Page 112 of The Thing About My Prince

“It’s not the location. It’s you.”

Then his fingers slide inside me, and the instinctive clench of my inner walls around them makes me wobble on my heels.

Obviously sensing it, Oliver grips my ass with his other hand to steady me as his tongue presses harder against my pulsing clit.

I’m panting now, losing my grip on reality.

Reality is not what I want anymore. Reality means there’s only a few weeks of this left. Only a few weeks of Oliver’s company, of waking up beside him, of having his mouth on me and his fingers doing that thing where they?—

“Oh God!”

“One second.” He slides out of me and moves away.

My eyes have now been closed for long enough that they’re more accustomed to the darkness when I open them.

Oliver opens his sporran, feels around inside it and pulls out a small square packet. Then he sits in the chair, hitches up his kilt and releases his glorious erection from his underwear.

“You packed a condom?” I can’t help but giggle. “To your sister’s wedding?”

“Hell, yes.” His words come out fast, his breath quickening as he sheaths himself. “In case of an emergency.”

“You mean you anticipated a banging-me-in-the-church emergency?”

He reaches for my hand and pulls me in front of him. “Every second with you is a nine-one-one call to my crown jewels. Please get in my lap and put out this fucking fire.”

“You’re ridiculous.” I rest my hands on his shoulders, the fabric of his Prince Charlie thick and soft beneath my fingers, and place a knee on either side of him on the chair.

“And you love me for it, right?” he breathes.

Did the wordlovecome out accidentally there? Or was he using it like you would say you love the weather or a chocolate chip cookie?

But the word doesn’t jolt me this time. It does the opposite. It brings a warmth to my belly and my chest. And it has nothing to do with the fact that Oliver’s finger is on my clit again. It has everything to do with the fact that I do love him for it.

“Yes,” I admit as our mouths tangle in desperate but deep kisses.

He takes hold of my hips and lowers me onto him.

“Yes, what?” he says, breaking contact with my mouth for a fraction of a second. “Tell me.”

I slide my fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair, my grip tightening as he presses himself against my entrance.

“I love you for it.” It’s all I can do not to cry out when he pushes up into me and immediately pulls me lower until I’m full of him.

Our lips break apart in a simultaneous sigh.

My forehead comes to rest on his as he eases in and out of me.

I tip my hips forward and find exactly the right angle to rub my clit against him as we move.

When I squeeze him with my inner muscles, his head drops back onto the chair.

“Fuck,” he pants, clearly trying to keep his voice down.

Then I press my mouth to his and match his thrusts. The rhythm of our togetherness, the touch of his body in exactly the right spot, and the forbidden nature of the surroundings, send me instantly climbing and climbing and I know he’s about to push me over the edge, but I cling to his hair as if holding on to a precipice above an almighty drop.

The second I burst, he lets himself go too, and we grind together, tongues writhing, his fingers digging into my ass.

The rush of pleasure that courses through my body explodes inside my head like the clanging of church bells, all the notes chiming at once in a cacophony of sound that makes no sense. The notes shouldn’t go together, shouldn’t harmonize, yet they make the most beautiful music of my life.