The Queen's Tale

Grace D'Otare

“Shall we have a story?” Devlin suggested, as another enormous clap of thunder rattled the rooftop. He traced the curve of his wife’s bare shoulder with the tip of his finger. “A bedtime story. Something distracting. Something to keep us warm on a wicked night.”

“What sort of a story?” Maeve turned her head, hiding her eyes but not her smile. His wife knew exactly what he had in mind.

“Oh, an erotic story, to be certain.” Dev’s finger traced her collarbone to the hollow in her throat. And then down. A thousand and one times he’d touched her, and still he felt the heat. “Those are the ones that warm and distract me best.”

It was a challenge. It was a game—a game he and his lovely Maeve had played before. Never quite the same, but always exciting.

Maeve plumped the pillow behind her and sat up. The candlelight caught the twinkle of her glass, half-full of sherry. Dev watched her take a long swallow and lick her lips. The storm whistled outside. She made a point of snuggling deeper under the bedclothes, tucking the sheet around her.

“Tonight I’m Scheherazade?”

“And I’m your king.” He tugged at the sheet, until it spilled around her waist. “Entertain me, madam, or suffer the consequences.”

“Well, let me think…”

Queen Philomena waited.

Not patiently, and not without anxiety. As she came to the end of the rug, she turned on her heel, flipped her skirts behind her, and began to pace the opposite direction. She had chosen to wear a simple gown so that once the time came, it would not be necessary to summon an abigail for assistance.

“A who?” Dev whispered, his hand creeping under the sheet.

“A maid,” she explained. “Stop that.”

“Stop that, your highness.”

“Oh!” She caught her breath. “Your highness, that sort of thing will make it very hard to concentrate.”

“‘Very hard’ seems fair to me. Go on then.”

Queen Philomena waited… and wondered.

Perhaps the gentleman would consider it an insult? He might think she did not value his…service, if she did not wear something appropriate to her status.

She would have to address the situation directly. Frank discussion and a thoroughly negotiated agreement was her best hope of resolving any delicate issues that might arise.

Or so the king, may he rest in peace, always said. Philomena touched her wedding band as she thought of him. It slipped easily around her finger; nerves always left her hands cold and dry.

“Your Majesty,” her handmaid called. “They are here.”

“Show him—them—in.” Philomena smoothed the front of her gown and assumed the face of the queen.

Three soldiers entered the room.

She suffered a moment of panic. What was she to do with three of them? Was she supposed to choose?

One of the men seemed familiar—a freckled young man who’d served on the court guard the last year or two. The second man was very large, tanned and weathered, the sort whose military career had been served in the rough. His face was plain, but his eyes were kind and full of good humor.

The third man was a shock.

He was fair, in all manner of the word. Sunny hair and sky-blue eyes. Almost pretty, Philomena thought, except there was too much intelligence in the candor of his gaze. He was scant inches taller than she. Not quite as large in height or frame as either of the other two men, but somehow Philomena felt his presence more forcefully. He was certainly the soldier in charge.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, as the queen ought.

All of them bowed respectfully.

“Thank you for…attending me,” Philomena began. “Has my lord chamberlain spoken with you?”

The third man answered. “Yes, your Highness. May I introduce Joseph, my sergeant major.” He waved a hand at the rough-hewn man. “And you may already know Thomas, of your own house guard? The Lord Chamberlain suggested a small, personal guard might be best this evening. All others have been dismissed.”

There was no smile on his lips, but Philomena saw it in his eyes and heard it in the tone of his voice. She turned to hide the coloring of her cheeks, and fiddled with the contents of her open lap desk.

This would not do. She must be committed. She must hold to her resolve, or she would begin her next life with regrets.

“Yes. That seems wise.” Closing the portfolio of documents she had vacantly reviewed for the last hour, she called, “Thank you all, gentlemen, for your discretion in this matter. That will be all.”

She heard heels click, boots crossing the marble floor, and the thunk of the heavy oak door as it closed.

Philomena peeked over her shoulder.

This time, the smile teased the corner of his mouth. “Did you expect me to take my leave, also? Wouldn’t that have been counterproductive to Your Majesty’s desires?”

Desires.

The word slipped like steel from a scabbard. Philomena’s heart raced; her throat tightened.

“Indeed.” Philomena inclined her head. “Your name, sir?”

“I am Dante.”

“Dante. Welcome. Before we begin…our business, I would like to come to an understanding on certain things.” She smoothed her gown and sat, very upright, on the chaise near the fire. The door between the sitting room and the boudoir was partway open and the sight of the bed made it hard to think. Waving him to a slipper chair across the rug, she managed, “Please. Be comfortable.”

