I felt it rush through me; we came so close together that the energy almost seemed to flow between us, my explosion setting off his. I normally closed my eyes but I didn’t, then: I stared down at him, watching it break across his face, one hand tracing the lines of his straining jaw.
We stayed that way for a while, and even when we lay down to cuddle I stayed half on top, our legs scissored together. We didn’t need to say anything: we just enjoyed being back together.
***
Next morning, though, I had doubts.
It wasn’t just thoughts of Asteria and being in the spotlight – although that was enough to make me hyperventilate all on its own. It wasn’t the guilt over what we’d done to Calara, or even engagement jitters.
Jagor emerged from the bathroom having done his best with borrowed shower gel, a slightly threadbare towel and yesterday’s clothes. He looked happy, if slightly bemused. “What should I do?” he asked in that bewitching accent of his, kissing me on the back of the neck. I’d got up early to grab a shower and find something I could stand to face the retinue in – a skirt, white top and cardigan, in the end – and was making eggs.
“You can make coffee,” I told him. I pointed him towards what he needed and watched him as I thought.
The problem was the sex.
The day before, after he’d proposed I’d said yes, a niggling thought had crept into my mind and refused to let go. Our relationship was grounded in sex. I loved him, and he loved me, but the sex was a big part of things and in our case, it wasn’t just normal sex. There was
the thing
: the thing I’d discovered the very first moment I’d met him, when he’d rendered me helpless with just words and looks. I hadn’t known what it was then, and I was still discovering new levels of it now. Call it submission, slavery, or something else: it didn’t matter. It was exciting, dangerous, sometimes scary…and I loved it. But what if that sort of sex was all we had? What about tender, gentle lovemaking? Would he still want me without the corset and heels?
That had been my fear the day before. That had been one of the reasons, I think, why I’d wanted to see him naked: to feel an equal. Then we’d had sex and it had been fantastic: simple but great, without any of the kinkiness. I’d laid my fear to rest.
I focused on Jagor for a moment. He’d managed to find the French press and the coffee, but it had taken him a long time. I frowned as I watched him play with the plunger, working it slowly up and down. He kept glancing over at me and smiling. That was weird: he looked almost nervous. Why would he be nervous?
Back to my worrying. He’d proven that we could have normal sex: that I drove him crazy without a designer wardrobe and killer heels. I should have been happy, right?
Be careful what you wish for: in the cold light of morning I had a whole new fear - what if the basis for all that darkly exciting submission had been me being Jagor’s aide? Now I was his fiancée, had everything changed? Rich Asterian men usually had both a wife and at least one slave: maybe they treated the two very differently. What if being a princess meant that I’d no longer be dominated? I’d been worried we wouldn’t be able to enjoy normal sex. Now I was worried that normal sex was all we’d have.
Over-analyze? Me?
I focused on Jagor again and frowned. He was still playing with the French press, and his expression stirred up an old memory. Years ago, my car had broken down and while I’d been standing by the side of the road with the hood up waiting for the breakdown service, a guy had pulled up and asked if I needed any help. I don’t know what possessed me – I wasn’t long out of college and I guess I had it in my head that
I’m a grown woman and I don’t need no need from no-one
- but I lied to him and said I was fine, that I knew all about cars and could fix it myself. Except, instead of driving off, he stood there talking and watching me, so I had to pretend I knew what I was doing.
That feeling of being in way over my head, as I’d stared at what may or may not have been a carburetor? I could see exactly the same thing on Jagor’s face.
He doesn’t know how to make coffee.
That was crazy. They had coffee in Asteria.
But he’s never made it. Never.
A chef had prepared his every meal, I realized. My God, could he cook at all? Then a bigger shock: would he ever need to, once we were married? I’d had a hazy picture of us living in some big house in Asteria: in luxury, sure, but on our own. But that wouldn’t be the case, would it? He’d expect us to have people to cook every meal and serve every drink. Servants – or slaves.
