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Like surrender, Pato thought, satisfaction moving through him like another kind of need, dark and demanding, like all the ways he wanted her.
“I thought it would help your brother’s reputation,” she said almost too softly, her eyes bright with heat. “I really did.”
He nipped at her jaw, and she shivered.
“But I never would have suggested—” She broke off, bit her lip in agitation, then tried again. “I mean, I wouldn’t have thought of it if I didn’t—”
Pato waited, but she only pulled in a ragged breath, then another. She could hardly sit still. She was flushed hot, shining with the same need he felt pulling at him. Coming apart, right there in the chair, and he’d hardly touched her.
She was going to be the end of him. He knew it.
He couldn’t wait.
“Say it,” he ordered her. “If you didn’t...?”
He felt her give in to it before he saw it, a shift in that tension that tightened the air between them. And then her shoulders lowered, she let out a long breath, and what stormed in him then felt like much, much more than simple victory.
“If I didn’t want you,” she admitted hoarsely.
Pato kissed her, hard and long and deep, his fingers spearing into her sleek chignon and sending pins scattering to the floor.
And she met him, the feel of her mouth beneath his again—at last—like a revelation.
He couldn’t get enough of her taste. He angled his jaw for a better fit and it got hotter, wilder, and then he thought he might explode when he felt her hands running along his arms, trailing over his chest, making him wish he could remove all the layers of his formal clothes simply by wishing them away.
He wanted her mindless. Now. He wanted her falling apart in his arms, lost to this passion that might very well destroy them both. He wanted to claim her.
Pato broke away from the glory of her mouth and sank to his knees before her, making room for himself between her legs. She made a small, dazed sort of sound. He grinned at her, then simply pulled her hips toward him, pushing her skirt up toward her waist and out of his way as he positioned her at the edge of her seat.
He ran his palms up her smooth, satiny thighs, grinning wider as she bit back a moan. He sank his hands underneath her, grasping her perfect bottom and ducking lower, arranging her so that her legs fell over his shoulders and hung down his back. Then he tilted her hips toward him.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, slumped down in her chair with her skirt around her waist and that delectable flush heating her face, making her dark chocolate eyes melt and shine as they met his.
She was delicious and shivering and his. All his, at last.
God help them both.
“Hold on,” Pato advised her, hardly recognizing his own voice, so stark with desire was it. So focused. “You’ll need it.”
He lifted her to him, smiling at the pretty scrap of blue lace that covered the sweet heat of her, and then he leaned forward to suck her into his mouth.
* * *
The shock of his mouth against the very center of her need took Adriana’s breath, so that the scream she let out sounded only inside her, ricocheting like a bullet against glass and shattering whatever it touched.
The heat. The fire. The terrible, wonderful ache.
His wicked, talented mouth, so hot and demanding, pressed against the tiny layer of lace that separated them. His hard shoulders felt massive and the fabric of his jacket rough against the tender skin behind her knees. His clever hands gripped her and held her fast, and his impossibly beautiful face was between her thighs so that all she could see when she looked down was that thick, wild hair of his, sunshine and chocolate and that delicious bit too long, and her own hands fisted in the mass of it as if they’d gone there of their own accord.
She thought she’d died. She wanted to die. She didn’t know how anyone could take this much pleasure, this much scalding heat, and live through it—
And then he made a low noise of male pleasure, shoved her thong out of his way and licked deep into her molten core.
Adriana burst into a firestorm of white-hot heat and exploded over the edge of the world, lost in a shower of shivering flames.
When she was herself again, or whatever was left of her, she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. And Pato was laughing in dark masculine delight, right there against the heat of her core, making the pleasure curl in her all over again, sweeter and hotter than before.
“Again, I think,” he murmured, each syllable humming into her and making her press against him before she knew she meant to move, greedy and mindless and adrift in need.
And he took her all over again.