He sketched a bow, recognizing the honor of being asked to sit in the queen’s presence, and settled himself on the silk chair, legs wide, black boots gleaming all the way to the knee. Normally, she kept her gaze firmly fixed at eye level. What was normal about this situation? She stared. His thigh flexed. Her hands burned to feel that muscle flex and tighten again.

In a soft voice, Dante repeated her words. “An understanding?”

“Yes, yes. Forgive me. What was I saying?” She folded her hands in her lap. “I believe my lord chamberlain has explained the requirements of the situation?”

“Your Majesty is to be married tomorrow and—” he paused to remove a speck of lint from his trousers “—seeks amusement before her vows are spoken.”

Philomena coughed. “Amusement? Is that how he…no. No. That is not the message I asked to be relayed. I…well, let me see if I can…explain.”

She rose and began to pace the length of the carpet, yellow silk slippers peeking out as she kicked her hem. This was no time for words. It was time for action. Reaching into her hair, she removed first one pin and then a second. A curl of dark hair fell over her shoulder.

“I am to be married tomorrow, that much is true. For my country’s good, I will be married to King—” She wiggled her fingertips and tried to recall the man’s name.

“Benvenuto?”

“Yes! That’s him.” Philomena shook her head, her hair loosening. It felt…good. Free. Normally, she braided it again for sleep and went directly to bed. Tonight, would be different. Tonight, she would remove every restraint.

“How ridiculous of me. I ought to remember the man’s name. I am marrying him tomorrow after all.” Repressing her giggles felt like being tickled on the inside.

Philomena shivered. Squaring her shoulders, she toed off her slippers. Lifting her skirt to the knee, she set her foot on a little crewel-covered footstool. She unclipped her stockings, one by one, and rolled them down her legs.

Dante did not answer. He watched her carefully, but his expression was somewhat colder than before.

Philomena tried to explain. “There were several men in contention for the job, you see? The treaty was the important thing. The Lord Chamberlain and I always referred to them by their…advantages. King Trade Agreement. King Fishing Rights. Benvenuto was King Western Border.”

“If you would permit a question,” her soldier asked, in a rather choked tone. “Why him? Why not one of the others?”

“For the good of the country, of course. My marriage will cement an alliance protecting our most vulnerable border.” One, two, her stockings floated to the floor beside her slippers.

Oh, my. She’d never walked barefoot on the sitting room rug. Her toes wiggled into the darkest reds of the pattern. So soft…for the first time that evening, she spoke without tightness in her throat. “It will give the mountain folk access to the sea and trade opportunities. This marriage will create a great good for my people.”

“You care so much for your people, you’d marry a man whose name you barely recall?”

She offered him a sympathetic smile. “You are a soldier, sir. You offer your body and your life every day. Could I do less?”

Philomena sat down on the rug, crossing her legs like a girl. She removed the golden bracelets from her wrists, her ear bobs and the necklace at her throat, dropping each into a pile in her lap. Her rings were the last to go. She hesitated at her wedding band.

“You are too young for such sacrifice,” he said.

She tried not to laugh. “I am more than twenty, sir. And joined in holy matrimony to his majesty, the king, God rest his soul, at the age of thirteen.”

“Good lord.” The man paused and she could almost hear the clicking of his mental calculations. “The man was close to ninety when he died.”

With a clank, she dropped her wedding ring into the pile. Tomorrow, she would wear another. Tonight, she would wear none.

“And well past seventy when he consummated our marriage.”

“Thirteen,” Dante mumbled under his breath, his eyes on the pile of jewelry in her lap.

“Do not think ill of the king. He was a good man—he waited until I was of an age to carry a child without danger before he…initiated marital activity. Then he became ill and such activities were no longer of great interest.” Philomena took hold of the lace at the front of her dress and pulled. There. Another tie undone.

“We found other joys, other comforts.”

“But, if you have no interest in—”

“I did not say, I had no interest,” she interrupted, slightly flustered. “But tomorrow such choices will be taken from my hands. I will make vows and I will honor them, sir, make no mistake.”

He studied her with those blue, blue eyes. “I believe you will.”

Philomena took a deep breath. Something in her eased. “His majesty, God rest his soul, taught me much. How to understand my people. To be a good ruler. But there is one thing he was unable to teach me…”

“Yes?”

