Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 30

Thirty

CAT

“ H ave me,” I yelp.

He spins, flipping me around faster than I can say Prada, and pins both my hands above my head with my back pressing against a cold, frosty window.

I’ve got an idea of what Winter truly thinks of himself under his mask of constant confidence, and only a glimmer of what I think he might need. In so many ways, we’re the worst two people to fall into bed together, forbidden to be together by a legally binding contract that he is not to fraternize with crew. Both of us devastatingly lonely in our crowded lives. But both of us are willing to try and be what the other needs for the time we have together, and no one has ever given me that kind of gift.

None of that stops me from pulling my hands free as he attacks my neck and gripping him through thin cotton pants probably spun on a Danish spinning wheel in a tower somewhere. He gasps and I lower my lashes, licking my lips, I’m not above doing my best in the bedroom like I do in the boardroom.

Dropping unceremoniously to my knees, I tug at his pants until his commanding length is in my hands. So strong, so big, and so ready. I grip him at the base and waste zero time as I drag my tongue up his shaft.

“Cat,” he grits, both hands gently cupping my cheeks.

“You’re perfect,” I sigh. “I think I’ve wanted you since the first day on set, when I had my hands all over you but couldn’t taste you.” I paint my lips with his tip, then stare up at him as I lick at the salty precum left behind like lipgloss.

“How did I get so lucky,” he breathes looking at me with awe and reverence that only encourages me to please him more. I take him in my mouth to the hilt and enjoy the sound of that gasp, too.

I drag my lips over him, hollowing out my mouth, until he pops free.“You taste so good.”

“You think you wanted me then? I was dying for you already.” He groans, stroking my cheek. “Fuck, Cat, your mouth. I knew it would be good, but—” He whimpers in the dark as if I’ve struck him right in the heart. That’s exactly where he’s struck me, and I suck him hard into my mouth to prove it. To prove I’m his.

“Shh.” My lips pop as I release him again, stroking him a few times with my fist around his hot flesh. The veins protrude from his length and his perfectly pink tip presses toward my lips as if he’s eager for more.

And I’m willing to give more. I’m willing to give him so much while he’s mine. I take him deep into my mouth again using my tongue to feel every ridge, sucking hard, and he begins to rock, hitting the back of my throat.

My eyes water as he looks down at me.

“God, you’re so beautiful, and you’re mine.” I hum my agreement as he moves in my mouth, hardening even more as he picks up the pace and I meet him thrust for thrust. “Can I paint your body? Can I?— ”

He doesn’t have to finish his sentence because I undo the top buttons on his shirt and press my breasts together in my black bra. He rubs the back of my head while he continues to thrust into my mouth and it’s not long before he pulls back, fisting himself as I arch my back and watch as he paints my chest with his release. Ropes and ropes of warmth arcing across my skin.

I’ve never felt so claimed in my life.

“You are such a good girl,” he praises me revrently, grabbing a few tissues from his nightstand and cleaning me up as best he can, then scoops me up and tosses me on the bed, tumbling down on top of me and covering me like a heavy blanket. “You are going to be the death of me. I know it, and I don’t even care. I can’t save myself. What sort of witchcraft are you weaving? You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

“It’s the same for me,” I breathe. “I blame Marco and his stupid but very sexy oil.”

Yes, I usually like having the power in a relationship and the bedroom, but I know in my gut he needs to hear how much he affects me. It’s both freeing and scary to admit how badly I want him, to be vulnerable. But his reaction, his pleasure in hearing me say it out loud is worth the risk.

“Don’t stop doing that,” he gasps as I grip him again. I want more. And he’s ready. “Fuck your hands are magic. You are a witch. I know it now.”

I’m dying for him as wet coats my thighs and my nightshirt rucks up over my hips. I let out a strangled scream along with a stream of pleas when he rolls on top of me and pins both my wrists above my head.

“That’s two! Two Cat Bloomfield squeals in one day. What’s happening to you?”

“I’m still dark and broody,” I say, as he kisses his way up my jaw. “I’m just in a better mood with your lips on mine, instead of yammering away.”