He used his tongue and the scrape of his teeth. His mouth learned her, possessed her, commanding and effortless. His jaw moved against the tender skin of her thighs, the faint rasp of his beard making the fire in her reach higher, burn hotter. The hands that held her to him caressed her, a low roll of sensation that made her shudder and writhe against him, into him, wanting nothing in the world but this. Him.
And that coiling thing inside her that he knew exactly how to wind tight. Then tighter. Then even tighter still.
Adriana felt the fire surge into something almost unbearable, her whole body stretched taut and breathless, heard his growl of approval and her own high, keening noise—
And then, again, she was nothing more than the fire and the need, shattering into a thousand bright, hot pieces against his wicked, wicked mouth, and then falling in flames all around him.
* * *
When Adriana opened her eyes this time, reality slammed into her like a hammer at her temples.
What had she done?
Pato had moved to lounge on the floor, his back against the couch opposite her, with his long legs stretched out and nearly tangled with hers. He wasn’t smiling. Those golden eyes were trained on her, brooding and dark, and she didn’t know how long she stared back at him, too shaken and dazed to do anything else.
But that hammer kept at its relentless pounding, and she forced her gaze from his, looking down at herself as if he’d taken her body from her and replaced it with someone else’s. That was certainly what it felt like.
She thought she might cry. Adriana struggled to sit upright, tugging her skirt back down toward her knees, aware as she did so that she could still feel him. That mouth of his all over the core of her, his hands wrapped so tightly over her bottom. It felt as if every place he’d touched her was a separate drum, and each beat in her with its own dark pulse.
Then something else hit her, and she froze. She didn’t have much practical experience, but Adriana recognized that what had happened had been...unequal. She swallowed nervously, sneaked a glance at him and then away.
“You didn’t—” She was still in pieces and wasn’t sure she’d ever manage to reassemble herself. Not the way she’d been before. Not now that he’d demonstrated exactly how much she’d been lying to herself. She cleared her throat. “I mean, if you’d like...”
“How tempting,” Pato said drily when she couldn’t finish the sentence, his gaze harder when she met it, a darker shade of gold she’d never seen before. “But I prefer screams of passion to insincere sacrifices, thank you. To say nothing of enthusiastic participants.”
And the worst part, she realized, as her heart kicked at her and made her feel dizzy, was that she couldn’t run from him the way she had that morning in London. She couldn’t find a far-off corner of his luxurious penthouse and hide herself away until she wrestled her reactions under control. They were on a plane. There was no hiding from what she’d done this time. No rationalizations, no excuses. And she hadn’t had anything to drink but water all night long.
The silence between them stretched and held, nothing but the sound of the jet’s engines humming all around them, and Adriana didn’t have the slightest idea what to do. She was aware of him in ways she suspected would haunt her long after this flight was over, ways she should have recognized and avoided weeks ago. Why had she thought she could handle this—handle him? Why had she been so unpardonably arrogant?
He’d been leading her here all along, she understood. And she’d let him, telling herself that what was happening to her wasn’t happening at all. Telling herself stories about tainted blood and Pandora’s box. Thinking she could fight it with snappy lines and some attitude.
She’d known she was scraped raw by this, by the things that had happened between them. What he’d done and what he’d said. The brutal honesty, the impossible need. But it was her own appalling weakness that shamed her deep into her bones. That made her wonder if she’d ever known herself at all.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, when the silence outside her head and the noise within was too much.
His dark brows edged higher. There was the faintest twitch of that mouth of his, which she now knew so intimately she could still feel the aftershocks.
“I wanted to know how you tasted,” he said.
So simple. So matter-of-fact. So Pato.
A helpless kind of misery surged through her, tangled up with that fire he’d set in her that never died out, and she wished she hadn’t asked. She kept her eyes on the floor, where his feet were much too close to hers, and wondered how she could find something so innocuous so threatening—and yet so strangely comforting at the same time.
“Was that your first?” he asked, with no particular inflection in his voice. “Or should I say, your first two?”
“My first...?” she echoed, confused.