She stared down at the gap in her bodice. Without lacing, her breasts shifted freely. The brush of silk brought a nearly painful tightening of her nipples.

In a voice too breathless for a queen she answered, “The ways of love. Physical love.”

“How long?” Dante asked gruffly. He leaned forward, shifting as if his seat were suddenly uncomfortable. “How long since you enjoyed the marriage bed?”

“Six years.”

How could eyes so blue hold so much heat? “Forgive my casualness earlier, madam. You have every right to a night of…enjoyment, before you commit yourself again.”

“I wish more than enjoyment, sir.” The longing in her voice pinched her pride. “I wish understanding. I wish to know what my people feel when they marry in the flush of youth.” With shaking hands she slipped her arms out of her dress and let it puddle around her on the floor. “When they chose a lover freely, when they enjoy all the pleasures of the body…for one night I would like to be a woman. No more. No less.”

Was it her words or the sight of the queen in her shift that pushed him back against his seat?

“And are you certain you do not wish to wait for your new husband to show you these pleasures?”

She hid her face in both hands and laughed. “Oh, Dante, when you have attended as many state dinners as I…. Kings are old men who have battled long and hard. Most are stooped with woes. This is the way of the world. I hope to respect and, perhaps someday, care for my husband, but physical love is not a luxury a queen can expect.”

“I see.”

“You are a soldier. My lord chamberlain has asked you to…perform a duty for queen and country.” Philomena cleared her throat. “If it is a duty that seems distasteful to you—”

“Distasteful?” It was his turn to laugh. “Not at all, madam. Not at all. We shall find our way tonight, together.” His whole body seemed to relax with his laugh. In a simple, fluid motion, he removed his jacket and hung it on the chair’s back and popped the studs of his starched collar and cuffs. He grabbed his shirt behind his neck and pulled it up and over his head, tousling his hair. “Consider me entirely at your disposal.”

The man was bare to the waist and smiling. An unnerving sort of smile. The type of smile a queen rarely saw.

Another swoop and tickle rolled up her spine.

“Come here, Your Majesty.”

Philomena rose from the carpet, leaving her gown and jewels where they lay. “Turn around,” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Turn around. I need to get these boots off.”

Confused, but pleased by his respect for her modesty, Philomena did as he requested. From behind, he took hold of her hips. With a firm yank, he pulled her rear backward at the same time as he lifted a large, booted foot between her legs, hiking her shift nearly to her knees in the process.

“What are you doing?!”

“Grab that heel and pull,” he ordered, good-naturedly. “Good God, woman, have you never helped a man off with his boots, either?”

“The king—God rest his soul,” she muttered, gingerly grasping his ankle, “did not wear boots.”

She tugged once to no effect. Wanting this awkwardness finished, she grabbed him tightly and felt the long, hard muscle of his calf flex inside its leather casing. Her breath caught in her throat. “Sir, your boots are too tight.”

“The fit is meant to be tight.”

His hands splayed across the curve of her hips. Philomena felt the pressure of each fingertip distinct from his wide palm. There was a teasing quality to his voice that roused her nerves.

“A tight fit feels best on a long ride.” With that, he set his second, still-booted foot against her backside. “Pull!” he ordered, and slapped her haunch with a loud smack.

She jerked upright, the heel caught in her shocked grip.

“That’s the way!” Dante congratulated with a hearty pinch to the same tingling spot. His empty boot thunked to the floor.

Philomena tumbled forward, whirling around to face him. She clenched her hands, too embarrassed to actually rub the spot that stung.

“I beg your pardon!”

“My lady.” Dante’s head tipped forward, but there was no meekness to his bow. “You wished to know how a woman experiences ‘the pleasures of the body.’ A woman is meant to be…touched.”

Philomena stared. What had he meant to say before he’d settled on the diplomatic use of the word “touched”?

“I am your queen, sir. First. Last. And always.” She had never found the words so difficult to say. Without her dressings and jewels and coiffed hair, she felt oddly vulnerable—but a queen was more than clothes and jewels. “I will not be pawed like a common bar wench.”

He looked straight into her eyes as few men ever did.

Again, she felt that disconcerting ripple.

With the voice that opened Parliament and welcomed enemies of the state to her dinner table, she added, “Make no mistake, Dante. I expect to surrender to a king tomorrow, but tonight, I shall rule here. Do you accept my terms?”

He took her hand and bowed low to meet it. His breath warmed her knuckles. His thumb stroked the skin on the edge of her hand. Turning her palm, he licked the plump curve at the base of her thumb.

