I don’t see Ellie once the whole long day and the absence gnaws at me, makes me needy, hungry. I want her near me, with me, in my sights, all the time. And because it’s been hours and hours without a glimpse of her, I’m wound up tense like a hot fucking coil.

Then, just as my shift is ending, I get a text. Telling me to meet her.

The throne room isn’t used for decrees these days. It’s a public exhibit, part of the tour, but at this hour, half past ten, it’s closed and empty. I step into the dim, echoing room, lit only by the electric candles burning on the walls. Ellie stands on the raised platform beside the jeweled throne, running her hand down the smooth golden arm.

When she spots me, she runs. And it’s a joyous thing to see. I catch her when she jumps and wraps her arms and legs around me like a lovely vine.

She sighs against my mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

She feels it too. The craving, the strain, the uncomfortable itch that’s only satiated when we’re together.

“Have you missed me?” she asks.

I groan against her lips. “I burn for you, sweet girl. I dream of you, even when I’m awake.”

Her smile is warm, her blush pink, as she goes after my shirt—working the buttons and kissing my skin.

“What do you dream? Tell me.”

I carry her towards the bearskin rug in front of the unlit fireplace. “An hour ago, I was picturing you in my kitchen, wearing nothing but tiny little knickers and a snug cotton shirt that showed off your perky, fantastic tits.”

She giggles against my throat, leaning down to drag her tongue over the war falcon tattoo on my shoulder and arm.

“And you were dancing,” I tell her, nipping at her plump earlobe. “Shaking your sweet, tight arse like you used to while baking your pies in the coffee shop.”

Ellie tilts her head back, finding my eyes. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

I take her lower lip between my teeth, running the tip of my tongue across it.

“It was all I fucking noticed.”

I uncurl her legs from my hips. But when her feet touch the rug, she doesn’t move down to the floor like I thought she would. Instead, with a wicked gleam in her eyes, Ellie backs her way towards the golden throne, pulling me by the hand.

“I had a dream too. That’s why I told you to meet me here.”

She sits down in the royal chair, lifting one foot onto the seat, raising the skirt of her pretty red dress and flashing me her bare, glistening pussy.

Wicked, clever girl.

Ellie drags one finger through her slit. My cock twitches, and my pulse pounds.

“I imagined you tasting me, like this, right here.”

I lick my lips. “Is that so?”

“Aye.” She smiles cheekily, imitating my voice. “And then you sat down and I rode you, fucked you, right here.”

This is a hallowed space, the throne a sacred relic—like an altar in a church, or one of those creepy statues whose eyes follow you around, waiting for you to transgress. But at this moment, I don’t care.

“I’m going to hell for this,” I mutter.

Ellie grins. “Then you should make the most of it before you burn.”

Good advice.

Like the sinner I am, I go down on my knees. I spread her legs with my hands, impatience making me rough, hooking her calf over my shoulder. And I kiss her, open-mouthed, between her legs. She feels so fucking soft against my lips, so hot and slippery against my tongue. And she’s sweet—like thick, melted sugar.

“Holy . . .” Ellie begins, but doesn’t finish. The words lost on a moan.

I suck on her, lap at her, eat her like a plump summer peach. I could do this forever; exist on her alone. Ellie slips down the throne, lifting her hips, offering herself up to my mouth. I thrust my tongue into her heat and she gasps, clenching around me. I grip her hips, slide her back and forth against me, fucking her with my mouth, scratching the tender skin of her thighs with the stubble on my jaw.

Then I drag my lips up to her clit—swollen and full. A hard, quivering, needy little bud. I open her with my fingers and kiss her there, love her there, rub my tongue against her in perfect, tight little circles, until her legs quiver and her hips jerk.

Ellie comes apart with a cry—wild and shameless—with her hand tugging on my hair as her hips gyrate against my mouth. I lick at her gently as the last spasms of pleasure float through her. I slide my sleeve across my mouth and place one soft, tender kiss on her smooth pelvis.

Then I stand and tear my shirt off. I yank her dainty dress up, because I need to feel her—skin on bare skin. I push my trousers down, just low enough to free my demanding cock, then I pick her up and take her place on the throne. Her legs straddle my hips, and her pussy—so wet and hot—hovers above my dick.

In one move, I push her down and thrust up, burying myself in her beautiful, gripping tightness. We both groan.

Ellie strokes my face, meeting my eyes with her languid, heavy-lidded gaze.

I slap her thigh, just hard enough to sting.

“Come on, lass,” I hiss. “Ride me. Make your dream come true.”

My filthy command wakes her right up. And her pelvis slides forward and back, stroking me from base to tip. Her breaths come hard, her chest heaving.

She rides me faster, finding her rhythm, taking her pleasure.

And she’s beautiful.

“I love your dick,” Ellie pants. “It’s so big, it fills me . . . so good . . . it’s so good.”

“My dick thinks you’re pretty grand too.”

We laugh together, in the secret, sultry way only lovers can.

But then there’s no more teasing. I grasp her arse, fingers digging into her flesh—helping her move. She rocks over me, harder, wilder. And the heat gathers, builds; my heavy balls tighten with the need to explode, my cock thickens with the desire to come, flood her, fill her.

“You’re coming with me, Ellie.” I groan. “Come with me.”

I latch on to her nipple, suckling relentlessly.

“Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .” she moans.

And then she contracts around me, milking me, pulling my orgasm from deep inside my fucking soul.

Afterwards, we’re a bit silly with the satisfaction. Not tired or spent, but almost giddy. We stand, kissing and tickling, all gentle, teasing touches and soft smiles.

Ellie bends down to get her dress, and I’m so captivated by the view of her arse, I don’t realize the throne room door is opening until three people are walking through it.

Shirtless, with my trousers up but open, I spin around—holding Ellie behind me, blocking her from view.

“Logan?” Prince Nicholas asks, squinting like he’s seeing a ghost.

Lady Olivia and Prince Henry wear the same expressions.

Before I can formulate a response, Ellie peeks out from behind me.

“Hey guys . . . what’s up?”

“What were you thinking?”

I wasn’t. That’s the problem with letting your cock run things—he doesn’t think. Or, if he does, it’s only about just the one thing. Dumb bastard.

“Did you realize how reckless you were?”

Sure, I did. Afterwards.

After Olivia whisked Ellie away from the throne room for her own interrogation, I was brought here, to Nicholas’s office.

I nod. “It was stupid.”

So fucking stupid.

Behind Nicholas, Henry paces back and forth, with a large open book in his hands.

“Didn’t we used to have a dungeon downstairs?” the blond prince asks his older brother.

“Could’ve sworn I found it when I was six or seven. Gave me nightmares for a week.” He points at an image in the book and smiles manically. “That device looks like it hurts—we’ll order two.”

Huh. I thought I was just teasing Ellie about the dungeon.

Nicholas ignores his brother and pins me with damning eyes. “Anyone could have walked in on you, Logan. The staff, visitors . . . photographers.”

My stomach churns at the thought of sweet Ellie’s bare assets photographed without her consent—splashed across front pages for the whole world to consume. Jesus.

“Do we still hang people?” Henry asks, philosophically. When he doesn’t get an answer, he adds, “If not, I’m bringing hanging back.”