Once. Twice.
“What was that?”
“A kiss,” he whispered, hovering over her hand. “Only a kiss.”
“That was not a kiss,” she argued in a girlish voice. “The old king kissed me many times.”
That blue-eyed smile chased after her again. Warmth drizzled down her spine.
“There are many kinds of kisses, Your Highness,” Dante said. “This is a kiss.”
Courtly and charming, he bussed the back of her hand lightly.
“And this is a kiss.”
Cool and formal, he slid his hand up to clasp her elbow, then pulled her closer for a continental touch of cheeks.
“And this.”
Cupping her head with a gentle hand, he slowly, sweetly, pressed his lips to the center of her forehead.
Philomena’s eyes drifted shut.
“This is also a kiss.”
His lips parted, barely brushing hers. Licking became tasting, tasting became toothy nibbles and a hungry growl for more. His fingers massaged restlessly though her hair.
Philomena felt as though her nerves existed in an exaggerated state where he touched her, hand to head, lips to lips, breasts pressed against his chest. She could not pull back.
“Enough,” she whispered. “Enough.”
“More.” He opened wider, breathing his desire right into her, a warm liquid over her crystalline interior. His enormous, burning hand gripped the curve of her behind and hauled her closer.
No petticoats, no corset, nothing but a thin silk chemise—she felt everything. Every seam, every button, every edge of his flesh.
“Good heavens.” Her heart fluttered. “What is that?”
“Your Highness?” he answered with a very unsubtle rock of his hips.
Philomena pulled back. She waved in the general vicinity of his trouser buttons. “ That .”
He winked. “Evidence.”
“Evidence?” She glanced down, then quickly up again. She took another step back. “Of what?”
“My willingness to serve, of course.” His face was flushed, his breathing obvious. He looked like someone ill with fever.
“Are you certain you’re quite well?”
“Not…quite.” He took a step toward her.
“There does seem to be an excessive amount of swelling.” She kept the words formal, polite, as if she werecommenting on a horse to one of the groomsmen, while she moved to the far edge of the carpet. The old king’s weapon had never achieved quite the same amount of upright vigor, as far as she could recall. “Does it pain you much?”
“‘It?’” he smirked. “Is that anyway for a grown—queen—to talk? Understanding begins with words, Your Majesty. That is not an ‘it.’” His voice dropped, husky and dark. “That is my cock, also sometimes dick, or willie, roger, john thomas—”
“Yes, yes. We’ve met—Richard, William, et cetera.” She waved a hand, stuttering. “Does he, I mean, your—”
“Cock?” he inserted carefully.
“—hurt?”
“You’ve no idea.” He took another purposeful step forward.
What next? Philomena scrambled behind a chair. “Stop!” She held up a firm hand. She needed to regain control. “Wait. Don’t move.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dante stalked forward.
“Guard!” she called out, instinctively.
The door swung open almost instantly. Joseph and Thomas appeared a second later, swords drawn.
“Get out, you idiots,” Dante said. “We’re fine.”
“Restrain him,” Philomena ordered. She pointed to Dante’s shocked face.
Joseph glanced back and forth between them, seemed to struggle with a grin and then turned to his partner. “You heard your queen. Rope or chains, ma’am? Or you want us to each take an arm and let you have at him? He can be a right pain in the arse sometimes. I don’t wonder you’ve lost patience already.”
“Joseph,” Dante warned.
“No, thank you,” Philomena stuttered. “Use whatever you think best.”
“Queen Philomena,” Dante interrupted, “You don’t want to do this.”
Everyone in the room felt the threat. Joseph broke the tension with a booming laugh.
“Well, she might not,