Royal Baby: Forced Wife, Royal Love-Child / Cavelli's Lost Heir / Prince of Montéz, Pregnant Mistress. Sabrina Philips
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the taste of her flooding his senses and firing his blood.
She tasted of sunshine and vanilla, of warmth and woman, and the way her lips moved under his told him he was not the only one involved in this kiss. She was there, every part of her. She was his. He gathered her to him with his free arm, finding that sweet spot in the curve of her spine that brought her fully against his aching length.
She gasped into his mouth but she didn’t fight, didn’t move away. Instead she settled even closer, the subtle squirm of her hips a sweet agony that he poured into his kiss, to her lips, to her cheeks, to her eyes. And everywhere he kissed just fuelled the need that had been building ever since she’d stepped out of that helicopter, a need that refused to be compartmentalized and set aside.
I want you, he wanted to whisper, while his teeth nuzzled at her lobe. She trembled as if he’d said the words and threw her head back, forcing her breasts harder against his chest, so that he ached to free them and reacquaint himself with their satin perfection, longed to draw their pebbled peaks deep into his mouth.
Instead, he dragged in a lungful of air, fighting the urge to take her, right here, right now, on this lonely path high above the city, knowing it was madness when the paparazzi made an art form of lying in wait and holding out for the perfect shot, and yet still having to fight the beast for supremacy.
She’d already made him wait so long—too long—but soon, he told himself, encouraged by her participation, there was no doubt in his mind that very soon he would have her again.
Hesitatingly, reluctantly, he slowed the kiss, drawing back as he loosened his arms around her. She opened her eyes, and he saw her bewilderment, sensed her disappointment and very nearly changed his mind.
‘We should get back,’ he said, wishing she would argue, wishing she would demand that he stay and kiss her again, needing a damned good reason to let her go. ‘I have a meeting I’m already late for,’ he said, trying to convince himself. ‘Besides which, we don’t want you catching a chill.’
And before his eyes her back seemed to stiffen, her expression cooling so quickly that he ached to turn back the clock and take back his words.
‘Of course,’ she said, tucking the hair that had so recently coiled thick and silkily around his fingers behind her ears as she turned away. ‘I’d hate to catch a chill.’
CHAPTER NINE
SHE was a fool. Forty-eight hours later, that was the only explanation Sienna could come up with as she paced to and fro under the dappled shade of the vine-covered terrace, her various text books lying open and abandoned on the table nearby.
Two nights ago she’d gone to sleep—eventually—with the memories of that cliff-path walk playing through her mind. They’d walked together along a cliff top path breathing fresh sea air scented with a myriad different wild flowers and herbs, and then he’d wrapped her hand in his as they’d gazed out over a view that was to die for. And then he’d kissed her, and the defensive walls she’d built around herself, and that he’d been unsettling ever since he’d found her poolside and asked her to walk with him, had been rocked apart.
He hadn’t pushed, hadn’t demanded a thing from her, and yet one simple kiss and all her defenses had been ready to crumble, like some impressionable teenager on her first date.
And for a moment there—just one tiny moment, when they’d looked out over the view and he’d asked her if she could be happy here—she’d almost imagined that he’d meant it, that he cared that she might be happy, and that he wanted her to stay. In that precious moment, and in the kiss that had followed, she’d felt the barriers she’d put up around herself tremble and shake, and her emotions tilt and slide within their unsteady walls …
And then, with one simple line, he’d firmed her emotions and her resolve. He hadn’t wanted her to catch a chill. The temperature must have been in the mid-twenties Celcius with no more than a slight onshore breeze, and he had been worried about her catching a chill.
And his concern hadn’t been for her benefit.
She’d ceased being someone who merited concern in her own right when she’d become his own personal incubator.
Of course he wanted her to be happy here—he needed to know the mother of his children wasn’t about to take off unexpectedly, with or without them—but he’d done nothing to ensure her happiness. Merely expected it, just like he expected her to marry him.
Sienna looked wistfully over to the vacant helipad, wondering what she’d be up to and where she’d be flying now if she wasn’t trapped here on this island. And then she remembered why she was trapped and that she probably wouldn’t be flying anyway, and her heart sank even lower.
She turned her eyes in the direction of the books that lay open and accusing in front of her, and she questioned herself why it was that she was going along with everything as though she’d agreed to this marriage.
Maybe her work options were limited, at least while any shred of morning sickness remained, but after finding out how Rafe had betrayed her by continuing to plan a wedding she hadn’t agreed to, why the hell was she still here? It wasn’t as if one kiss on their walk that night was going to make Rafe forget the tiny detail she was pregnant and want to marry her for her own sake.
Fat chance.
He’d kissed her, and she’d felt—at least, she’d thought she’d felt—that there was something there, some hint of caring for her, and it had taken her unawares and she’d kissed him back.
But that faint hope had turned to nothing more than dust when he’d turned around and urged her to go back inside for the sake of her unborn babies.
Was it too much to hope that he might actually care for her for her own sake? Was that really too much to ask?
What kind of man would expect her to be able to marry someone who didn’t love her?
She gazed out over the view, the blue sea and azure sky totally wasted on her. She’d promised herself it wouldn’t happen. Years of watching the pain her mother felt, loving a man who’d been forced into a marriage he didn’t want, years of watching her parents’ marriage stagnate and fester until it had imploded in grand style, had convinced her that she could never marry a man who didn’t love her.
And years of bearing the guilt that she’d been the one who’d forced her parents into a pointless marriage had made her more determined than ever that any child of hers would never be forced to bear that same burden.
‘If it weren’t for you, I could have made something of my life.’
‘If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have a care in the world.’
‘If it weren’t for you …’
How many times, in how many different ways, had her father made her realize that everything wrong in his life was all down to her? All because he’d been forced into a marriage he didn’t want. All because of an unplanned pregnancy.
Rafe might be a different man from her father, but his motives were hardly pure. She couldn’t bear for her children to realize they hadn’t been born in love, to know that their father had only wanted them for political purposes.
She couldn’t bear it.
If she had to marry anyone, there was only one way it might happen, only one way it could possibly work. If she had to marry anyone, he was damn well going to have to love her first.
Which meant that she couldn’t just wait for Rafe to have the time to notice her. Whatever had motivated Rafe into taking her for a cliff-top stroll last night—probably guilt that she’d found out his duplicity—he’d not bothered to seek her company today. She knew work was his priority right now. She knew and understood that his focus was on getting Montvelatte back onto a sound financial footing, but it was also clear that if she wanted him to fall in love with her, then she was going to have to