The Mistress of Horses oft traversed the countryside at night singing the moon’s song. Sometimes the moon would sing back.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Jack stood outside Jasminda’s door, gathering his courage before knocking rapidly. His breathing grew shallow as the seconds ticked by. When the door finally opened, he schooled his features, attempting to hide his wonder. She was radiant in the outfit she’d worn at dinner. The gorgeous golden dress highlighted the color of her skin and made him want to feel its softness. Her hair was tamed somewhat, but still wild, gorgeous, and free, like her. But her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.
That phantom ache above his heart flared again. He rubbed at it unconsciously. She studied his movement, worry creasing her forehead. He swallowed the lump in his throat and bowed low, causing her to take a step back.
“Excuse me, my lady, but you inquired as to the completeness of my healing. I … I fear I may have reinjured myself and wondered if you would be so kind as to inspect it for me.”
She tilted her head up at him, her brow furrowed. He was afraid she would shut the door in his face at so flimsy an excuse. Instead, she took another step back, allowing him entry. She turned on her heel and headed to the fireplace where a chair had been dragged over quite close to the flames.
“Are the palace physicians not up to the task, Your Grace?” She motioned to the chair; he sank into it.
“They are the best in the land.”
“I’m having trouble singing here. There are too many people. But I can take a look.” The bag she’d brought from home lay on the floor, and she crouched, retrieving her jar of balm. She approached him, her focus solely on the spot beneath his clothes where the wound had been. When her eyes finally met his, something passed between them, but she firmed her mouth into a frown. “That will have to come off,” she said, motioning to his covered chest.
He unbuttoned his coat and laid it aside, then undid his dress shirt and slid out of it. Her focus never left his chest the entire time. When he’d disrobed enough, she knelt in front of him, one hand resting on his thigh, the other gently prodding the newly healed skin.
“What makes you think you’ve reinjured yourself?” she said, voice full of accusation. “Your Grace,” she added, yanking her fingers away.
“Because it hurts. Just here.” He pulled her hand back, holding it in place against his heart. “And don’t call me that. I’m still Jack.”
Her lips trembled, the pools of her eyes swam with tears. “No, you’re not just Jack anymore. You never were.”
She again tried to draw her hand away, but he held on tight, grasping the other, as well, and bringing them up to meet. He stroked her silken skin and lifted her joined hands to his lips, kissing each softly then placing a palm on each side of his face.
“I’m sorry, Jasminda.” He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to take the pain evident on her face.
“What are you sorry for?”
“For not telling you. For being unable to be just Jack for you. Trust me, I never wanted any of this.”
“Why not?”
“My elder brother was groomed to rule. I was never as smart or accomplished as he. Never as good at all of this.” He waved at the lavish room. “Most of my childhood was spent in barracks, training for the army. I don’t believe I’ll ever feel like a prince, not on the inside. I should have told you … I just couldn’t bear to.”
Her thumbs skimmed his cheeks, and she slid out of his grasp to brush his forehead, his chin. A finger grazed his lips, causing him to shudder.
She kept hold of his face but rose from the ground and sat on his knee, leaning her forehead to meet his. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held her tight, never wanting to let go.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” she whispered, stroking his face, her lips a breath from his own. “I cannot keep you, but I cannot turn you away.”
Jack nudged her head up and drank her in. When her gaze dropped to his lips, he leaned forward, capturing her mouth. They kissed tentatively at first. He allowed her to explore, touching her lips softly to his, then with more pressure. Eventually, she tilted her head and opened for him. He caressed her tongue, his control nearly slipping when she groaned into his mouth.
She gripped the back of his head tighter, her mouth hungrily attacking his. Her taste was so sweet, the scent of her slowly driving him crazy. He pulled away, but she leaned in, not letting him go.
“Last night I … Perhaps we should slow down,” he said, shifting her in his lap, moving her away from his rapidly growing erection. His desire for her was intense, but she would likely need time to trust him. He couldn’t push. It was enough that she was in his arms again.
Her chest heaved, thrusting her breasts up seductively as she sat atop him, eyes still closed, kiss-swollen lips slightly apart. “Slow down?”
“Yes, darling. I may be a prince, but I’m only human.” That night at the base he’d lain awake, convinced every nerve ending in his body was connected to the place where their hands had touched. Now, she was so much closer and he was having an even harder time holding himself back. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
She dragged her hands through his hair, igniting sparks of pleasure that rolled down his spine.
“I want you to be certain.…” He sucked in a breath as she ran her fingers down his chest, then up again. She ducked her head and kissed his collarbone. He did not trust himself for much longer.
“Jasminda.” He groaned.
She shifted her knee ever so slightly, rubbing against his straining crotch. “Yes?” She smiled wickedly, her mouth edging closer to his nipple.
“You’re killing me.”
“Then let it be a warm death,” she said, hiking up her skirt so she could fully straddle him.