The only thing that tempered the shock was that, despite probably feeling like a rabbit trying to work a computer, he was doing his best: for me. As I watched him finally pour coffee into the French press and add water, my heart melted. He presented the press to me, a look of triumph on his face, and I beamed and thanked him as if the trouble he’d had with it was completely normal.
A few minutes later, as I served the eggs, he uncertainly pressed the plunger. It went down about halfway and then refused to go any further, even when he thumped it. The coffee was barely colored.
He kept up the pretence for another few seconds and then asked, stiffly, “What did I do wrong?”
I went around behind him and kissed his neck. “Virtually nothing,” I told him. I gently took the press off him and remade the coffee, this time grinding the beans.
***
Gwen was the last to wake up, and sat down with us for breakfast wearing eggshell-blue panties and a pink cut-off t-shirt that finished a hands-width below her breasts. “Good morning,” she told both the bodyguards, and then did an extended stretch and yawn right in front of them. I saw the guards’ chests rise as they drew in their breath.
I glowered disapprovingly at her as she sat down. “Sleep well?”
Gwen shrugged. “I never sleep well alone.” She turned to glance at the bodyguards, all but winking at them.
Jagor’s phone rang. He listened for a second and then passed it to me. The guard downstairs wanted to know if we were expecting three visitors, and if he should let them up.
***
I’d met Louise in college, but she’d been with Toby even then. We’d stayed in touch while separated by a state or two, and this week they were visiting New York complete with Matilda, their six month-old. I’d completely forgotten that I’d promised them breakfast that morning.
There was a lot of explaining, some hugging and one moment when I had to talk down the bodyguards (it really was just milk in the bottle, I insisted; not liquid explosive). Louise and Toby had to go through the curtseying and bowing, “Your Highness” stage before we could talk them into relaxing. Gwen rushed off to change into something more appropriate (flaunting herself in front of my fiancée and the guards was perfectly fine, apparently, but friends were different. I forgave her. She must have been broken up inside about Louis). Eventually, we were all talking and drinking coffee and it was almost – almost – like a normal brunch.
Toby was holding Matilda and listening to Jagor, fascinated. Gwen, Louise and I stood a little way away, watching them and quietly gossiping.
“He’s gorgeous,” whispered Louise at one point, and I admit I preened.
“He’s going to own her,” countered Gwen archly. She hadn’t been planning to stay the night, so she’d borrowed one of my dresses. It was made for my modest chest, and she was practically overflowing.
I blushed. “It’s not how it sounds.”
“Yes,” nodded Louise, who isn’t big on conflict. “It’s probably just a term. Like, he supports you financially and looks after you. It’s just language.”
I thought of the collars, and of kneeling at his feet at the sex club. “Sort of.”
“It’s still
owning
you, Luce,” said Gwen. “Why would you let him own you? I know he’s rich, and handsome, and a prince, but...you know.” She shrugged petulantly. “He’s not
all that
.”
Just at that moment, Toby passed Matilda over to Jagor. He held her effortlessly over his head, delighted, while she gurgled and played with his nose. We looked at him beaming up at her: the perfect father. Three female hearts melted.
“Yeah, okay,” said Gwen. “He could grow on me.”
***
When they left, Gwen volunteered to tidy up. I was happy to agree, and collapsed on the couch with Jagor. He tried not to look surprised at the way the ancient springs creaked whenever we moved.
I watched one of the bodyguards watching Gwen. She’d persuaded him to hold a chair for her while she balanced on it to reach a high cupboard. He was doing his best not to look up her dress as she teetered above him in a dress that was a good size too small on both her bust and ass – Gwen has curves I can only dream of. This wasn’t going to end well.
“We should think about heading back,” Jagor told me.
I bit my lip. I was looking forward to being with him. I just wasn’t looking forward to the reception we’d get in Asteria. “I know,” I said, cuddling closer.
Gwen kept shifting her weight and hinting that she was going to fall, forcing the poor bodyguard to glance up. In a minute, I predicted, she’d pretend to fall and he’d have to catch her.
Jagor stroked my cheek. “You’re scared.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “They won’t like me.”