He squeezes me, his strong hand wrapped around my wrists like a vise while pumping his hips against me to punctuate his point with a serious hard-on. “I-don’t-yammer,” he responds.

“Winter,” I whine, because the teasing is too much, the ache between my legs getting more demanding. My black silk panties and his thin cotton pants are the only scraps of fabric between us. And I’ve already had quite the preview of what’s beneath.

He sobers, drilling into me with a serious expression as he grips my chin, squeezing lightly with his thumb and pointer fingers right at my jaw so that my mouth opens to him. I noticed him doing this when he bridled his horse but I don’t even care, heat racing up my chest and exploding when his tongue dives into my mouth, hungry, demanding, and needy. I expected him to be nothing less in bed: unpredictable, at times soft, and at others commanding.

Tonight, he wants to lead. Maybe because I asked him for it. Maybe because the first time we kissed in a closet, I was the one who made the move? But not tonight. Tonight I’m willing to follow his lead, to let him take me anywhere he wants to go.

“More?” he asks. “What exactly do you want from me, Cat?” My shirt is long gone, my bra cups hastily pulled down, and his mouth is at my breast. He’s teasing me with wet flicks of his tongue, then he sucks at my nipple while he massages and pinches the other.

“More,” I answer with a groan, pushing into him anywhere, everywhere I can find purchase.

He flips me onto my stomach, rising to his knees behind me and pulling my hips back, reverently massaging my ass, sliding his thumbs under black lace. Gripping with the pads of his fingertips under my hip bones, he pulls me hard against him and curses in my ear.

“I’m going to have your handprints on me in the morning,” I gasp as he squeezes hard.

“Good,” he growls, assessing me with his eyes when I peek over my shoulder. I think he could do this all day but I’m impatient. I’ve never been good at waiting.

I whine in response, pressing my ass into his hands. I’m begging.

“I’m at your command, sod bloomst , but you have to follow directions, too.” He nudges each of my knees further apart with his thigh. “On your elbows now. Good girl. Let me look at you.”

Those fucking words shoot through me and I preen, pushing back against him. No one has ever said that to me before and I didn’t know how much I needed to hear it. “You think I’m good?”

“I know you’re going to be fucking good for me .”

“Then do something,” I rasp.

“What do you want?” He’s toying with me, fully knowing what I want.

“Winter,” I mewl, pressing against him. This is getting embarrassing.

“Okay, okay, enough play time.” He peels my favorite pair of black lace panties down, tugs so I can lift one knee and then the other, and leans over to open his bedside drawer to drop them in. His fingers glide through the slick wetness of my center and I shiver, gasping so loud I’m almost embarrassed. “Damn, Cat. All this for me? And here I thought you wanted me to jump off a cliff since we met.”

“No.” I shake my head into the soft feather pillow beneath my cheek, pushing against his fingers, trying to find friction he’s deftly holding just out of reach.

“No?”

Fingertips brush the tight bud of nerves at my core and I groan, completely unguarded, as his middle finger sinks into me. The tension builds faster than I expected with his thumb circling, finger thrusting, and then he adds another and I clench around him. He’s still grinding into me from behind, the hard length of him under thin cotton simulating something I wish was real but for now, I’ll have to be grateful for his hands .

It’s been a long time since someone has taken so much time with me. Usually, it’s get in and get out, hoping everyone gets off. Business only, and that’s all been fine and good. That’s all I’ve needed. I prefer not to get all emotional and weepy—but this is different. Feeling Winter’s hot, determined touch, his breath on my back, his whispered praise is so much more than that. Rocking into me in synch with his hand, I can almost pretend it’s him inside me.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasps in my ear.

Should I tell him this is all I wanted, to feel as if I’m connected to someone else, someone who knows all the pieces of me, even the soft breakable bits? What do these feelings mean?

“Don’t stop,” I gasp, gripping for something but there’s nothing to hang on to, only thin sheets that don’t offer what I need. He’s made it so I can’t get my claws into him, face down with one hand on my center and one pressing into the small of my back.

