Into His Command (30 page)

I pushed a thumb beneath his jaw. Made him behold the
yes
in my eyes…and feel it from my thundering heart too. I pulled him up for another
kiss while hooking a leg around his waist, making him roll atop me. His weight…was
perfect. He was so broad and solid and forceful, consuming my sightlines, dominating
my senses.

At once, he began rocking against me. I writhed and thrusted in return, heat twisting
in my core, gushing into the tunnel craving his invasion. My blood already pumped
a tribal tattoo in my veins, urging me to reach for the explosion only Syn could give.

But all too soon, he rose up—though during his move, took my leggings along. He loomed
over me again, twisting two fingers into the waistband of my panties before deftly
sliding them off. I hissed, impatiently reaching for my own shirt buttons. He pushed
my hands back, shaking his head with solemn sensuality. “Do not deny me the pleasure,
woman.”

Woman
.

Not “little girl”.

For that, I’d let him peel my damn skin off if he desired.

Feeling every inch that woman, I watched from a hooded gaze as he straightened…then
stripped naked. As every new inch of his bronze flesh was revealed, my breath hit
sparkling shallows. His body had been crafted with care but hewn by battle, his long
limbs nicked by scars both old and new. They extended from a V-shaped torso, shoulders
that would put any football player to shame, slabs of gleaming pecs, then an eight
pack of brutal masculinity, leading to…

Oh, yeah.
That.

Mouth-watering was trite…but as I took in the unfettered beauty of his penis, I licked
my lips without thinking. The angels had surely taken weeks perfecting it. Long and
virile, trailed by veins that pumped it even fuller, capped by a rosy bulb that led
the way back toward me—the luckiest woman on the planet. Especially as he sidled back
up on the bed, fitting his thighs between mine, caressing my pussy with that hardness
while teasing my shirt buttons free.

You’re so beautiful
.

I yearned to say it, but wanted nothing to shatter the energy between us…the flawless
star of this moment, centered on a bond that only began with our physical attraction.
He’d been right. Together, we could wash the rest of the world away. Right now, it
was only Syn and me…and the magnificent, brilliant wonder of what our spirits and
souls shared. Nothing else mattered. Not his freshly torn emotional wounds. Not the
crazy story of my life, about to get crazier when the media learned the Valen family
was actually still alive. And not the danger that could be waiting right outside the
door, targeting
his
family.

Here, we were only the big guy and his
astremé
.

Just Syn and Brooke.

Man and woman.

And even better, in the husky rasps we exchanged, gazes twining into each other…

“Wife.”

“Husband.”

And then, not just our stares were joined.

He entered me in one stroke, cock sliding perfectly into my slick readiness. I took
him eagerly, wantonly, whimpering for more before he was done withdrawing, preparing
for another full thrust. Every lunge was like that too. His retreat, nearly to the
point of leaving me, then his fullness again, hitting me deep, stretching me fully.
He left my bra on, not even distracting himself with my breasts. He locked his gaze
on my face alone, his eyes cutting as blue coral, his parted lips exposing his clenched
teeth. He absorbed every nuance of my arousal, and gave his own in return. Because
of that, our climaxes climbed together, exactly in sync. Every long, deep fuck brought
us closer. Higher. Hotter. Better.

When we climaxed, it was with the same acute connection. We gasped and groaned before
clenching and coming, waves of completion rolling over us again and again. Syn bent
in, pouring a kiss into my mouth as his cock emptied inside me, bathing my body in
heat as he drenched my spirit in joy and gratitude…and love.

Yeah. That.

Always
that.

Much later, after the universe decided to hand back our souls, Syn cradled me in his
arms, pulled in a long breath, and released it on a rumble that already sounded like
a snore. With a soft smile, I followed him into sleep. What would we have accomplished
with pillow talk? For now, we’d spoken the only things that mattered.

Wife.

Husband.

We’d stress later about the rest. Probably a lot more than we wanted to.

‡

B
efore I reopened
my eyes, my body made me aware it was there—in all its aching glory.

I was on my back, cushioned by butter-soft sheets and pillows to match. Despite the
TLC for my naked skin, my arm throbbed and my other limbs were stiff…both balanced
by the delicious soreness between my thighs.

A funny memory hit, from deep in my childhood. A television commercial. Aftershave
lotion? Beer? Didn’t matter.
I’m a lover, not a fighter
, the actor had said, knowing smirk fully in place.

Samsyn Cimarron would never have to choose.

And damn, was I in trouble because of it.

But trouble was so much more fun when shared by two.

On that cheeky note, I sat up in bed. I was alone but hoped that’d be temporary. “Husband
mine,”—I reveled in the words, even if they were only a mutter to the room—“where
have you gone off to?”

I received the answer faster than I’d expected.

Resulting in a frantic clutch of the sheets to my chest.

Samsyn was still near, but talking to someone. After listening more closely, I guessed
he was out on the terrace. Though the shades were mostly drawn across the windows,
a stealthy glance inside might still give prying eyes a “deluxe view” of the new queen
in her birthday-suited glory. But what had I expected? Yesterday, all of Arcadia had
been told their king was dead. Today, they needed to be told that all would be okay.
In essence, it was my husband’s first day at work.

That’s shorthand for
get your ass out of bed
, girlfriend.

I was about to go toga style with the sheet but my gaze fell to the nightstand. Draped
across it was a satin robe in light cream, accented with gold piping. The garment
felt even better than the sheets, though it was a little long. I hiked part of it
up in order to tiptoe to the door, cracking it open to hear what was going on.

Syn, already dressed for the day, stood with his back to me. One hand was braced on
his lean hip, the other held a phone to his ear. So that was why I couldn’t identify
the second party in the conversation.