“What—”

Before she could speak another word, he sucked that tender morsel between his teeth. Wet warmth melted into a sharp ache, which was suddenly soothed by the press of his lips. 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 were commenting 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, but I know I do. Story to tell the grandkids, you know.” He winked at Philomena. “I’ve just the thing, your ladyship.” He reached behind the flap of his great coat and pulled out a pair of shiny silver bracelets, linked by short length of chain. “Hands out, Captain. Are you going to snap to or are we going to have to tell the lord chamberlain that he should send another man for this job?”

“Philomena,” Dante said.

Embarrassed to the core, she fell back on old habits. “I did not give you permission to use my name.”

“We’d better gag him for you too,” Joseph suggested. “It’s his mouth that always gets him into trouble.”

Philomena touched her lips, thinking of the kisses Dante’s mouth had demonstrated. When she realized he was watching, her face began to burn.

Joseph took advantage of the distraction and locked one side of the wrist manacles in place while quick-stepping the man into a headlock.

“That’s my boy!” he laughed, as Dante swung his head back and narrowly missed slamming the bridge of Joseph’s nose. “Grab his other hand, Thomas! If you’re not too busy just standing there?”

Thomas jumped into the fray.

“Behind the back is better—oomph—ow! Blasted—never mind. That’ll do.”

The handcuffs were snapped into place. Grunts, fleshy smacks and thudding violence had Philomena cringing. A length of sturdy rope appeared from inside one of Joseph’s bottomless jacket pockets.

“Rope his hands up. No! Top of the bed frame. Watch his knees,” Joseph grumbled. “Little bugger’s faster than he used to be.”

“Perhaps we should reconsider—” Philomena started.

“Not at all! Only another—oof!—moment, your Magesty. We’ll be out of your way.”

“Don’t hurt—”

“Nonsense. Just a bit of roughhouse.”

Joseph and Thomas both stepped back, slightly out of breath. “There you are.”

Dante’s arms were loosely suspended over his head, his manacled wrists roped to the top rail of her bed. The frame was ancient mahogany; the canopy pole thicker than Philomena’s arm. They all watched as Dante wrapped his hands around the rope and swung his weight against it.

The rail held.

“When I get out of here—” Dante lunged toward Joseph “—you’d better hope—”

“The pubs are still open?” Joseph winked at Philomena. “No worries. We’ll all still be celebrating the queen’s special day. Won’t we?” He tipped his head toward the exit, and wrapped an arm around Thomas’ shoulder to lead him out. As he closed the bedroom door, he bowed deeply.

“I don’t like this,” Dante began immediately.

“Nevertheless—”

“Untie me.”

“I think not.”

“You can’t do this to me!”

Philomena blinked.

She was the queen. Of course she could. Point of fact, she could do much worse, if she were that sort.

“You never answered my question,” she realized. “Did you?”

“Question?” he snapped in frustration. “What question?”

“Tonight, it’s queen’s rules.” She walked to the door and picked up the key that Joseph had left on the small table. “That is the question you must ask yourself, sir. If you can not accept that, I will release you. And you will leave this chamber and never return. Answer me now, Captain Dante. Queen’s rules. Do you accept?”

He hesitated. His eyes narrowed. Philomena was certain she heard his breath hiss as he exhaled. But he answered clearly.

“I do.”

A long sigh of relief slipped out. She felt lighter. The queen gave way to the girl inside. She didn’t resist the sudden need to smile.

This beautiful man was hers to play with, feast on, enjoy for the entire night.

All of him was pleasing to her, from the cut and curve of the arching muscles across his shoulders, to the shadowed hollow at the center of his chest, down to his navel, and even there, in the deep vee of his thighs. She squeaked with her next sigh.

“Do your worst, Majesty. Anything you like.”

“My worst?” she repeated.

“As you can see, I’m helpless to resist.” His words pleaded weakness, but his stance shifted as if he were readying for a fight.

“I would like—” Philomena cleared her throat “—to stand closer. And to kiss you. Again.”

He didn’t answer at first. His arms flexed, pulling against the rope and relaxing. “Come then.”

She took one step. Another. Watching him carefully. She’d seen how he’d used his legs when he was fighting the other men.

“A little closer, Your Highness.” He nodded toward the small padded footstool near her chaise. “Bring that—if you like.”

Arms raised and tied, he could not bend to meet her kiss. The stool’s height lifted her to meet him eye to eye, lip to lip.

The heat of his skin went right through her shift, with a shocking stillness.

“What now?” he asked.

