LITMIR.BIZ

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you have to wear it all the time?”

      Again he grins, though this time the expression is laced with a wistfulness I don’t understand.

      “No,” he says. “Giving my life to the church is my duty. But presiding over the church is also my livelihood. When I’m not performing clerical duties, I’m free to dress as I please.” He glances at his attire and then shrugs. “I guess this is easier.”

      Then he unbuttons his black shirt and removes it. I gasp until I realize that beneath it he wears a white cotton T.

      “There,” he says, hanging the garment over a high-back leather chair that faces the fire. “No more pretense.” He then strolls to a tall oak cabinet against the wall. With wide eyes, I watch the sculpted muscles in his arms flex as he retrieves a decanter of red wine and two crystal goblets. The prince nods toward a small game table, ignoring the clothes strewn about the sofa.

      “You can...drink?” I ask, and he laughs, a rich, deep sound that sends an unexpected shiver through me, goose bumps dotting my flesh.

      He sets the items on the table and pulls out my chair for me.

      “There are many things I can still do once I am a priest,” he says. “But, of course—some I cannot.”

      His eyes darken before they dip to the table as he seats himself across from me. When he looks up again, he forces a smile, but I know the spell is broken, and it’s time to get to work. I reach behind and start to lower my zipper.

      “Stop,” he says. “Not yet.”

      Because he is my prince and also my employer, I obey.

      He pours two goblets of wine and hands one to me.

      “Ruby.” His voice is gentle. “I’m sorry for what happened in the Square this morning. That was unacceptable.”

      I press my lips together and shrug. “I didn’t belong there,” I say matter-of-factly.

      He sips his wine and shakes his head. “You belong wherever it is that you want to be.”

      My throat tightens, and because I don’t know how to respond, I take a long, slow swallow of the expensive crimson liquid, as well.

      “I hope you did enjoy your private shopping spree of sorts, though.”

      I grin and stand, offering an exaggerated curtsy in my favorite of all the pieces Monique Mantissa herself gave to me.

      “I felt like a princess,” I say. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

      He clears his throat. “Benedict. Please, call me Benedict.”

      Sure. He’s just a guy in my borrowed home, a guy in a great-fitting T-shirt that hugs an always hidden muscular frame, yet he’s not hiding it from me. Still, he is more than just Benedict. I can pretend many things, but I cannot ignore his lineage—or my own.

      “This gown is beautiful,” I tell him. “But for what you’ve hired me to do, well...” I reach for my zipper again and pull to where it stops just below my hips. I stand, and the dress falls to the floor, revealing what I’ve been hiding.

       No bra. No panties.

      “No more pretense,” I tell him, and though he stares at me with ravenous eyes, this feels nothing like the ogling, the leering of what I expect from a client. At twenty-two years old, I am not without experience when it comes to men, but that does not mean I ever thought this would be easy. But the prince is nothing like I expected.

      I am comfortable—safe beneath his gaze. Whatever happens next, I trust the man before me.

      After laying the gown neatly atop the pile of other Mantissa samples, I take my seat across from him, sip from my goblet and note the varying drawers in the small table. I open one up and pull from it a deck of cards. My teeth skim across my bottom lip. Then I smile and raise a brow.

      “So, Benedict.” I draw out his name, getting a feel for it on my tongue. “Would you like to play a game?”

       CHAPTER FIVE

       Benedict

      RUBY CUTS THE card deck as my features settle into a bemused poker face.

      “Truth or dare, my prince?” Her teasing tone intoxicates. Her nipples are the color of raspberries, a ripe red that ignites my appetite.

      I’ve barely taken a sip of the vintage in my hand, yet the room feels like it does a slow spin. I dig my heels into the wool rug and fight back the growing sense of vertigo.

      “You know this game?” Her mouth quirks. “Or were you too busy playing polo and competing in fencing tournaments as a child?”

      “I preferred the contact sports, boxing and mixed martial arts.” I set down my goblet and meet her surprised gaze. “And I choose truth.”

      Her brows furrow in concentration. “Hmm.” She props two cards together, then adds a third and fourth. It takes a moment to realize what she is doing—building a house of cards.

      Higher and higher her flimsy walls rise until she pauses, twirling a Queen of Hearts between her fingers. “Have you ever seen a naked woman in the flesh?”

      “No.” My voice is cool as a glacier. I refuse to play the role of a clumsy, naive schoolboy. This imperious mask is second nature, my default setting since I was a boy. How many years have I worn it? Probably since the time that I informed my private tutor that someday I intended to do great things, lead the Edenvale armies, explore distant jungles, fulfill any number of mad ambitions a young, imaginative boy might nurture.

      Except Father had been listening from the doorway to our palace classroom. That night he had me escorted to the monastery that borders our palace ground, and there, in the nave of St. Germain, backdropped by the mournful sound of Gregorian chants, the head monk informed me that my path in life was chosen. He spoke of the honor I would bring our kingdom by serving as the spiritual advisor to the king himself.

      He made it clear in no uncertain terms that this was the role of the second son, and that if I were to stray or reject the family tradition, it would break my father’s heart.

      Those were the words that he used.

      Break. My father’s. Heart.

      I knew our mother’s death during Damien’s birth must have cracked that organ into a million pieces. There was no chance that I’d be the one to deliver the death blow.

      And so ever since, I’ve walked the straight and narrow without complaint. I have striven to do what is right, what is expected.

      Until now.

      “You are serious?” Ruby’s eyes widen curiously. “Never?” Her legs part and she runs her fingers up her smooth inner thighs. My heart threatens to break through the bars of my rib cage. “Are you saying that you’re an innocent, my sweet prince?”

      A pause. “A virgin in the flesh.” Not the mind.

      Ruby’s pussy is bare, utterly devoid of hair—soft, pink and fucking perfect. The second coming could begin outside the windows, and my gaze would stay fixed on her slick skin, the dew sheening the slit between her lips.

      “Want to touch?” She flicks the tip of her finger over her mound.

      “You know that I cannot.” My voice is hoarse.

      “But do you want to?” A sliver of curiosity enters her tone, as if she is actually interested in what I want. As if she is doing more than going through the motions of her profession. She is talented, indeed, to make me believe such illusions.

      “Yes,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

      “How?” she pushes. “How would you touch me if you gave in to the temptation?”

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