“Are you going to tell me what you were thinking?” Keller asks, snapping me back to the present.
“Huh?” I ask.
“You said you’ve been thinking?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve been worrying about something.”
He pauses and sits up on his knees, resting his hands on his thighs. Ooof, look at that remarkable male specimen. The tattoos, the burly torso of a fit man, his concerned brow. Makes me want to drop to my knees, grip the back of his head, and shove him right into my non-existent cleavage.
“What are you worrying about?” he asks.
“Well, I’ve been doing some serious research on this whole ‘royal’ thing, and I’m concerned about the amount of time we’re spending together alone.”
His brow creases even more, and I just knew watching Bridgerton was going to not only entertain me but provide me with the perfect material to test Keller’s thinning patience. Got to have a little fun with the grump somehow, am I right, ladies?
“Why are you concerned?”
“Because, we’re alone, with no chaperone, and the assumption can be made that you’re . . . you’re stealing my virtue.” I roll my teeth over my bottom lip and say, “We might have to get married.”
His face switches from concerned to annoyed in a second. Shaking his head, he goes back to his pushups. “Christ, I thought you were serious about something.”
“I am. You know how it is, one assumption can destroy a woman’s character.”
“Us being alone in a room is not going to destroy your virtue. It’s the countless hours you spent conducting wet T-shirt contests that will.”
I step toward him and nudge his shoulder with the tip of my foot. “I’m being serious, Keller.” I’m really not, but my acting is really on point. “We’re going to have to get married.”
Growling his frustration—uh-oh—he hops up from the ground and towers over me, his chest looming with irritation, his sweat glistening, reflecting the sunshine. “You want to get married? Fine. Brimar is an ordained minister.” He crowds my space. “I’ll get married right here, right now. But I’ll tell you this—you’re not going to enjoy being my wife.” He crowds me so much that I’m pushed up against the castle now, hands behind my back so I don’t succumb to sweaty skin. “I take what I want, when I want it. And if my wife dares disobey me, there will be consequences.”
Ooo, so hot.
Does he realize that’s more of a turn-on than a turn off?
Mr. Tattooed Man Meat wants to own me? Where’s the marriage license? I’ll sign right now.
I wet my lips. “You fail to recognize how much that appeals to me . . .” And just because I feel the dominant in him come out, I add, “Sir.”
His eyes narrow on me. His jaw clenches. And boy oh boy does he make the most delicious growly noise I’ve ever heard. “Don’t, Lilly.”
“Oh, do you prefer master?”
His hand strikes the stone next to me, his palm pressing against the hard surface, startling me, but also turning me on at the same time. “Don’t fucking test me.”
I swallow hard as I curl into the feel of him so close, his warm, heated body nearly pressing against mine. I love the controlled anger in his voice, but the yearning I see in his eyes? I knew it. I knew he was into the kind of kink I am. I could see it the minute I mentioned the sex club yesterday. This just makes him exponentially more appealing.
“Not testing you,” I say. “Just letting you know my concerns.”
He leans in even closer, his forehead nearly touching mine as he says, “If you’re that concerned, then I’ll have Lara sit in on our training.”
I love Lara, but I don’t want that. I like being alone with him.
Hand to my chest, I bat my eyelashes at him and say, “Are you telling me, by being alone with you, you won’t be stealing my virtue?”
He pushes off the stone wall and goes back to his pushups. After the second one, he says, “Trust me, Lilly. If I were stealing your virtue, you would fucking know I was.”
“Okay, so the king is briefed every morning on the current events. Got that. Makes sense.” I lean against the console table and ask, “But what about the note?”
Keller, who’s now showered, smelling like a freaking dream—there are no fermented cod cakes in his pockets—grips the unruly hair on the top of his head. “What note?” he asks in frustration.
We’ve spent the last two hours going over regimens, accountability, and political protocol. I started to fall asleep during the political protocol talk only for him to slap the table with his bear-like hand and startle the shit out of me.