Flicka’s Body
Flicka von Hannover
It was more of a proposition,
at first.
Flicka paced inside the guest suite, racing from one end of the living room to the other while she shook out her hands, trying to make her arms and legs stop cramping.
Alina had been put to bed in her bedroom an hour before and was breathing sweet toddler snores as she slept.
The Russianguards stood at parade rest on either side of the door, their expressions as blank as their dark suits. They were both jughead types, white scalps gleaming through their high and tight haircuts. Flicka had shaved longer hair than theirs off of her legs.
One of the housekeepers had brought a note from Raphael that he would be late, so she wasn’t worried or ready to jump out the window about histardiness. She just really,reallyneeded to talk to him.
The door clicked, and Raphael walked in, looking down, his suit jacket hanging open. His pale blue tie dangled from his hand, and his shirt collar was open at his throat.
Flicka ran across the suite and slammed into him, wrapping her arms around his chest.
His arms cinched around her, and he stroked her back. His tie lay across theirshoes, forgotten. “Are you all right? What happened?”
She whispered in his ear, “Make love to me.”
Raphael whisked her up in his strong arms and carried her toward the bedroom.
Over Raphael’s broad shoulder, Flicka watched the two Russian guards look anywhere but at them, studying the alabaster crown moulding and heavy silk drapes around the window at the far end of the room.
Good.
Raphaelkicked the bedroom door closed as they passed through. It slammed in the frame, rattling. He laid her on the bed and shrugged off his suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He grabbed handfuls of his dress shirt and undershirt and dragged them over his head.
Flicka unbuttoned her blouse, her fingers flying over the tiny pearls down her chest, but Raphael had already shed his shoes and wason her, his mouth covering hers and his arms around her.
She clung to him, feeling the rough silk of his skin with her palms and the muscular ripples that led to the waistband of his trousers. Her fingers found the scars that crisscrossed his back, old and newer, flat and corded, smooth and jagged rips.
His warm breath flowed over her throat, and even though they both still wore most of theirclothes, he fit himself between her thighs. Flicka arched, her mind blurring with desire.
He whispered, “What happened?”
Yes, they were alone, and maybe they could talk.
Flicka wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed her eyes shut because they were burning. Wetness leaked around her shut lids. She choked out, “Make love to me.”
Raphael pushed himself up on his arms and stared down ather, his eyes wider. “What happened? Did someone say something to you?”
She shook her head and closed her eyes again. “No.Yes.Maxence Grimaldi came to talk to me today. He had a message from Pierre.”
“Flicka!”Raphael glanced at the doors, but they remained closed. He gathered her closer and whispered near her ear. “How did he find you?”
“Anaïs slipped and said something to Marie-ThereseGrimaldi, Pierre’s cousin who was my bridesmaid, and Marie-Therese ran straight to Pierre.”
“Dammit.” His lips touched her shoulder, soothing her skin there. She clutched him more tightly.
“Make love to me,” she begged him. “Make me pregnant.”
Raphael’s body stilled. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. In the dim light from the windows and the nightlight in the bathroom, she couldsee that his pale eyes had widened. He stroked her temple with his thumb, and his voice held a rising note of worry. “What did he say?”
She turned her head away and curled inward, unable to pretend any longer. Her whole life, she had been pretending to be okay, and this was just too much for her.
