“That’s not fair to her.”
“It’s not, and I’m glad she broke it off. She deserves to find someone who loves her unconditionally, not as a warm-up act until the main event comes on.”
“Am I the main event, Spencer?”
“Yes. You are.”
The moment pauses like it’s taken a breath and holds it, the air suddenly warmer as Spencer cups my cheek and I lean into it.
I tell myself to remember this moment—the scent of rain in the air, the birdsong sweeping over us, the warmth of Spencer’s hand.
The promise of what is to come.
And then everything fades away as our lips meet, soft and sweet and real.
This is real.
39
Spencer
B
eingthere,atthetop of the hill snuggled up with Lyra doesn’t feel real.
It’s something I’ve never allowed myself to hope for. To dream about. Not just being with Lyra, but being with the woman I’m in love with.
I’m in love with Princess Lyra. No—I’m in love with Lyra Erickson.
I don’t tell her that as we talk about things of no importance. We laugh.
We kiss a lot, and it’s a revelation. Men never think of whether women are good at kissing or not—at least I never have. I just assume they will take my lead—and I’ve never had any complaints.
Arrogant, yes, but true.
Kissing Lyra is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
It’s not just the touch of her lips against mine, but the confidence with which those lips move against mine.
Long, languid kisses, with her hands thrust in my hair, until I need to pull away for a break. Tiny pecks while we change position, laughing because Lyra pouts that she can’t get close enough to me.
The way her mouth finds the spot behind my ear and how she kisses her way down my throat as she sits, straddling my lap.
Hopefully not all the kissing makes it through the editing process, or I might have some explaining to do to King Magnus.
On the surface, it feels like things are resolved between Lyra and me—that there is an us—but deep down, I know there’s more to come.
I know we need to talk about us, but it feels better to wait.
It feels better to keep kissing, and work out the details later. I’m good with details—although with all the kissing I’m doing, I feel like I’m pretty good at other things as well.
We stay entwined for a long time, stopping occasionally for a sip of champagne or a piece of fruit, but are quickly drawn to each other again. There are whispers of nonsense, murmurs of appreciation and—thunder?
“Did you hear that?” I mutter against Lyra’s lips.
“No,” she says, snaking her arms around my waist. “But—” She feels the cold droplet at the same time I do. “I think it’s raining.” She groans as she buries her face into the spot where my shoulder meets my neck, her lips brushing my skin because she’s already pushed aside my shirt to kiss there.
King Magnus doesn’t need to see that.
