Unfaded Glory (5 page)

“I'm not calling you Holly Golightly.”

“I'm surprised you even know who I was talking about. My brother said it was a movie for women to make themselves feel better about being powerless.”

“We've established that your brother is an asshole.” He studied her for a moment and tried to imagine any scenario where he'd ever think of Damara as powerless. There wasn't one.

“Did you order food?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Don't call me that.” She bristled.

“Why not?”

“I already told you why not. I'm a woman, the same as any other.”

“Who talks about having harems of men to do her bidding.” He could admit, the thought was like rubbing sandpaper on his face. Byron didn't want anyone to touch her but him. It was good that he needled her. Maybe she'd get tired of him and stop engaging. Maybe she'd want to get away from him as much as he needed to get away from her.

He had a burner phone in the deposit box, and he hoped he could make contact with Renner and work out an end to this soon.

If he had to spend more than one more night with her, and she offered herself to him, he didn't think he'd be able to turn her away.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
REPIDATION
AND
EXCITEMENT
were tangled up like vines in Damara's belly.

This wasn't what she'd expected at all. It was definitely better than a lifeboat or being chased by men with guns.

When he left to access his security box, Damara took stock of the room. It was a master suite with every luxury, from a wet bar to a king-size bed. She sat on the bed, running her fingers over the purple duvet.

For a brief moment, she wondered if she was being selfish. Maybe she should look for another royal to marry, someone strong enough to defeat Abele— No.
No.
Her father had wanted to bring democracy to Castallegna and if she married another royal, he wouldn't want to give up a crown for her father's dream.

Even though it was the right thing, it still felt wrong and strange to go against what she'd been told was her duty her whole life.

Damara told herself that her duty was to protect her people, to do what was best for them. And this was it. A monarch was a law unto himself, and Abele took that to the extreme. She was the only one who could stop him.

She exhaled heavily. She couldn't wait to get into the shower. Maybe it could wash away the dirt and that feeling of guilt.

Probably not, because she'd decided.

Even after everything, Byron Hawkins would be the one. She wanted to experience him, and what did it matter anyway? They'd never see each other again after this.

Sometime later, when he reentered the room, their eyes met and it was as if they'd both been caught in some high-voltage current they were helpless to stop. She moved toward him, unable to direct her steps anywhere else.

He welcomed her into his arms but did nothing more. The tension between them was thick and heavy, like a weight pressing them down.

Her breath caught in her throat. “Are you going to kiss me?”

“No.” Only his head dipped toward her anyway.

“Oh.” She was disappointed. “Then I guess
I'll
have to kiss
you.
” Damara arched her back, twined her arm around his neck and mashed her lips against his.

He wrapped one arm around her, his palm splayed on her waist, and he became the aggressor. She held her lips stiff and rigid, but gradually, under his guidance, she opened for him.

He tore his mouth from hers and pushed her away. “This can't happen,” Hawkins said raggedly.

“Why not? You already said that if I still wanted this when we got to Barcelona, then God help me. So maybe he is.” His parted lips were swollen and even more inviting. “After you hand me over to your Mr. Renner, we'll never see each other again.”

“What is it you want from me?” He met her regard, but his eyes seemed so tired, a deep well of sadness.

She almost lost her nerve. “I thought that would be obvious, Mr. Hawkins. I want you to make love to me.”

For the briefest moment, Damara thought he was going to deny her. Especially when his expression became guarded and closed, his mouth a tight line. “Then take off your clothes.”

This wasn't what she'd expected, either, but she wasn't turning back now.

* * *

S
HE
TOOK
OFF
her utility belt and hung it on the bedpost.

“That's where I put mine.” He smirked.

With shaking hands, she undid the clasp on his utility belt and hung it over her own. She wet her lips, and she couldn't quite bring herself to look up at his face. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a thousand butterflies looking for an escape.

He took her hands in his own, and the weight of his stare drew her gaze upward like a magnet.

“You can still change your mind.”

“No, this is the path I've chosen and I'll see it through to the end.” She searched his eyes. “It's what I want.”

“Don't say I didn't warn you.”

