Page 75 of American Royalty

“Do you know what you’ve done?”

She sat up and her leg disappeared—to his regret—beneath the water’s surface. “You told me to make myself at home and Margery said I was free to explore the wine cellar and pick something todrink. No one said, ‘Here, enjoy any bottle you want... except this one!’”

His heart pounded so loudly in his chest he barely heard her. “This was given to me by my grandfather. It’s one of two bottles left! You like champagne? You could’ve taken any other bottle. The 1989 Krug Collection, the 1997 Louis Roederer Cristal, the 1990 Dom—”

He flinched as something wet hit him square in the chest.

Openmouthed, he stared first at the colorful ball of mesh on the floor and then at the soapy mess sliding down the front of his shirt. “Did you just throw your sponge at me?”

She pursed her lips. “You needed to cool the fuck down.”

“It’s hot water.”

“It served its purpose.”

What in the hell was happening to his life? In the space of a few days, his quiet, orderly existence had been turned upside down by this American rapper who had him ricocheting between annoyance, fascination, amusement, irritation, and mind-altering lust.

And the queen wanted him to stay immersed in the chaos!

Forcing himself to take a calming breath, he carefully set the bottle of champagne on the nearest vanity. He pulled his shirt from his trousers and began unbuttoning it, already disgusted by the feel of the sodden fabric against his skin.

Water sloshed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

How many sponges did she have?

He glanced up. “Don’t you dar—”

The admonition died on his lips. The sound he’d heard wasn’t her preparing to launch another soap-soaked missile. She’d risen from the tub, her body dripping, glistening, and perfect. Her breasts were high handfuls that topped a long flat torso, tiny waist,and lush round hips. All of it was covered in glistening bubbles that slid, in stark contrast, down her brown skin.

Raising his eyes, he found hers half lidded, a flush staining her cheeks. He remembered that look. Had seen it on her face right before he sank two fingers into her snug, heated depths.

He wanted to see it again. This time his cock would do the honors.

His first steps were halting, giving her time and the opportunity to stop this. Say something. Tell him no.

She remained quiet.

He reached the tub and waited.

She inhaled sharply, then arched a brow.

Never breaking their visual battle of wills, he slipped out of his oxford shoes and stepped into the water. She launched herself at him and wound her arms around his neck. Her soaked body pressed into his and their lips met in a bruising, fiery kiss.

The feel of her slick, slippery skin short-circuited his senses. He was aware only of her. Of the breathy moans he swallowed, the faint floral scent that teased his nostrils. The lushness of her ass.

God, herass—

He palmed the fleshy globes, unable to contain the rumble of raw appreciation that boomed in his chest.

He’d spent weeks fantasizing about this woman, visions so vivid he’d awakened with a rigid cock and the tormented realization that he wasn’t actually balls deep inside of her. And after last night, he knew nothing he’d ever dreamed had prepared him for the reality.

When he could no longer ignore his need for air, he broke away, but an invisible force drew him back. He trailed kisses along her neck and glided his tongue across the sharp protrusion of herclavicle. She clung to him, her head thrown back, her springy curls soft against his arm.

“I’m sorry about the champagne.” She gasped. “I didn’t know.”

“What champagne?” he groaned, before capturing her mouth again.

She was a sensual blaze in his arms and he was stunned at how good it felt.