To tease.
As if she were his lover.
She wondered stupidly, wildly, how he treated the women he took to bed. Did he touch them as tenderly, with such care that seemed at odds with his massive size and his brutal reputation? Had he earned the calluses on his hands from fighting on the battlefields he had conquered?
“When I am cross, I do everything in my power to vex my enemies.” He smiled then, a beautiful smile, truly, that revealed the full extent of his white, ridiculously even teeth.
Did all the men of Varros look so splendid, or was it merely this one?
Belatedly, his claim occurred to her. “I am certain you could not vex me, Your Majesty.”
“And I’m equally certain I could. Do you wish to try me?”
She had no other choice.
“I suppose I must.”
His smile deepened, making grooves at the corners of his dark eyes and sinful lips. “Consider yourself warned, spitfire.”
Her skin was so damnedsoft. And she was so stubborn. So tempting. He had never wanted to kiss her more.
Everything within Maxim was clamoring to take her mouth. To claim her. To sweep her into his arms and carry her away like the spoils of war, to strip her bare and use his lips and tongue and teeth and cock to please her until no more stubborn resistance remained.
Lingering here and clashing verbal swords with the beautiful lady-in-waiting was stupid, and he knew it. Only yesterday, an assassin intent upon killing him had been slain in his entry hall. He was likely standing within the lion’s den, with Gustavson’s guards within a shout’s distance at all times. And there was also the matter of the ever-elusive princess he was to wed.
She had been due to return an hour ago by his calculations.
But he hadn’t become King of Varros by failing to seize what he wanted. And he very much wanted Lady Tansy.
She had thrown the gauntlet between them. He was merely taking it up.
To that end, he released her with great reluctance and turned to a book abandoned upon a nearby table, retrieving it. She had been reading the volume, he knew. The contents mattered not to him; what did matter was that it belonged to her. He folded himself into one of the uncomfortable armchairs by the fire and flipped the book open to its frontispiece.
She flew after him like a little bird intent upon chasing a predator from her nest of eggs. “What are you doing?”
He gestured calmly with his left hand. “Reading.”
“But that is my book,” she sputtered, her fingers tangling in her gown as if to keep from snatching the tome from his grasp.
“Is it?” He raised a brow, giving her an unconcerned look. “Not any longer. Now it is mine.”
With that pronouncement, he turned his attention to reading. The book was in English. Its title,The Tale of Love, was decidedly intriguing. Was it a bawdy book, then?
His stubborn prick twitched to attention at the possibility.
“You must not read it,” she said, sounding rather frantic, catching her lower lip in her teeth.
His cock hardened, pulsing with eagerness. She was beautiful, hovering over him with an expression of utter concern on her lovely countenance. He flicked his gaze away from her, turning his attention to the source of her apprehension. What did the book contain?
Using his thumb, he opened the volume and flipped through a few dozen pages, words catching his eye as he worked his way through dense blocks of text. A handful of words jumped out at him.
Nipples.
Globes.
Stiff.
Staff.