“Now…I touch you,” Philomena replied before gently placing her hands low on his waist. She flexed her fingertips testing the muscle over hipbone. Everything in her that had been stiff and dry with nerves suddenly softened, dripping with desire.

“And now, I will kiss—”

“We will kiss,” he contradicted her softly.

She brought her mouth to his and tried to recreate the moment before she’d panicked, that rich swirl of lust and play and wonder and…

The chains clinked as he moved to reach for her.

“Remove the rope at least, my lady. Please. I only want to touch you.”

When he spoke, Philomena felt him strain to remain still, forced to wait for her. Her heart beat faster.

“Very prettily said, but no. I think…not.”

Philomena skimmed her fingers down his chest. Young man’s skin…so different from the old king. Dante resembled the marble statues in the castle loggia, expect for the fine, pale hair that softened the curves of muscle.

“You’re blushing.”

“Am I?” She continued touching him, one fingertip, then another, curving down and around, watching his skin react to her touch. A perfume seemed to rise off his skin, a scent unlike anything she’d known. Spicy yet delicate. Her mouth watered, inspired by an unfamiliar appetite. “Have you seen the statue in the loggia, the one titled ‘Hero’?”

Dante did not answer. His eyes had drifted shut; his weight thrust forward. Even his bare toes arched against the floor, his partially nude body strung into one long line of tension.

Philomena’s fingers meandered down past his navel to the buckle of his leather belt.

“It’s a lovely work of art,” she chattered away, distracting herself from the scandalous task of loosening his belt, then unbuttoning the top of his trousers. “Confidentially, the Lord Chamberlain has caught me observing that particular statue more than once.”

“I’ve seen it. A statue to celebrate the human form, as I recall,” he sounded very calm for a man whose body was a bowstring of tension.

Releasing the final button, his pants dropped with a thud. He’d certainly dressed for the occasion—he wore absolutely nothing under his uniform. Philomena celebrated his form with a gasp of appreciation.

“Nude,” he went on gruffly and jerked against the rope. “Free of all restraints.”

“Free of clothing alone, in your case,” she teased. “You bare a—I mean, you resemble the statue,” she stammered. “Rather disconcerting, to think how well the Lord Chamberlain knows me. The man’s old enough to be my grandpapa.” At hearing herself babble, her voice crept higher. “Perhaps you’ve not had the experience of being so continually, thoroughly observed…how very alarming it can be.”

“Alarming?” Dante’s voice, by contrast, seemed even deeper. He shifted his legs, stepping free of his pants with obvious relief. His wider stance hollowed the muscle from buttock to thigh that she’d admired earlier. “Do you find it alarming?”

“What?” She tried to focus on the conversation. “Well, when it’s the Lord Chamberlain and my privates—” she choked on the word “—my private thoughts.”

“Tell me more,” the handsome stranger tied before her whispered. “Tell me your private thoughts, Philomena.” He jerked his arms downward, reaching for her. The silver cuffs jangled against the rope.

The sound startled her. She stepped back, down off the stool.

A growl rolled in Dante’s throat. He tipped his head and narrowed his eyes as if assessing a target.

“Where are you going? I’m chained. Helpless. Come back, Your Highness. Touch me again.”

“Touch you?” She concentrated on his blue eyes. “Where?”

“Where ever you like. I can’t stop you, can I? It’s all up to you.”

Heat whipped up her spine, flushing her face. So many tiresome things were all up to her. For once, it was wonderful to be the one deciding. She glanced down. Swollen and flushed, the tip of him was a deep royal red. She had never seen anything like it.

“I wish to touch your…cock,” she whispered. Moving back onto her stool, she tenderly laid her hand, wrist to fingertip, against the long, hard rise of his penis, pressing as if it were a wound to soothe.

Dante’s answer was a slice of indrawn breath.

“Still hurts?”

“Mmm,” he answered, closing his eyes.

“Poor thing,” she murmured.

He rocked his pelvis into her palm, a sound vibrating from deep inside his chest. He pushed at her so strongly, Philomena had to reach up and grip his shoulder with her other hand, steadying herself as she might with a demanding waltz partner.

The movement brought them chest to chest. Dante strained forward, nuzzling her ear with a whispered kiss.

Philomena began to curl her fingers one by one around his thickness. He made a handful, all of it warmer than she’d expected. She tested firmness and length with a long, slow, heart-stopping tug.

Dante strained as far as the rope would allow to press his lips to her throat. Philomena recognized the sharp nip, immediately swallowed by the same hot pulling comfort she’d felt on her palm. She released him immediately and stumbled backward off the stool again, twisting herself in a circle of confusion, once, twice.

