Page 6 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

T he loft apartment is really just one large room, spacious and sparsely furnished, with an enclosed bathroom across from the kitchen along the far wall. The cupboards, the wood-slat floors, and the walls look freshly painted white, so Rian’s moving in was anticipated.

I’m not certain if the loft was empty or was previously used for storage before now. Charles, the former head trainer, lived in the largest of the staff cottages. The loft is filled with more boxes than furniture, making me wonder if Rian arrived only earlier today … or rather, yesterday. As I had.

I sent word I was bringing Perseus and that I arranged transport for Armin’s other horses. Maybe Rian timed his arrival to mine?

I take the space in with a glance, ridiculously hyperaware of Rian moving behind me.

He flips off the overly bright overhead lights, so that moonlight filters through the unshuttered windows.

Then he leans over to straighten the crumpled sheets and duvet on a mattress that appears to have been unceremoniously dumped on the floor directly between the kitchen and living areas. No bed frame.

I definitely woke him.

A brand-new high-end entertainment center is situated across the wall opposite the bed, with small black speakers set on either side of a large flat screen, and a phone charging next to it.

The phone must be connected to the system because I can’t see any other remotes.

The wires and cords are tidied and tucked away.

An open box filled with what appears to be framed photos or art is set on the floor to one side. I resist the urge to look through it.

Smiling, almost shy now, I glance at Rian over my shoulder, gesturing toward the TV and speakers. “I see you have your priorities straight.”

He laughs quietly, hovering near the edge of the tidied bed. “I did … up to about fifteen minutes ago.”

I think he means that as some sort of come-on or compliment, but I don’t know how to respond. So I brush my fingers against the dark screen of the phone, noting the time — 2:17 a.m. — and that he’s got a music app open.

I press play, already knowing what’s going to quietly spill out of the speakers. Not only do I recognize the cover art and the name of the song, but the singer’s voice is imprinted on my soul.

Strangely, Rian reminds me of him a little bit. Or rather, the him he was before … before this song, this album, launched him as a superstar.

I know every word, every chord he strokes from his guitar, as he alternates crooning with all but yelling the ode to unrequited first loves.

I don’t get to even start to figure out if this song already being cued up is some sort of nudge from the universe — or in what direction it’s nudging me, if there is such a thing — before Rian is laughing.

“Glam rock?”

I turn away from what must firmly remain in my past. More so now than ever before, not that I would have thought it possible to have that love be even more unattainable than it already was.

I turn to Rian instead, even as a song that speaks to my hopes and dreams of passion and a celebration of an all-consuming love fills the room.

Even as it underscores this moment, this piece of my present. This chosen moment.

“Seems fitting.”

Rian flashes another grin. “Oh, yes?”

“I know the band.”

“Personally?”

“Yes.”

He laughs. “I suppose you know everyone even remotely famous, Highness.”

“I suppose.” I’m dithering, hesitating. Not talking myself into leaving or anything, but also not moving forward with the promises we’ve already teased out of each other.

“So …” He tilts his head. “You don’t do this often?”

I laugh involuntarily. And maybe slightly hysterically. Which I suppose is all the answer he needs.

I don’t ask him the same in return. I don’t need that information.

Also, he scrambles all the thoughts encroaching on the moment as he reaches over his shoulder, and in an impressive flex of smooth skin and muscles, pulls his shirt off over his head.

He allows it to dangle from his fingers for a moment, perhaps pausing to assess whether or not I’m going to engage with more than just my greedy gaze. Then he lets it drop to his feet .

I just stand there drinking him in. Wanting him, actually fucking aching between my legs, but not closing the space between us.

He toes off his shoes. He’s not wearing socks. He unbuttons his jeans. He has a patch of dark hair in the center of his chest, and a trail leading down to his …

He’s also not wearing underwear.

His already-hard cock slaps back against his lower abs. I stifle a moan, hoping he doesn’t see it etched across my face as he drops his gaze and bends to rid himself of his jeans.

He straightens, palming his cock and staring me down. Not aggressively, but invitingly. Playing with me.

My chest is tight. My throat is tight.

I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I clench them at my sides. He notices, frowning slightly.

Then, with another of those thoughtful tilts of his head, he steps back and lowers himself down on the bed. Propped on one elbow, opposite knee slightly bent to the side, he casually strokes his cock.