After confirming he was truly alone, I emerged onto the terrace. As I stepped out,
Samsyn turned around.

Damn.

And
wow.

If it were possible, he was even more bite-my-lip-worthy from the front. A fresh shirt,
in dove gray this time, was complimented by a black vest with matching pinstripes.
The pinstripes continued in his slacks. Everything was undoubtedly tailored to him.
The ensemble formed to his physique without a millimeter of error. He hadn’t conceded
totally to the new king look, though. From the middle of his shins down, his pants
were stuffed into a pair of well-used black cargo boots, top four eyelets empty, the
extra laces whipped around and tied at the back of his legs instead of the front.

The only way he could’ve been sexier was naked.

As soon as our stares met again, the stern expression on his face softened. One side
of his mouth kicked up. He gestured for me to sit in one of the chaises but I shook
my head and mouthed the word
shower
. I’d feel better about joining him if I was ready to face the day too. Whatever the
hell it was going to bring.

I left him to finish the call, picking up enough of his Arcadian to discern it was
about repairs on the water pipeline between the mountains and the central valley,
and made my way back inside. I wasn’t dressed to give myself a full tour of his suite
yet, but took a quick mental inventory of what I
could
see. At least two more big bedrooms, with a hall likely leading to more. Kitchen.
Living room. Conference room. Woman.

Woman
?

At that point, I simply saw red. Didn’t help that her blonde hair was woven with the
same inimitable color, turning it a shade of envy-worthy strawberry. Her big green
eyes, centered over a button nose and bow-shaped lips, peered around the living room.
She didn’t radiate man killer, though. Her black taffeta dress seemed from another
era, its Peter Pan collar and fitted bodice cinched into a tight waist, flaring to
a full skirt ending just below her knees. She carried a large patent leather purse.
Add cat-eye glasses, and I’d have pegged her for getting lost on her way to auditioning
for
Grease
.

But maybe that was how Samsyn liked his women.

Well, not while the ox wore that gold band on his finger.

I yanked the robe tighter. Pointedly cleared my throat. “Miss? May I help you?”

She started like a cat with its paw on the bird. “Oh! Your Majesty.” After hurrying
over and curtseying low—then lower still—she raised up with an uncomfortable smile.
“I am afraid you righted the words from my mouth.”

“Huh?” Wow, she was weird—but that was what I liked best about her. “You mean, took
the words right out of my mouth?”

“Ummm…yes.” She smiled gratefully but swiftly schooled the look. “It sounds so much
better, coming from you.”

“Okaaayy.” I hoped she’d pick up on my confusion. Her eyes might have been big, but
they were also intelligent.

“Sweet Creator,” she mumbled. “Where is my etiquette?” After smoothing her skirts
and tossing her braid down her back, she poked out her hand, almost robotically. “I
am Mishella, Your Majesty. I am your new
secran.
”

“My new what?”

She blinked. “
Secran.
Errrmm…secretary? Assistant?”

Since Mishella was minding her Ps and Qs, I should’ve been too. Instead, a giggle
spurted out. Then something worse. “Well, hell. Why didn’t you just put that horse
in front of the cart?”

Her face crunched. “I…did I not just—”

“I’m sorry.” I took her hand, squeezing affectionately. “It’s just a silly expression.”
I watched, a little nonplussed, as she dropped my hand to reach into her purse. Out
came a legal-sized note pad, yellow pages and all, along with a gold pen. She started
madly scribbling. “Mishella? What are you—”

“Making note of the ‘silly expression’.” She attacked the task like—well—a lawyer
in court. “The queen mother told me you had many idioms, and to take meticulous notes,
so I could learn them.”

Comprehension set in. Not the good kind. “The queen mother sent you?”

“Well, assigned me. Yes. To—”

“Assist me. Yes. I heard the first time.”

While her head jerked up, the ginger brows lowered. “I will be good at my job, Majesty.
I have trained in Queen Xaria’s offices for nearly a year now. I am excellent at organization,
calendaring, filing, keyboard input, and even wardrobe selection.”

I held up both hands. “Whoa, whoa. Untangle your panties.
Don’t
write that one down.” I pulled the pad from her, just to be sure. “I’m sure you’re
perfectly great. And I’m actually thankful you’re here. Just give me a second. Or
three.” I fumbled on, in the face of her perplexed silence, “I just thought you’d
come in here for another reason, that’s all.”

Her lips pursed, an expression that probably drove men crazy—not that I was certain
the woman knew it. Or did she? “Another reason like what?”

More of the wide doll wonder. If her all-business-no-pleasure thing
was
an act, it was a damn good one.

“Like hooking up with Samsyn.”

At least she understood that one. Her double-take was brief but blatant. After pulling
out a smaller notepad from the bottomless purse—apparently, the girl believed in backup
pacifiers—she pivoted to cross the room. “First, why would I commit professional suicide
by ‘hooking up’ with anyone in the Palais, let alone the son of my employer? Second,
His High—errr, I mean His Majesty—has been clear about his policy on blondes for a
very
long time now, and—”

I stopped her by raising one hand higher. “Wait.
What
‘policy on blondes’?” I knew about Syn’s preference for dark hair—hell, everyone
did—but he didn’t have a freaking policy about it…did he?

Mishella replied while turning toward the hall I’d only looked at before, kitten heels
tapping on the tiles. “Prince Samsyn has refused assignations with all blonde women
for years now.” She stopped in front of a door as I caught up, letting me see her
wistful smile. “I was a young girl when I found out, in my last year of secondary
school. I cried for days. I had quite a yearning for him…”

“Like a crush?”

“Yes. A ‘crush’.” Her head tilted as she considered the word. “Hmmm. Sometimes, Americans
do
have better ways of saying it.”