“Because I asked you. And you wanted to.”
She looks around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “You ripped off all my clothes.”
I come to my feet, hefting her in my arms. She’s all silky brown skin and hair and curves. The perfect armful. “Come.” I stride out of the library and up the stairs to my bedroom. I want her to be comfortable, and that means keeping ahead of her nervousness. It’s time to show her around her new home.
Leah
Royal carries me up a grand staircase. I’m wearing a blanket and a bralette and nothing else. He ripped up the rest of what I was wearing. I’m going to have to deal with that at some point. Later.
I’m still a little floaty. Orgasm endorphins.
Royal climbs the stairs, and we pass a crystal and gold chandelier that’s big as a car. “Is it just you who lives here?”
“The staff are off for the day.” He carries me down a long hall decorated with gilt-framed paintings that look like they belong in an art museum. When we reach the end, he steps through double doors into a dark bedroom suite that’s five times the size of my tiny apartment. “Do you want to wash up? I can draw you a bath.” He sets me down but stays close, which is good because I’m unsteady on my feet.
“Or you can just let me go home. If I can charge my phone, I can call a ride.”
Royal’s eyes narrow. He heads to the window and twitches aside the thick, velvet curtain. The air beyond the glass is a wall of bluish white.
“We’re snowed in. My driver is off for the rest of the day, but we should get a plow soon.”
“Snowed in?”
“Mmmhmmm.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You planned this.”
His cheek curves. “You can teach me how to make strazzate.”
He lets the curtain fall and his form is draped in darkness once again.
“Here.” He takes a limp garment and holds it up. It’s a brocade dressing gown, Royal-sized. “You can have a bath later.”
Royal already cleaned me up, but I take a moment to myself just so I can explore the massive black marble bathroom. There’s a huge steam shower that could hold an orgy. A bathtub made for three—or one long-legged mafioso and a curvy girl like me.
I come out wrapped in his robe, wading through the hem pooling at my feet. I’ve knotted the sash around my waist, and the front falls into a deep V that showcases my cleavage.
Royal freezes at the sight of me, and it takes the edge off my nervousness. I have curves for days, and he seems mesmerized by them.
He beckons and when I come to stand in front of him, he kneels and slides my feet into slippers. Unlike the dressing gown, they’re the perfect size for my small feet. Probably from another overnight guest. Royal probably has a different woman in his bed every night.
I’m not going to think too hard about that.
There’s a side table against the wall full of framed photos. On the end is one of Royal and a stunning, dark-eyed woman. She’s tall and thin with olive skin and sleek brown hair. She and Royal are arm in arm, her in a ball gown, him in a tux. A matching set.
My heart sinks. That’s who Royal should be with. Someone beautiful and glamorous, like him.
I put my hand on my soft belly, feeling a little sick.
Royal sees the move and misinterprets it. “Are you hungry?”
“A little.”
His dark eyes gleam as he draws me close. “I have a craving,” he murmurs in my ear, like it’s a secret. “For un biscotto.” A cookie.
I can do cookies. I take a deep breath. “Then let’s go to the kitchen.”
Once we’re in the kitchen, my instincts take over. Royal may be king of his territory and castle, but here, I’m in charge.
“I need flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, eggs, butter or oil.” I list off items while Royal stands there with an amused expression on his face. He directs me to the pantry and fetches the items I point to. “Do you have a sifter?”
“I have no idea.” He watches patiently as I rummage around the cavernous cabinets in his kitchen. Turns out he has everything I need, from a sifter to two entire sets of Le Creuset cookware, one in Cerise, one in Chambray. Seven types of cocoa, and three types of almonds—raw, blanched, and in the shell.
I even find a mini blow torch for caramelizing the tops of creme brûlee, along with a double set of custard ramekins. I file this info away for later baking sessions in Royal’s house. Which is ridiculous. There will be no later. This is just some crazy one-night stand. Common for a guy as rich and hot as Royal.