“They will. I’ll execute those who don’t.”
I punched him on the arm and he chuckled. But I was still stressed, and he could see it.
“What if,” he said after a moment, “we went somewhere else first? Ease back into it?”
My heart leapt at that. Yes: a few quiet days somewhere. Get used to being with him again, before I had to face the Asterian public. “Where?”
“Oh!” cried Gwen theatrically, nearly overbalancing. She was in heels, of course. I was only surprised she hadn’t put on stockings.
“Where do you want to go?” Jagor asked. I had to blink at that. The money was strange enough, but the freedom would really take some getting used to. He was used to just
going
on a whim – wherever he wanted.
There was a shrill cry from the kitchen area and we looked across to see Gwen flail and topple from the chair. To give her credit, she really did fall, like some sort of twisted drama school trust exercise: if the bodyguard hadn’t caught her, she really would have been in trouble.
He did, of course, one hand under her bare legs, one under the small of her back. She pressed herself urgently against him, her breasts pushed against his chest. “Oh!” she almost moaned. “Thank you! I—”
And it happened. The bodyguard’s eyes flicked from her heaving breasts to her face and she got The Look. The same male Asterian look that I’d got in the boutique in Monaco.
For once in her life, Gwen was silenced as hours of raw, pent-up lust burned into her, his eyes telling her
I want you and I’m going to have you.
Jagor cleared his throat. The bodyguard broke his gaze and walked away and Gwen was left standing there, open-mouthed.
“Paris,” I said. “Can we go to Paris?”
Chapter Thirteen
I thought we’d have to convince Ismelda, but as we drove to the airport, she was actually excited.
“It’s perfect,” she told us. “We need to create the illusion that the two of you have been together for longer than you have, without actually lying. Seeing you in different places helps with that. We’ll do a little teaser: something to get them talking. Then the announcement won’t be a total shock.”
***
As before, traveling with Jagor was nothing like normal air travel. We seemed to largely skip the airport: there was a limo (and the simple pleasure of being able to sit next to him, of being able to talk about
us
and not hide everything beneath a layer of work talk). Then there was a brief stop in some sort of VIP lounge that I guessed the public didn’t even know existed. We were there for no more than ten minutes, but the airport deemed that more than enough time to serve us coffee on a silver tray and – in case we felt we were being ignored - offer us food, wine or a manicure.
Then, no more than an hour after leaving my apartment, we were on Jagor’s plane: twenty minutes later, we were airborne. I found myself wishing it were a night flight: sleeping – or not sleeping – in that big double bed, thousands of feet in the air had a definite appeal.
I’d left Gwen with a solemn promise to keep her updated: she promised to come over for the wedding, though I hoped I’d be back to visit long before that. I’d had to calm her down after her experience with the bodyguard. She’d claimed to need a stiff drink, but I’d dissuaded her.
“Do they all do that?” she’d wanted to know. “Look at you like that?”
“Yes.”
“Even Jagor?”
I thought of those darkly green, entrancing eyes. “Especially Jagor.”
“And if you didn’t have a collar on, some guy could just....”
“Take you for his own. Yes.”
“He’d—”
“Yes.”
“And he’d own you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’d have to do whatever he said?”
“Yes.”
She’d thought for a moment. “Sweet Jiminy Cricket. You’re living the dream.” A quick glance at the bodyguard she’d tempted, who had studiously ignored her ever since. “Maybe I need a visit to Asteria.”
“You need to get back together with Louis.”
“Not going to happen.”
***
I’d phoned my boss at the UN before we left and humbly apologized for quitting again only a few weeks after begging my old job back. He took it surprisingly well: I suspected Jagor and Ms. Sato of the State Department had something to do with that: they’d thought I was valuable to the US as the Prince’s aide; they must be in paroxysms of joy at the idea of me as his wife. Still, if anything went wrong in Asteria it was clear that I wouldn’t be able to skulk back to the UN a second time. My old career was effectively over and my new one was a mystery to me. What exactly did a princess do all day?