My Royal Sin / Playing Dirty. Lauren Hawkeye

I say. “We already did that, so I’m technically off the clock. I want you to choose something for you.”

      He places his hands atop mine, his fingers circling my wrists.

      “To voice such a thing would be selfish.”

      I laugh even as tears prick at my eyes. How many times have I wanted something just for myself only to give it up for someone else? To have the luxury of acting on one selfish wish? I would take it in an instant.

      “Then be selfish, Benedict. You are not a priest, not yet. And from what I know of your religion, until you take your final vows, you may do as you please. This is a new millennium. You’re young, fairly easy on the eyes.” I grin. “You could have any woman you want, and yet you deny yourself. Why?”

      He grips me tighter, lifting my palms from his legs.

      “To save myself for God,” he says through gritted teeth.

      “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t believe that. After what you had me do tonight, I know you want. I know you are tempted. Why not act on those temptations while you can?”

      Now he does throw my hands from him, and he springs from the chair, pacing the length of the room. He runs a hand through his hair, tearing at it as he does.

      “Benedict,” I say, standing and heading toward the wall. “Benedict, you’re scaring me.”

      He stops before me, chest heaving and his emerald eyes wide.

      I squeeze my eyes shut and try to burrow into the wall to escape whatever is coming. I have forgotten myself tonight—forgotten who I am and what it is that I do. I have forgotten that this man, this prince, is nothing more than my client, and a displeased client takes his frustrations out on the whore. I have heard the stories. I have seen the aftermath. It’s more than a surprising slap across the face from the Madam.

      I just didn’t think it would happen to me so soon.

      “Ruby,” he says, his voice as gentle as a whisper, and I open my eyes. My hands are still balled into fists, and I realize I’m holding my breath. “Heavens, Ruby, no. Did you think—I could never—”

      A tear escapes the corner of my eye, my fear finally getting the best of me, and he swipes it away with a thumb. Only then do I exhale.

      “Madam leaves punishment up to the client. If he is not satisfied...”

      But I also factor in her own dissatisfaction—what she will do if I don’t let her know about the painting now that I know where it is.

      He brushes my hair from my face, each stroke of his hand telling me that he is different. That I am safe.

      “I am not a client,” he says. “Not for the rest of this evening.”

      I exhale. “But you were so angry. And it happened so quickly, I thought... I mean, I was getting myself ready for the worst.”

      He raises his head to the ceiling—or, most likely, the heavens—and whispers Latin words I do not understand. Then his eyes find mine again. The storm is gone. He is once again the picture of calm.

      “There are two reasons why I deny myself the pleasures of the flesh though I’ve not yet taken my vows. I would like to tell them to you.”

      He is so close, his woodsy, earthy scent intoxicating me. If he is not a client right now, then what is he? Why is it that in his presence, I long for him to know me, as well?

      I nod.

      “First,” he says, and his hand skims the silk sleeve of my robe until he finds my clenched fist. I relax and let him take my hand in his. “To maintain my virtue until my vows—it is the ultimate test of strength and will. I want to be strong enough for this. I want to give myself to the Lord wholly and completely, which means I will not give myself to another.”

      “Okay,” I say softly, accepting that this is a choice he gets to make, and if anyone can understand that, I can.

      “The second reason,” he says, his head dipping toward mine, “is that I am terrified to know what I am missing.”

      “Oh,” I say, eyes wide.

      “I will not give you my virtue,” he says.

      “I know.”

      “But for just a moment, I do want to be selfish.”

      “What do you want, Benedict?” His nearness is almost too much to bear.

      “A kiss,” he says.

      I know without asking that I will be his first, and I know the slippery slope down which this could lead.

      But I want to be selfish, too, just for a moment.

      “Take what you want,” I tell him.

      “First tell me your name. Your real name.”

      And because I want to be known, too, if only for tonight, I say it.

      “Evangeline.”

      “A beautiful name.” He grins. “My angel, Evangeline.” And with that, his fingers circle my wrists again, sliding my arms up the wall so he holds my hands over my head. I am captive to my prince, and yet I’ve never felt more free.

      My nipples harden beneath my silk dressing gown, and I cannot ignore the throb between my legs.

      His head dips farther until I can feel his warm breath against my skin, and when his lips brush hesitantly against mine, I thank whatever God there is that Benedict is holding me in place, because my knees give out. I whimper, and my prince takes what he needs.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       Benedict

      I PRESS MY forehead to hers. Evangeline Vernazza. I kiss her again, deeper this time and more urgent. She responds with a hunger not unlike my own, her sweet tongue flicking and caressing mine until I groan. My hands leave hers to tangle in her silky hair. Our breath mingles, feverishly hot.

      At last I give in and allow myself to cup one of her perfect breasts, soft as rose petals, and her body bows. So responsive. So passionate. I growl my approval, unable to get enough.

      I’ll never get enough.

      How many times have I flicked through dusty leather-bound books of poetry, scoffing at the overinflated metaphors and purple prose? Now...now I finally understand those poor poets, and pity everyone who attempted to capture this feeling of two souls merging with mere words.

      I dip to kiss her arched neck, trace my tongue along her pulse. Every inch of me burns, but this does not feel like hell.

      No.

      This is a heaven I never could have imagined.

      Even though my control hangs by the barest thread, I refuse to let it snap. Tonight I have glimpsed what can exist between a man and a woman.

      This moment must be enough.

      As much as I want to forget the world and burn in her arms, I am bound to my duty, my destiny as the second son to Edenvale’s king.

      Ruby...no—Evangeline...my sweet angel and unexpected jewel, opens her eyes.

      “Why did you stop?” she whispers, brows knitting.

       Because if I didn’t, I’d be inside you to the hilt. I would throw away my entire future.

      But I don’t say that. Instead, my features settle into a familiar mask. I might not look much like my youngest brother, but suddenly I understand the hard smile, the shuttered eyes that Damien used. My gut twists in understanding. My little brother hid the secrets of his heart just like I hide my own now, for I am falling for a woman whom I pay to tempt me. Common sense would say this feeling is nothing but lust.

      But