His chains clanked with frustrated restraint. “Your nipples. They’re darker now…and so tight.” Dante’s voice dripped honey over her thoughts. “Do they ache? I can help with that, if you’ll come back. Come to me.”

How did he know? Her hands twitched with the need to press and soothe her aching breasts, to bind them tightly into her corset, anything to end that burning distraction.

Her expression seemed to amuse him. He shook his head, half-laughing. A shock of blond hair dropped across his brow. “I know what would help.” Disheveled, he was even more appealing, more approachable. “Let me suck them, Philomena. It’s good for the ache. It makes it so much—” he stretched the rope to its limit, looming over her “—worse.”

She almost jumped. Embarrassed, she pushed hard at his chest, setting him back on his feet. “Behave, or I’ll call the guards and have you gagged.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said, assessing her with a narrow look.

“Oh, I think I would.” Throwing her shoulders back, she asked, “But now you have me wondering, would sucking ease your ache or make it worse?”

She’d heard of such things, hints and jokes and whispers. That men liked a woman’s mouth as much as other parts.

His eyes glittered. He seemed to be struggling with the urge to laugh or lunge for her.

The air prickled with possibilities. Philomena sank down onto the stool. His penis bobbed right under her nose, a thick, rosy flower. Taking him in hand, she inhaled the scent of the dewdrop at the tip. Sugar musk. Sweet spice.

“Just a taste,” she whispered. Her tongue slipped out and ever so lightly touched the tip of him. The skin was smoother, softer than the rest of him, closer to the feel of his mouth when they had opened to each other. She licked again. Again.

“Perhaps a little more.”

It felt odd to open so wide; a very unladylike amount to put inside her mouth. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with all of it. She wiggled her tongue around the fullness, surprised that there was no taste, really, only smoothness, slicked by the wetness of her own saliva.

Somewhere above her, she recognized the hurried twist and tug of his arms. There was a swish of rope falling, but she was too busy to care. The heat of his open hands suddenly hovered over her head in benediction, then dropped with a faint metallic jingle as his fingers slipped behind her neck into her hair, gripping hard.

“Mehhnaaaa…” He exhaled the last of her name with longing.

No one had called her Mena in years. It was a sweet name, a pet name, far too undignified for a queen. Philomena smiled, accidentally popping him free of her lips.

He groaned and shivered in her hands.

“You like that?” She tried it again, tightening her lips as she pressed the head of his cock in and out. His hips began to shift, almost imperceptibly, then more forcefully, the chuff of his breath marking the motion.

The sound and motion made her giddy as she realized what he sought to mimic. He liked it; he liked it very much. One hand awkwardly cupped her head, encouraging her. Don’t stop. Don’t go. Once more…

She released him, pressed her tongue to trace a wide path from the stiff root to the smooth tip.

Dante’s hands dropped heavily to her shoulders. He swayed, his breath cutting the silence with short, sharp pants.

Nuzzling the smooth muscled cradle of his pelvis, Philomena wrapped one steadying arm around his thighs. Her other hand slid up the back of his leg to cup the weighted muscle of his bottom cheek. She inhaled deeply, holding him tight, feeling everything low inside her twist with the luscious scent and feel of this man’s skin. She could not sit still.

“Did that make it better or worse, Dante?” she murmured.

Her eyes were closed but she recognized the jingle-clink of his chains, right before he caught her under the arms and pulled her up in a motion so sure and sudden she could not resist.

He opened his arms, resting the weight on her shoulders, encircling her. Startled, she gasped. Dante pulled her close, capturing the sound that might have summoned the guards in a kiss.

Philomena tensed her neck, resisting. She jerked her bottom backward, rocking the footstool off balance. One second they were together, the next they were tipping.

His reflexes were better trained than hers, thank heavens. Slipping free of his linked arms, Philomena plopped butt-first onto the carpet. Dante followed, his grim expression floating over her before he flipped to land with an undignified thud alongside her.

“So help me, Mena—” He sounded winded. “When I get…”

Philomena covered her face with her hands…and laughed. “I don’t believe I’ve given you permission to speak to me so familiarly, sir. However, under the circumstances—”

“Under the circumstances?”

“—I shall make an exception.” She wiped tears from her eyes. When was the last time she’d laughed so hard? Ages. Years.

“You honor me, Your Highness.” Dante rolled onto his back, studying her painted ceiling as if it held the secrets of the night sky. His hands were cupped casually over his belly, his erection resting lightly on top of them. He turned his head and grinned. “Care to honor me again?”