The softness of his voice was at odds with the fury of his kiss. Heat incinerated her and she melted against him. His hands were everywhere—rough and calloused, but sparks burst in their wake.

“Can I touch you?” she asked against his mouth.

“Anywhere you want.”

For some reason, his words made her feel powerful. She pushed her hands under the soft cotton of his shirt, and she marveled at the way he felt. His skin was smooth, but it was like velvet wrapped around steel. She supposed that was a stupid comparison, but she had nothing else to liken it to.

Damara loved the way his muscles rippled under her caress, the way he held her tighter when she touched him in a way he liked. It was hard to concentrate on what she was doing, though, because he'd filled his hand with her breast.

It was a decadent sensation, his thumb stroking over the peak of her nipple. It was no wonder people did such things to have more of this.

“Boots,” he whispered in her ear. “They have to go before we can take this any further.” He released her, and she felt his absence acutely. All the places on her body that had been hot were now cold.

He sat down on the bed and began unlacing his boots.

Damara blinked at the sudden change. It was like a light switch for him, it seemed.

“Do you need help?” he asked her.

“Uh, no. I got it.” But she didn't want to have it. She'd imagined when this happened, it would be some great unveiling, that he'd undress her tenderly— Enough of that. Dreaming and reality were two different things. He was the one who knew what he was doing, and if he said to take off her boots, she'd take them off.

“Hey.” He lifted her chin so she'd look at him. “There is no way to take off combat boots that's sexy.” Hawkins winked at her.

And suddenly all the cold fled and she was hot again. She wondered how he did that, how he could change the barometer of a situation with almost no effort.

Damara kicked her boots off and started on her shirt.

“Ah, no. Don't take away all my fun.” He pushed her back on the bed and pulled her shirt up just over her rib cage before pressing his mouth to the dip of her belly.

She shivered at the contact—the warmth of his mouth a contrast to the cool temperature of the room. His hands made short work of her bra, and he tugged off her shirt, divesting her of both garments.

He didn't give her a chance to feel vulnerable or self-conscious.

“You're so damn beautiful.” Hawkins dipped his head to her breast, taking her nipple in his mouth, and whirled his tongue over the tight bud. Then he kneaded both breasts in his strong hands as his mouth traveled south down toward her belly, down farther still to the waist of her fatigues.

He pulled them down her hips, taking her knickers with them.

And his mouth continued its descent.

The proper girl who'd been raised as a princess and cut her teeth on propriety wanted her to stop him, to tell him that people didn't do such things. But the newly awakened woman in her wanted more. And it was the woman who was in charge. Damara trembled when he peeled the last of her clothing down her legs, but she wouldn't tell him to stop. Not now. Want and need had become indiscernible from one another.

“No one has ever touched you here? Not even yourself?”

She bit her lip.

“Tell me, Princess. I want to know. I want to picture your pretty little fingers right here.” He touched his mouth to her womanhood.

His taboo words—for they were indeed taboo as no one had ever spoken to her in such a way—stoked her fire so hot she thought she'd erupt with it.

Once his mouth was on her, his lips, his tongue delving into places she'd never imagined a tongue should go—all rational thought fled. There were no more questions of what she should do, of what a princess would do, of what was proper. Only what she could do to get more of this sensation.

She arched her back and pushed herself toward the source of her pleasure.

He was committed to his task, a devotee of ecstasy. He knew exactly what he was doing, what she needed as he pushed her ever higher toward some unknown peak—and then her senses all narrowed to one small pinpoint until it exploded outward, thrusting her into the stratosphere.

Damara had never felt anything like it.

He pulled away from her, and she watched in a bliss-shrouded haze as he removed his shirt and fatigues. She'd wanted to do that, unwrap him like a gift she was giving herself.

“Nightstand drawer. Open it.”

She didn't want to look away from him, but she did as he demanded and saw the box of condoms inside. She supposed the hotel concierge had thought of everything. Damara pulled one out and held it up for him.

“Oh, no, Princess. You're putting it on me.”

The idea of touching him so intimately intimidated her, which was completely stupid given what they were about to do.