I’m at his mercy and it’s so good, my skin sings in response to his touch. Thoughts of how we’re going to hide this, and how this going to end, threaten to distract me but I banish them. We have all the time in the world to talk about what this means. After. At some point. I promise, right after I?—

Abruptly, he removes his hands and sits back, leaving nothing but cold air in his wake to sting my skin. Just as I’m about to whine, he says, “You are every dream I’ve ever had come to life.” I can hear the fascination in his voice.

“Are you trying to kill me?” I pant, glaring at him.

“Turn over.” I do, scrambling back against the headboard and pulling my knees to my chest. He’s still kneeling, towering over me, all tight pecs and commanding shoulders. “It’s in my best interest to make this memorable.” He grips one ankle, pulling my leg straight, then does the same with the other. “And I want to see your face when you come.”

“I want . . . ”

“Say it, anything, all you have to do is tell me.”

“I want your mouth. On me.” He pulls me by the ankles to the edge of the bed.

His abs flex and his pecs jump as he slowly bows, holding my eyes as he rubs his chin above the spot I need him to hit.

Whispered demands I’m not proud of spill from me. He pushes my legs wide and I wish he was inside me so much I almost change my mind, but then his mouth drops and he sucks my clit into his mouth. His name escapes my throat in an embarrassing plea.

He holds my gaze as he works me, the sounds of his fingers filling me again echoing off the walls but I don’t even care. I feel an absolute connection with him, we both seem to read it in each other’s eyes, even ground.

Want plus want. Power. Attraction. Trust.

He’s spending time on me, torturing me in the best way.

“I think I’ll keep you,” I laugh, as I press my heels into his back and relish the feel of his free hand gripping my thigh so hard I know it’ll leave marks. I’m going to have his marks everywhere, on my neck, my thighs, my ass.

He leans in, whispering in my ear while his hands continue to work me up, and up, and up. “And I think I’ll let you . . . Keep me, sod bloomst .” To punctuate his point, he sucks a nipple into his mouth and gently squeezes the other.

I burst into a thousand pieces. The orgasm rips through me while he mutters praise, good girl , and so proud , sweetly against my chest, fingers still inside me, his thumb pressing hard against the tight bud where his mouth was.

“God, I fucking love you,” he murmurs, his words winding together and trailing across my skin.

I don’t know what to say to that, and I pull a fluffy feather pillow over my face to hide my euphoric smile. The pillow also comes in handy to hide my third squeal and not get shit about it. My body is wrung out, bits of stress rolling off me as the orgasm holds, throbbing in my core, refusing to give up its claim on me, before finally fading into the moonlight in the room.

My eyes are wide open now. Winter’s room is dark and quiet, the cake box on his little table makes me laugh and I don’t know why, because I can’t believe what we just did. The things I did to him and the pleasure he gave me feels strong, transcendental, like starting over and I stretch like a cat, tangled up in sheets. This is like nothing I’ve ever felt because it was raw and real and I can’t wait to see what we do next.

“Sorry, I made that weird.” He drops his feet over the side of the bed, hanging his head, shoulders tense and muscles twitching. “That was so stupid—what I said. Obviously.”

What does he mean? He said a lot of unbelievable, amazing, perfect things. Unless he means saying . . .

All I can see is the back of his head and he braces his elbows on his knees and gazes out the window. Snow is still falling.

Oh. “No—yeah. It was just, in the moment. A turn of phrase. You laughed.” His laugh was beautiful, it pushed me over the edge because I loved the sound, because I was the one who brought it out of him. Pure, unmasked, happy Winter.

And hearing someone say it . . . We’re not on that level, I know that, he explained everything to me clearly. I’m a coping mechanism, I’m helping him through this show, but after telling myself my entire life that I don’t need anyone to love me. It was still nice to hear.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” I say, rolling to drape myself over him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, pressing my cheek against the warm skin of his shoulder, hanging on. Willing him back to me. “Winter, I don’t want to stop.”