“Perhaps.”

Philomena marveled at his aplomb. What would that be like? To be so aroused, and still calm. To enjoy the sensation for minutes at a time, even with another person watching. Her own body was creating a panic of awareness: the piercing tightness in her breasts, the slippery moisture between her legs, the throb that made it hard not to flex her private muscles and squirm…

“What next?” She forced the whisper through her tight throat.

“Next?” He rolled close, kissed her mouth softly, pushed up on one elbow and slung his leg over her. “Reach me the keys, so I can show you.”

“Keys?”

“I need my hands free, Mena, to do what comes next.”

This kiss opened her. His tongue erased the boundaries between them; thick and wet, it reminded her of having his cock in her mouth and she couldn’t hold back the sound of the hungry yearning she felt.

“Oh God, Mena. My hands. Now.”

“No.” She shifted out from under him and sat up. “No.”

Even handcuffed, he held so much power over her. Shaking, she pushed him flat on his back. She shifted to her knees, looked down into his wide blue eyes. “Twelve years I was married. I’ve never been the one to say how, when or where. I don’t need your hands. I need your cooperation.”

She crawled over him, one knee to either side of his hips, one hand flat over his heart, his wrists chained, hands open, reaching… She took his cock firmly in her other hand, and stopped breathing as she notched him into her wet folds. She meant to go slowly, to give herself time; it felt so different than she remembered, so full, warm, harder, stiffer…

But Dante had other ideas. He thrust quickly upward, crying out as if he were the invaded party, catching her wrists in his shackled hands.

Trapping her. Trapping himself.

“Oh, oh my.” Philomena tipped and rolled, locked in place above him.

“Again,” he groaned.

Panting, she tried to feel one thing separate from the rest, to repeat what he needed, to understand the sensations lighting her body on fire. She pushed back, sitting up straight, sending his cock higher inside.

Dante’s head tipped back, exposing his throat and releasing a gasping, guttural: “Oh, fuuuuck.”

Philomena nearly laughed aloud—again. Happiness bubbled through her, making her lighter and lighter inside. She lifted her hips off her heels and slid down hard and fast, hoping she might be able to make him do it again.

It worked. Three times in a row, in fact.

Then all at once, they began to gasp together. Lift to meet each other. Separate with intent. It was the sweetest feeling she’d ever experienced. Her palms pressed solidly over the bones and flesh of his hips, she lifted and fell… “Dante,” she whispered. “Shouldn’t we move to the bed?”

“Beds are for old, married people. Lovers prefer the carpet.”

“They do?”

“Or the wall, the closet, the carriage…”

His words filled her mind with images as his body filled her with sensations. “But why?”

“Lovers…need…quick…fierce.” Each of his words punctuated a thrust. “I’ll…teach you…Mena. Every…single…way.”

“How?”

His answer was startlingly swift. The muscles of his stomach tightened, his thighs flexed. He pushed forward with his chest, cradling her in the vee of his lifted torso and raised knees. The moment she’d adjusted her limbs for comfort, he pressed his advantage and carried her backward, flat onto the floor, rising on his splayed knees. Frustrated by his restraints, he pulled her into him, one side then the other, locking her tight to his body, her bottom wedged against the slant of his thighs, her knees wide on either side of his hips.

Here again, the sensation of him changed. How many different ways could it feel? Now there was more than his thickness and heat. She felt the stroke of some sweet, sharp nerve inside. She felt the pinch of tears.

“More, more. Oh, please…”

“More like this? How beautiful you are, my Mena, my queen.” Talking while tilting his hips the smallest amount, just enough, Dante pressed inside. He opened her with his body and his words. “Look at me here, on my knees for you. Still wearing your chains. You’re safe with me, yes you are, my queen….” His words wove a spell. “Let go.”

He bent forward and, with his teeth, caught the tiny blue ribbons that held her silk chemise closed. Tugging, tearing at her last covering, and always tilting, tipping, rocking her inside.

She hadn’t wanted to be naked in front of him. She’d chosen to keep that thin garment, mindful as a queen of every layer of meaning. A warning flared through her oversensitized body.

“Stop. Wait.” She squirmed and her own motions shrugged the fabric from her shoulders, exposing her. “Oh no, don’t. I’m too…”

“You’re beautiful. Let me see. Please.”

He locked her wrists in the circle of his fingers—held them tight as any handcuffs. He never stopped moving, stroking her, asking for something she didn’t know how to give.