And then his meaning hit her, humiliation close behind, and she felt the scalding heat of shame climb up her chest and stain her cheeks. She wanted to curl into a ball and disappear, but instead she sat up straight, as if posture alone could erase what had happened. What she’d done. What she’d let him do to her without a single protest, as if she’d been waiting her whole life to play the whore for him.
Weren’t you? that voice spat at her, and she flinched.
“I apologize if I was deficient, Your Royal Highness.” She threw the words at him, in an agony of embarrassment. “I neglected to sleep with the requisite seven thousand people necessary to match your level of—”
“There was only the one, I know,” he interrupted, his even tone at odds with the storm in his eyes and that unusually straight line of his mouth. No crook, no curve. Serious, for once, and it made it all that much worse. “And I imagine all five seconds of unskilled fumbling did not lead to any wild heights of passion on your part.”
Adriana couldn’t believe this conversation was happening. She couldn’t believe any of this had happened. If she could have thrown herself out the plane’s window right then and there, she would have. A nice, quiet plummet from a great height into the cold embrace of the Alps sounded like blessed relief.
But Pato was still looking at her. There was no escape.
“Of course it wasn’t my first,” she managed to say, but she couldn’t look at him while she said it. She couldn’t believe she was answering such a personal question—but then, he’d had his mouth between her legs. What was the point of pretending she had any boundaries? Any shame? “I might not have cut a swathe across the planet like some, but I didn’t take a vow of celibacy.”
“With a man,” he clarified, and there was the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes then, the faintest spark. “A private grope beneath the covers, just you and your hand in the dark, isn’t the same thing at all. Is it?”
Adriana didn’t understand how she could have forgotten how much she hated him. She remembered now. It roared through her, battling the treacherous, traitorous embers of that fire he’d licked into a consuming blaze, filling her with the force of it, the cleansing power—
But it burned itself out just as quickly, leaving behind the emptiness. That great abyss she’d been skirting her whole life, and there was nothing holding her back from it anymore, was there? She had spent three years with Lenz, thinking her dedication proved she wasn’t what her surname said she was. And hardly more than a month with Pato, demonstrating exactly why Righetti women were notorious.
She had betrayed herself and her family in every possible way.
And he was still simply looking at her, still sitting there before her as if sprawling on the floor made him less threatening, less diabolical. Less him.
Worse, as if he expected an answer.
“Adriana,” he began evenly, almost kindly, and she couldn’t take it.
She was horrified when tears filled her eyes, that hopelessness washing over her and leaving her cruelly exposed. She shook her head, lifting her hands and then dropping them back into her lap.
He had destroyed her. He’d taken her apart and she’d let him, and she didn’t have any idea how she would survive this. She didn’t know what to do. If she wasn’t who she’d always thought she was, if she was instead who she’d always feared she might become, then she had nothing.
Nothing to hold on to anymore. Nothing to fight for. Nothing at all.
“What do you want from me?” she asked him, and she didn’t sound like herself, so broken and small. She felt the tears spill over, the heat of them on her cheeks, and she was too far gone to care. Though her eyes blurred, she focused on him, dark and male and still. “Is this it—to make me become everything I hate? Everything I spent my whole life fighting against? Are you happy now?”
He didn’t answer, and she couldn’t see him any longer, anyway, so she stopped pretending and covered her face with her hands, letting the tears flow unchecked into her palms, her humiliation complete.
She didn’t hear him move. But she felt his hands on her, lifting her into the air and then bringing her down on his lap. Holding her, she realized when it finally penetrated. Prince Pato was holding her. She tried to push away, but he only pulled her closer, sliding her across his legs so that her face was nestled into the crook of his neck. There was the lightest of touches, as if he’d pressed a kiss to her hair.
He was warm and strong and deliciously solid, and it was so tempting to pretend that they were different people. That this meant something. That he cared.
That she was the kind of woman someone might care for in the first place.
It was shocking how easy it was to tell herself lies, she thought then, despairing of herself—and so very, very sad about how eager she was to believe them. Even now, when she knew better.