He’s gone stoic and cold. “I’m sorry. Let’s forget it.”

“Seriously?” I sit back on my heels, stunned at the turn we’ve taken, still throbbing from his touch.

I’ve never heard my voice sound so small.

And I’ve never seen this side of him.

Singing wakes me up. Bad singing. The room is bright, curtains that I remember stumbling across Winter’s room in the middle of the night to pull closed, now wide open. There’s a note on the nightstand, his riding helmet and a crop next to it.

Cat,

These are for you. You can punish me when you wake up.

-Winter

P.S. I’m sorry about last night.

I already knew he felt bad about how last night ended, but the man just dropped a horse whip on me. And yes, he freaked out over using a turn of phrase. I was upset and confused in the moment, but when he turned off the light, he didn’t turn away from me in bed.

He turned into me. And I held him. And he held me right back. And he whispered some of his fears in my ear. Fears about growing up alone, not hearing those three little words he longed for most from his parents, hating himself for all of it. Blaming himself for all of it.

It was easy to forgive the sad prince in my arms. Brushing his hair back, hushing him till he felt calm, kissing him—and only kissing him—until both our lips went numb and we drifted off holding on to one another.

I’ve got a choice to make here and I reach instinctively for my phone. I’d love to text this over with Willow and Fran, if anything, to get it out of my head so I know how I feel and what I want. Instead, I hop out of bed. Maybe we are what we are, the damage is done, and now all we can do is try and mend ourselves as we grow and evolve.

Still, I want him to know I appreciate the sentiment. This is Winter Larsen being raw and real, showing me his ugly parts. He’s trying. So, I grab his helmet from a chair, secure the latch under my chin, take his crop in hand, and pad down the hall.

He’s singing, alright.

The song has changed by the time I hover in a pair of heavy socks and his sleep shirt in the doorway. The Kinks sing “Lola” blasting through old school speakers set into a wall. Winter bends, apron unfortunately covering his defined chest but showing off his broad back, and hands Lola a batter-covered spoon to lick.

His smooth shoulder blades flex and his ribcage expands and contracts as he belts out lyrics to his dog. I bite my lip.

“Think she’s gonna like our attempt at an apology? We acted like an ass last night.”

When the dog pauses mid-lick to assess the man in front of her, gives him her big droopy dog look of indignation, and resumes licking her treat he says, “You’re right. It was me. I shouldn’t drag you into these things, I’m sorry, Lo. See? I can apologize when I’m wrong.”

She slops at the spoon and looks up at him again, this time the spoon caught in her jaws. More? Her big droopy eyes say.

“Greedy girl. No more, I have to save some for the apology pancakes, remember? This face will only get me so far.” He waves his palm around his head.

My heart constricts and I sprint down the hall because I don’t want to ruin whatever he’s got planned. But I’m wearing slick, thick wool socks probably darned? Knitted? Crocheted? By Annie herself. I go flailing, knocking into a small table and sending a vase crashing to the ground.

“Shit!”

“Cat? Are you okay?” He catches up to his voice and skids to a stop at the bottom of the staircase where I’m in a heap .

“Please tell me that’s not an ancient, Scandinavian, Larsen family heirloom?” I gesture at the vase.

“Is it this specific set of stairs that trips you up? Or are you like this around all staircases? Good thing you were wearing a helmet and carrying a big stick.”

I cover my mouth to hide a grin, hanging my head. “You’re a punny prince, I’ll give you that.”

His head tips back, and this beautiful man lets out a huge laugh at my expense. “Seriously, you okay?” He pulls me up by my elbows. “Don’t step in it, I’ll get a broom,” he adds, lifting me effortlessly off my feet and placing me gently on the first stair. Absentmindedly, he kisses my forehead while surveying the wreckage.

“I’m fine. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” I nod with my chin toward the kitchen he’s abandoned, then steady my Helmut as it wobbles on my head. “Apology pancakes sound good.”

“Ah. Well. I’ll make you a deal. You get your ass back in my bed, keep my gear on, and I’ll feed you all the apologies you want.”