Arthur and Casimir had accepted Maxence in spite of that and befriended him anyway.
But surely no one else would be so forgiving.
Especially when he was about to drag Dree to his home, which, to torture the metaphor, must be the very mouth of Hell.
A more apt description for palace politics during an election had never been uttered.
Maxence told Dree, “I’ll summon you if I require your help. I prefer to work alone now.” He dropped his head to gaze pointedly at his phone.
She didn’t move.
Max read the same text from his cousin Marie-Therese three times and still couldn’t figure out what the hell she was talking about.
Dree whispered, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and stood.
He waited for one more word to drop from her plush lips, to see what she was going to call him—Maxence, Augustine, Father, Your Highness—or would she just leave? Would that beallthat she would say to him?
Dree whispered,“—sir,”and walked away.
Flashes of those stolen moments in Paris assailed him. Her calling himsirwhile kneeling in front of him; his hands on the soft rounds of her ass or cupping her heavy breasts; the faintly salty taste of her on his tongue; his dick sliding between her full lips; the way her back arched like she was going to snap when she came.
Sir.
There was a queen-sized bed in the small bedroom suite in the rear of the Bombardier. Maxence could haul her back there, lock the door, and edge her until she was panting and close to coming, then make her suck him off instead.
Sir.
If she wanted to play the dominance-submission game, Prince Maxence of Monaco had mastered it long ago. He was not the light-hearted bigshot who dabbled in sexual games she’d met in Paris. He was—
Maxence’s hand cramped around his phone.
He was deadly serious in everything he did and bent everyone to his will because he had to.
Over a billion dollars were at stake.
Maxence had to make sure he didn’t end up with it.
Sir.
He didn’t have time for blithe sexual games with a pretty little ingenue who didn’t understand the danger she would be in if anyone found out Maxence cared for her.
He blinked, still staring at his phone and the wall of texts marching down the screen.
Caredfor her?
Well, of course. Dree Clark was a remarkable woman. She’d worked herself to the point of collapse every night in Nepal because people needed her. He respected her. He admired her soul.
But it was nothing more.
Itcouldn’tbe anything more.
Of course, he wanted her to be safe. He wasn’t a monster. Some members of his family would stop at nothing to gain the crown and control its associated wealth. Pierre hadn’t been the only sociopath who’d sprouted in Max’s family tree.
And, of course, she was a wonderful soul and an excellent human being.
But . . .hecared for her?
There were limits to what Maxence could and couldn’t do in his life. He’d always known that.