“How?” she asked.

He tore open the package and rose above her. Hawkins took her hand in his and drew it between them down to his erection.

“Roll it down the shaft, like this.”

She followed his lead and pushed the condom down the length of him. But he moved her hand back up and back down again, acclimating her to the feel of him.

Trepidation was dominant as her excitement quelled. She knew this was going to be uncomfortable.

He braced himself on his elbows and kissed her softly. “It'll hurt at first, but the pain will pass.”

She didn't care if it hurt; she wanted this. Damara locked her legs around his hips. “Just do it.”

“As you wish, Princess.”

She steeled herself for pain, but it was his tenderness that was her undoing. He pushed inside her slowly, giving her time to adjust to his girth. He cupped one cheek, and his thumb stroked her face as he filled her.

When she opened her eyes to look into his, Damara thought that action spoke of something more intimate than the act itself. She knew she'd never forget him, but this had been an act between strangers who had to remain just that. Only this small thing, this tenderness, it bound them together.

Byron pushed past her veil, and her nose prickled the way it did before she was about to cry. Not because of the pain—it was fleeting—but because it had only taken a second to rid herself of what made her the Jewel of Castallegna. In a single instant, she'd rendered herself worthless.

She refused to cry. This was what had to be done and it was good.

Damara shut out the doubts, the fears, everything, and flung herself into the moment. She clung to him with the kind of abandon that could only be felt when an ending loomed above like a storm cloud. This was a memory that would have to last her a lifetime, because, after today, she'd never see Byron Hawkins again.

She was frantic to feel everything. “More.”

He increased his speed and drove himself deeper into her, but it still wasn't enough. She wanted him closer, tried to memorize the way his body felt working in tempo with hers. The scent of him, the way his lips tasted.

Damara wanted everything.

Even if she fell in love, even if she married, no one could ever be first, and she was determined to make this a good memory.

“If we had more time, I'd do this to you for hours. I'd stop and bring you off with my mouth again, my fingers. I'd taste and touch every inch of you, Damara.”

She shivered and clung tighter, dug her nails into his back as if that could anchor him there and keep the outside world from ever intruding.

A strange sensation fluttered inside her when she clenched herself around him. He stilled, his muscles tense and taut. With a groan, he started moving again, pushing deep.

“Is that right?” she asked shyly. She wanted to make him feel as good as he made her feel.

“It's more than right.”

Damara did it again, and he buried his face in her neck, clung to her as she clung to him and rocked them both toward another culmination.

This one was different; rather than an explosion it was a fluttering that originated deep in her core and radiated outward. Not like fireworks—more like the concentric circles of a stone dropped in a pond.

Hawkins reached his completion after her, hips jerking and tensing before his whole body stiffened and then he went still. For a moment, she wondered if she'd killed him. He was so still and the look on his face had been so intense she couldn't tell if it was pleasure or pain.

Then he rolled off her and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

She felt as though she should say something, but she didn't know what. So she lay in silence until the blurry aftermath of pleasure faded. Damara was torn between thanking him and asking if they could do it again.

She didn't know what she expected from him, but it was as if he'd never touched her. Never kissed her.

Never made love to her.

She didn't care what he said. What they'd done together wasn't fucking. He'd been so gentle, so reverent. Damara didn't think all men were that way with every partner. It meant something to him. Not love, they barely knew each other, but there was a connection.

“You can have the shower first.”

So it wasn't at all like the novels she'd read. They wouldn't lie together, holding each other. She'd go shower as if it was just another day, another thing that had happened.

Okay. She could do this.

When she got out of the bed, she saw the tiny stain of blood on the sheets. Wars had been fought over something so insignificant. It seemed incredibly stupid. Not that the experience wasn't magnificent—it was. But a little splash of blood for king and countries?

Damara walked gingerly toward the door and was reminded of her activities with every step. She was incredibly sore, but each twinge of discomfort brought back a memory of a touch, a caress. It made her sigh. She wished she could linger and they could do it again.

But her father had a saying about wishing in one hand and holding goat crap in the other. The wishing hand was always empty.