“Highness,” he murmurs. “You know how to take what you want.”

Except I don’t.

I don’t know.

I don’t know how to take what I want.

I don’t know …

I stumble forward a couple of steps. The album by the Blitz shifts to another random track. The beat thrums around me. Or maybe that’s just me, just all the immense energy I keep stuffed away. Because what else am I going to do with it?

Those couple of steps remind me that I’m still wearing riding boots. So I hop around like an idiot getting them off, instead of sitting down like a sane person.

Once rid of the boots, I take another step closer, alternating between watching Rian’s hand on his cock and the expressions that filter across his face. Watching him watching me watching him.

“Pants,” Rian says promptingly.

I wiggle out of my skintight riding pants, and something about that makes him groan quietly.

The noise runs through me, and I shudder through the onslaught.

I’m acutely aware of my thighs brushing against each other for my next couple of steps.

“Sweater,” Rian says.

I pull it off, leaving just my sports bra and thong. Both a matching cream. I suppose I should be embarrassed that my underwear isn’t sexy. But I’m moving now. Moving and not stopping again.

Rian half-rises to meet me as my knees hit the edge of the bed.

But not quite knowing who I am anymore, even while liking who I’m becoming in the moment, I press one hand against his chest, pushing him back. I dip down and lick his cock — he’s still holding it ready for me — from root to tip.

“Fuck!” he shouts, hips bucking.

I smile — and genuinely mean it. I flick my gaze up to meet his as I swirl his smooth tip with my tongue, then suck the first third of his cock into my mouth.

“Fuck, fuck,” he groans, reaching for my underwear and trying to tug it off as I attempt to swallow him to the back of my throat.

Unsuccessfully.

“You said you wanted to ride, Highness. You aren’t going to get a chance if you keep … fuck, fuck —” He hauls me off his cock, pulling me to straddle him as he manages to get one of my legs free from my underwear.

He’s gotten a condom from somewhere, but has to fight my hand for ownership of his cock to get it on. Then he’s holding himself in place with his other hand on my hip, encouraging me to settle over him.

And I do.

I don’t think about how this position usually makes me feel self-conscious. That I don’t think I look good from this angle. That I usually don’t know what to do once I’m skewered on someone like this.

I close my eyes. And with his help, I slowly sink onto him, rising, then lowering, just enough to coat him in my slickness, to encourage more wetness, more glide.

“That’s it …” he whispers. “There …”

It’s a stretch to accommodate him. But I keep bobbing there until he’s so deep he’s pressing against my cervix. Yet another reason I generally don’t like being on top. Except it isn’t uncomfortable. I’m warm, wet, and full. I want … I want …

“I’m okay,” I whisper.

“You are more than fucking okay.” Rian tugs me closer, wrestling my sports bra off.

He whispers into the curtain of my hair that falls all around us, “You’re fucking perfect …

you feel … like … fucking heaven.” He guides my hands over his head, coaxing me to brace against the wall.

Though I don’t recall when we shifted higher on the bed.

I bob over him, gripping his hips and sides with my thighs while trying to slip his entire length in and out of my aching core.

But he grabs my hips and holds me tightly enough that all I can do is undulate, grinding against him.

And it feels so … good. My hard nipples brush against the soft pelt of hair at the center of his chest. His mouth is hot on my neck and shoulder, sucking on my skin.

Pleasure blossoms between my legs, streaking up and across my lower belly .

“You need to come, Highness,” Rian pants quietly. “Are you going to come for me?”

This position has me grinding my clit against his pubic bone, and I realize that the few times I’ve tried it before, I was doing it all wrong.

I anchor my hands to the wall as he’s shown me, my nipples as hard as they’ve ever been, and I don’t worry that the angle might be wrong for him.

Too shallow. Because his fingers bite into my hips as I ride him, chasing the pleasure that gently threads through me, from a simmer to a full-on blaze.

His breathing becomes harsh. His scent fills my senses — all clean verbena soap over the subtle musk of a predator. He’s thick within me. Solid under my thighs. Warm.

I’m here.

I’m here.

In this moment.

With him.

And there is nothing else.

My orgasm catches me a little unaware. I shout, shuddering, losing the pace and my press into the wall.