she care so much that Achilles would never be able to see her as a—a wife?

She was supposed to be strong, cold, emotionless, the spoiled princess… no, the queen.

Achilles still wants to be friends, right?

No, no, no! Now she was hiding her reddened face in that pillow. She was hopelessly in love with her husband, wasn’t she?