Royally Endowed(56)

“I’m coming to your room tonight.” I whisper against her hair. “If you don’t want that to happen, tell me now. I can’t stop myself, Ellie.”

“I don’t want you to stop, Logan. Not ever.” She turns around, her blue eyes shining in the moonlight. “Come to my room . . . I’ll be waiting.”





I LIGHT THE CANDLES IN my room, the long ivory sticks on the fireplace mantel, the subtly scented votives on the nightstands beside the bed. I dim the overhead lights and brush my teeth, running my hands through my hair, tucking one side behind my ear. I’d already switched my damp blue dress for a short nude pleated chiffon gown when we got back to the palace, and I strip that off, leaving me in only a champagne silk slip, bare and braless beneath it.

Then I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are bright and my cheeks are flushed pink. Every nerve ending is awake and alive.

I tremble.

Not with nervousness—I could never be nervous with Logan; he’s too careful, too caring with me. No, I quake with anticipation. Desire. It floats through me like smoke, swirling inside, making my blood rush and my heart gallop.

I’ve wanted this so much, wished for it for so long.

And now it’s happening.

Please, God, please let him hurry.

After Henry and Sarah’s beautiful ceremony, we toasted with Champagne. Unlike when we first came back to the palace, Logan didn’t join in. He stood by the door, waiting and watching. Olivia stuck to my side like glue, touching my arm and holding my hand, as though she needed to reassure herself I was really there. I don’t blame her; I feel awful about scaring her and my dad—everyone—so terribly.

But at the same time, the urgent need to break away from the group and go to my room to await Logan wound up inside me like an overtightened spring, until it was ready to pop. Finally, finally, we said our good-nights. Logan was gone then, not by the door, as if he’d faded into the shadows—no one but me noticed. I walked with Nicholas and Olivia back to their apartments, and I hugged my tired sister and relieved brother-in-law one more time before making it up to the refuge of my room.

And now I wait. I’ve already waited so long, you’d think I’d be used to it. But this need inside me is stronger than it’s ever been—sharper, more acute, feverish. Every muscle in my body is strung tight and my skin is tender, overly sensitive. My teeth grind and the blood rushes in my ears, echoing soon. Soon, soon, he’ll be here soon.

There’s a knock on my door.

And my soul comes alive.

I fly to the door and pull it open.

Before I can take a breath or see him clearly, Logan steps into the room, grabs me, pulls me against his chest, kicks the door closed with a bang—then spins us around and presses me up against the wall. And he’s kissing me, we’re kissing each other, desperate and grasping and wild.

He tastes like red wine—like oak and blackberries—and the drag of his mouth across mine makes me drunk. Logan lifts me like I’m weightless and his fingers curl around my thighs, palms sliding. He moves his hips between my legs, pinning me against the wall with his pelvis, rubbing against me, making me wet and throbbing.

Somebody once told me a slow-burning fire is the hottest—and it must be true. Because Logan and I are a fucking inferno.

He yanks at the strap of my slip and it snaps. He pulls the fabric down, exposing my breast, and his mouth devours me. He suckles and licks urgently, opening his mouth wider to envelop nearly my whole breast. It’s as if he wants to taste every inch of my skin all at once.

Then he’s back to my mouth, kissing me long and deep and wet, until I’m shaking in his arms.

“I’ll give it to you sweet, Ellie.” He breathes hard. “I swear I’ll make it so fucking sweet you’ll ache . . . but now I just . . . I need . . .”

My hips rotate and I’m rubbing myself up and down on the rock-hard length of his cock beneath his pants. My head thrashes.

“I know. I know, Logan. Just take . . . please.”

I need him inside, now. Pressing into me—surging deep.

I squeeze his shoulders, grasping at the starched cotton of his shirt. It feels manly under my palms. His scent, his rough groans, the tight hold of his large hands, the stab of his hot tongue—everything about Logan is strong and hard, domineering, and so deliciously male.

He moves one hand from my leg and I feel him tearing at his pants, the scratch of his belt against my thigh as he frees himself.

Yes, yes . . .

My desires clash—because I want to see him, see everything. I want to hold him in my hand, stroke and hear him moan. But that yearning evaporates when I feel the touch of hot, silken flesh against me. I feel the girth of his cock against my soft opening. I’m slick, slippery for him, but he’s so big he has to push through my tight muscles. I lift my knees, stretching my joints to open for him.