“Mena, look at me, on my knees. Begging. Do you feel me begging?” He straightened his thighs, pulling her up into him. His shoulders relaxed, his eyes closed and he thrust, hard.

And did not stop.

She answered with a sound that mingled exclamation and warning. It was different again—the sweet and sharp punctuated by crashing violence. She arched her feet, digging her toes into the soft carpet, and still was rocked with each powerful thrust.

“Let go.” His voice was deep, clear, his words a command. “Let go. Now.”

No one could resist. No one.

She went in all directions, with a heart-stopping disintegration, disappearing inside and suddenly beginning again, all at once, all together.

“Yes!” he shouted, chest thrust forward, head back, fingers sprung open releasing her, snapping the chain between his cuffed hands.

The next moments were disorderly.

***

Philomena heard his footsteps, then the jingle and clink of keys and metal falling on the nearby chest of drawers. A rustle of linens preceded the soft warmth of a blanket falling around her, a pillow being tucked beneath her head.

He slipped in behind her, pulling her bottom into the warm nest of his body.

“Can we try the wall or the closet next?” she whispered, fighting to hear his answer before sleep.

“Another time, my queen. Rest.”

“Promise me.”

“Yes?”

“I know we have never encountered one another before in the palace,” she covered his hand where it lay against her belly. “But should you ever by chance come upon me, at court perhaps or even in some state procession, will you turn away? Quickly. Don’t speak to me. Don’t even look.”

She felt him pull back, cold air slipping between them. “Why?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“I will be another man’s queen. I’m afraid I will not remember my duty, should I ever see you again.”

With a sigh, the distance between them closed. “Fear not, my queen. Fear not.”

Philomena melted into his warmth and let herself go again…this time into deep, restful sleep.

“Poor queen,” Dev murmured.

The rain pattered softly now, on the roof. He pulled Maeve in close, rocking his hips steadily against the pillow of her ass, nestling his cock along the damp warmth of her cleft. He could come like this, spooning, her voice creating pictures in his mind. The longer the story, the harder it was to resist.

“Only if we end it there,” she answered breathily.

“There’s more then?” He flicked a finger casually, and grinned when she squeaked.

“Would you like more?”

He thrust and withdrew, slowly. Letting them both enjoy the wait. “Always.”

The next day was diabolically beautiful. The sun shone. The birds sang.

The queen wept.

Discipline supported her. She bathed, dressed and sat for her hair exactly as always. Exactly as if it did not matter.

The moment she swept into the church, in a sigh of lacy silk, the organist stopped. The audience rustled to its feet. Philomena’s eyes filled with tears and blurred the particulars of the faces around her. Her people.

One foot in front of the next.

Duty.

As she stepped up onto the dais, the king she would marry took her elbow. She nearly resisted.

And then she nearly fainted.

His smile dripped wicked satisfaction. His voice was pitched for her alone. “It is quite frightening how well your lord chamberlain knows you.”

“Dante?”

“King Western Border to you, my dear.” He pulled her closer to whisper in her ear. “Tonight, we use the bed. And you wear the handcuffs.”

Thank heavens her veil disguised the shocking, meltingly hot blush that kissed her body.

But he felt it. She knew he did.

“Your Highness.”

“Absolutely, Your Highness,” she agreed.

“Happy after all,” he cooed in her ear.

“I like a happy ending, don’t you?”

He rolled over her, crushing her flat beneath him and reaching over the side of the bed until he found the slippery silk of a discarded stocking. Her giggle was hard to hear around the mouthful of pillow. “Very. Allow me to demonstrate my appreciation for your creativity.”

Dev grabbed one of her hands and knotted the material around her wrist. He flipped her onto her back, wrapping the stocking around the spindle of the bed frame in one smooth motion. Her arm stretched over her head. He grabbed her other wrist and looped the loose end of her stocking around it.

She cocked an eyebrow as she watched him go about the business of tying her to the bed. “That stocking is Donna Karan.”

“Oh?”

“Silk.”

“Never looked better on you,” he said, letting his eyes feast on the sight of her. “Handy, too.”

“You’re cheating. In my story, the king was the helpless one.”

“The king never cheats.” He nipped the tip of her breast, and sucked it hard, exactly the way Dante had kissed his queen. “The king makes the rules. Tonight, we pick up where your story left off.”

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited,
used under licence.

Published in Great Britain 2009
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

© Grace D'Otare 2006

ISBN 978-1-408-91326-0

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Shall we have a story

Copyright