The Bastard Prince: a royal romance with humor and suspense (It's Raining Royals) by Alix Nichols

Author:Alix Nichols [Nichols, Alix]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-09-15T16:00:00+00:00

12

Sasha

When we get to the hotel, he follows me into the lobby. I get my key from the concierge while Arnaud waits around.

His problem. I’ll be strong.

Standing in front of him, I’m about to thank him for walking me back to the hotel and wish him good night, when he points at the screen on the wall.

“Rather daring for public TV, don’t you think?”

I look up. The TV is playing a romantic movie in which a young couple tumbles into bed, kissing and undressing each other. The scene is filmed artfully with no private parts shown, but it’s erotic anyway.

“It’s almost eleven,” I say. “Even public TV gets daring at this time of day.”

We watch in silence for about a minute.

“Do you enjoy romantic movies?” he asks me.

“I prefer books.”

“Really?”

“Maybe it’s just me, but the love scenes in books turn me on more than the love scenes in movies.”

He tilts his head to one side. “Is it because your imagination needs room to give the scene your own shading?”

“Maybe.”

“Or perhaps,” he tries again, “the explicitness of the filmed scenes simply turns you off?”

“Perhaps,” I say. “But then, porn turns me on, and it’s much more explicit than the naughtiest rom-com.”

Damn, I’m doing it again. I’m flirting with him. Stop it at once, Sasha!

He stares at me. “You watch porn.”

“Sometimes. Doesn’t everyone when they get horny?”

He doesn’t answer my question, just moves closer into my private space. His closeness, the intensity of his gaze, and his dilated pupils tell me he’s more than a little horny at this moment.

I find myself thrilled. But also spooked.

One thing is clear. If I don’t take decisive action right now, there will be no turning back. My preferred repelling method of talking about my research is a nonstarter since he’s obviously interested in it.

It appears I must resort to plan B, shock therapy. I’d rather scare him into retreating now, on my terms, than suffer it later when we’re upstairs getting undressed.

I roll up my sleeve.

He watches the fistula for a few seconds. “Is that why you ran away last night? Because you didn’t want me to see your access?”

I look away. He knew. He figured it out last night and kept it to himself all day. What do I make of it?

“I’m a trained medic, Sasha,” he says softly. “Remember the surgeon in plastic surgeon?”

I still won’t look at him.

“I cut people routinely. Sometimes it’s to fix noses and chins, and sometimes it’s to reconstruct ablated breasts, diminish scars in burn victims, or to give people a face again after a car crash.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, facing him at last.

“To explain why you’ll need more than a fistula to drive me away.”

“What should I do to drive you away?” I ask, almost choking.

“Tell me to go away because I leave you cold. Tell me you don’t want to make love to me.”

I release a long, ragged sigh, unable and unwilling to lie to him.

But what about my health? What about

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