* * *
It was reckless to do this out in the open, but Guinevere had decided that Tiberius wasn’t the only master strategist. She was one too. She’d organised the picnic with the kitchen, then given instructions to both the staff and the palace guards that the orchard was to be out of bounds for the next couple of hours.
She’d wondered if he’d even come, but when his tall figure had come striding through the trees her heart had leapt. He’d looked devastatingly attractive, in dark trousers and a black shirt, and it had been all she could do not to lay hands on him the moment he’d sat down.
He’d missed her the night before—she could see it in his face, hear it in his voice. If it truly hadn’t mattered to him then he wouldn’t have asked, but he had. And the truth was she’d missed him too. It had taken all her of considerable will to stay in the library the night before, to deny him the pleasure of her body. But this was part of the lesson she wanted to teach him—that he couldn’t have everything his own way—and that was a difficult lesson for a man like him.
Nevertheless, he had to learn. He had to understand that he could have moments for himself. That life wasn’t all about work or the burden of kingship. That there could be moments of joy and happiness.
She wasn’t sure when his wellbeing had come to matter to her so much, but it had, and so here, in the sunlight of the orchard, on a beautiful day, she’d spread before him a picnic and determined that for a couple of hours he could relax.
Then she’d thought that maybe that relaxation should be physical. They weren’t in bed, for a change, and maybe in the sun, after some pleasure, he’d lose some of the tension she could sense in the air around him.
She probably needn’t have indulged in the performance of spilling perfectly good champagne over herself, but she’d wanted him to be hungry for her. She’d wanted him to forget everything but her.
And certainly the wet fabric of her dress was doing that work for her.
The flare of desire in his eyes had been the only warning she’d had before he’d leaned forward and dragged her into his lap.
Now she didn’t pull away from his hungry kiss, pressing her body to his instead, and kissing him back just as hungrily.
The feral growl he made in the back of his throat delighted her, and she wasn’t displeased when he ripped apart the thin silk of her dress. He put one hand between her shoulder blades to support her as he bent her back, pulling the fabric aside, kissing his way down her throat, over her collarbones to her breasts, still damp with champagne. She gasped as pleasure lanced through her. His mouth had found one of her nipples and was drawing hard on it.
His free hand tugged at more of the dress fabric, ripping it all the way down so that there was nothing between them but his clothing and the little lacy pair of knickers she wore beneath the dress.
His arms came around her, supporting her as he bent her back further, his mouth resting in the hollow of her throat as he shifted one hand down between her thighs, stroking her, making pleasure ripple everywhere.
She sighed, giving herself up to him, to the movement of his hands and the way he kissed and tasted her body, hot and hungry. But he often took the lead in the bedroom, and while she enjoyed that very much, since her experience was limited, she was starting to get more confident.
This was about him, and she wanted to give to him as much as he gave to her.
So she took his hands and held them still. ‘Let me,’ she murmured. ‘Let me give you pleasure, Your Majesty.’
He stilled, his gaze full of flames. He was such an intense man and he felt things so deeply, she could see it. It was his love for his country that drove him, but maybe there was also something else. Something deeper. She wanted to know what it was, what motor kept driving him on. And perhaps if she gave him some release he’d tell her.
She lifted her hands to his face and cupped it gently between her palms, then she leaned in and began to kiss him…butterfly-light kisses on his forehead, the strong bridge of his nose, his eyelids, his cheekbones. Raining down soft, tender kisses that ended with the brush of her lips against his.
‘No,’ he murmured in protest. ‘I need you now, lioness.’
‘And you can have me. Just be patient.’
She kept on kissing his face, then his throat, her hands moving to the buttons of his shirt and undoing them. Then she was stroking his chest, tracing the hard muscle beneath his satiny skin, worshipping him.
‘Guinevere,’ he growled in warning as her hands strayed to his stomach, and then further, flicking open the button of his trousers and then the zip, sliding her hand beneath the cotton of his underwear and finding him long and thick and hard.
‘Guinevere,’he said again, his voice guttural.
‘Shh…’ she murmured, stroking him gently, tracing the length of him with her fingers. She kissed his mouth as she did so, tasting him lightly. A tender kiss, slowly—very slowly—deepening into something sweeter and hotter.
He made a sound deep in his throat, but he didn’t move. He’d gone very still, and she could feel the tension in his muscles. But it wasn’t denial. It was almost as if he’d never felt like this before and wasn’t sure what to do.
And perhaps he hadn’t. Had anyone ever been tender with him? Had anyone ever been soft? Had anyone ever touched him as if he was beautiful, a work of art you had to be careful with?
His breathing was fast, and normally that was a sign that he’d take charge, put her on her back and thrust inside her. Yet he remained still. As if he was waiting.
She reached down between them, slipping aside her underwear, then gripped him and positioned him before raising herself slightly, easing down, feeling the delicious glide of him as he slid inside her.
‘Guinevere,’ he whispered again, his voice roughened and yet soft. But it wasn’t a warning this time. It was something else. Something that held a note that made her heart tighten in response.