“We don’t always get to play the versions of ourselves we prefer,” Pato said after a long while, when Adriana’s tears had faded away, and yet he still held her.
He smoothed a gentle hand over her hair as he spoke, and Adriana found that she didn’t have the strength to fight it off the way she should. She couldn’t seem to protect herself any longer. Not from him. Not from any of this. She could feel the rumble of his voice in his chest, and had to shut her eyes against the odd flood of emotion that rocked through her.
Too much sensation. Too many wild emotions, too huge and too dangerous. Too much.
“I don’t think you understand,” she whispered.
“The army was the only place I ever felt like a normal person,” he replied. Did she imagine that his arms held her closer, more carefully, as if she really was something precious to him? And when had she started wanting him to think so? “None of the men in my unit cared that I was a prince. They cared if I did my job. They treated me the same way they treated each other. It was a revelation.” He traced the same path over her hair, making her shiver again. “And if I like Pato the Playboy Prince less than I liked Pato the Soldier, well. One doesn’t cancel out the other. They’re both me.”
There was nothing but his arms around her and the solid heat of him warming her from the inside out. Making her feel as if everything was somehow new. Maybe because he was holding her this way, maybe because he’d told her something about him she hadn’t already read in a tabloid. Maybe because she didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with his gentleness. Adriana felt hushed, out of time. As if nothing that happened here could hurt her.
It wasn’t true, she knew. It never was. But she couldn’t seem to keep herself from wanting, much too badly, to believe that just this once, it could be.
“Yes,” she said, finding it easier to talk to that strong neck of his, much easier when she couldn’t see that challenging golden gaze. She could fool herself into believing she was safe. And that he was. “But none of the versions of you—even the most scandalous and attention-seeking—are called a whore with quite the same amount of venom they use when it’s me.” He sighed, and she closed her eyes against the smooth, hot skin of his throat. “You know it’s true.”
She felt him swallow. “What they call you reflects far more on them than on you,” he said gruffly.
“Perhaps it did when I wasn’t exactly what they called me. But I can’t cling to that anymore, can I?”
She pushed herself away from him then, sitting up with her arms braced against his chest so she could search his face, and the way he frowned at her, as if he was truly concerned, made her foolish heart swell.
“You said it yourself,” she continued. “Kitzinian princes and Righetti women. History repeating itself, right here on this plane.” His frown deepened and she felt his body tighten beneath her, but she kept going. “I held my head up no matter what they said because I knew they were wrong. But now...” She shrugged, that emptiness yawning inside her again, black and deep. “Blood will tell, you said, and you were right.”
Pato’s gaze was so intense, meeting hers, that it very nearly hurt.
“What happened between us does not make you a whore.”
“I think you’ll find that it does. By definition.”
His eyes moved over her face, dark and brooding, almost as if she’d insulted him with that simple truth.
“But,” he said, his tone almost careful, “you were happy enough to risk that definition when it was your suggestion, and when you thought it would benefit Lenz.”
There was no reason that should hurt her. She didn’t know why it did. I don’t think you love him, he’d told her in that low, sure voice.
“That was different,” she whispered, shaken. “That was a plan hatched in desperation. This was...”
She couldn’t finish. Pato looked at her for a long moment, and then his eyes warmed again to the gold she knew, his mouth hinted at that wicked curve she’d tasted and felt pressed against her very core, and she didn’t know if it was joy or fear that twisted inside her, coiling tight and making it difficult to breathe.
“Passion, Adriana,” he said with soft intent. “This was passion.”
She told herself she didn’t feel that ring inside her like a bell. That there was no click of recognition, no sudden swell of understanding. She didn’t know what he was talking about, she told herself desperately, but she was quite certain she shouldn’t have anything to do with either passion or princes. There was only one place that would lead her, and on this end of history she very much doubted she’d end up with her portrait in the Royal Gallery. Like her great-aunt Sandrine, she’d be no more than a footnote in a history book, quietly despised.
