“It’s the way it is, Ellie-girl. I knew that when I signed up for security detail and I was fully aware of it when I went to your room that night.”
She looks back over her shoulder. Her blond hair shimmery in the sunlight, the shirt inching up her creamy thighs as she twists.
“Is that why you stayed away all those years in New York? Even after you knew you . . . liked me? Because you knew you’d have to give up your job?”
“I stayed away because you were young. And I wasn’t sure if you’d want to stick with a bloke like me.”
Ellie she shakes her head. “Dummy.”
Then she appraises her handiwork around the windows, tilting her head, stepping back . . . right into my waiting hands.
I grab her tiny waist, turning and rolling her under me on the mattress. Then I get right to work on getting her out of my shirt, baring her pretty tits that I can’t stop sucking.
She combs her fingers through my hair. “But what are you going to do, Logan?”
“Right now? I’m going to fuck you senseless.”
My Ellie likes that idea. She smiles.
“And then?”
I look to the ceiling, contemplating. “Then I’m gonna drag this mattress upstairs and fuck you slow and gentle, beneath the stars.”
That gets her giggling.
“And tomorrow?”
I thrust my hips forward between her spread legs, sliding my hardness through her soft, lovely wet heat.
“I’ll repeat the process.” My breath picks up, because she feels so good. “But we’ll use different positions. You’re easy to lift and spin around—I can get quite creative.”
“Logan . . .” Ellie moans, raising her hips, begging without words for me to thrust inside. To take her, ride her, make her writhe and moan.
Her hands reach down between us, spreading across my hips, her thumbs hooking and holding my lower pelvis. “I love it like this. You pressing into me, giving me your weight, feeling you rock against me right here.”
A jolt of passion blazes up my spine, and I kiss her deep and quick—pressing my lips too hard against hers, but too far gone to stop.
“I can’t get enough of you, Ellie . . . I’ll never, ever get enough . . .”
I WAKE TO THE FEELING of Logan kissing the back of my neck.
He’s always up before me, but one of these days I’ll figure out a way to pry my eyes open first so I can enjoy the sight of his handsome face, relaxed and peaceful. I wonder if his mouth smiles while he dreams, or if it frowns in that serious way it sets when he’s on duty. One day I’ll know.
His breath tickles my neck and he kisses me again, his lips so warm against my skin. I open my eyes to the living room, lit from the daylight outside the window but not blindingly bright, thanks to my trusty curtains. We never made it upstairs last night—I wore the boy out—we wore out each other. The sheet is soft and warm beneath my naked body, the mattress a perfect cushion.
And my chest feels so full, like my heart has grown too big for it.
I turn onto my back, looking up into the deep brown eyes that I have adored from the first moment they met mine. His hair is mussed, some strands falling into his eyes, others sticking straight up, making him look young and boyishly carefree.
Logan’s smile falters and his forehead wrinkles as he gazes down at me. His hand cups the side of my face, wiping away a tear that trickles from the corner of my eye.
“What is it, Ellie-love?”
I didn’t even realize I was crying. Maybe it’s knowing that he chose me, while understanding exactly what that meant, what he’d be giving up. Maybe it’s being in this house that smells like fresh-cut timber, warm stone . . . and home. Or maybe it’s waking up in his arms, to his kiss—this man who has become everything to me.
Whom I would do anything for. I didn’t understand those words before, not really, but now I know. I know what my father felt for my mother, what Liv feels for her husband.
I want to cherish Logan. Adore him. My heart, my body, my soul—they’re already his.
The only thing left to give him is words.
“I love you, Logan.” My heart swells. “I love you. I love you. I love you . . .”
The corners of his mouth curve up and he leans down close.
“Ellie, I—”
There’s a crash outside the front door. A horn honking, shouts and voices arguing.
Logan looks in that direction, cursing. “What in the fuck . . .”
He rises from our mattress and slips into a pair of jeans and walks shirtless toward the ruckus. “Stay here.”
I don’t listen. I button his shirt around me, slide into my black leggings, then catch up to him in the foyer. Through the curtainless front window, I see people—lots of them. There are also cars and vans.
What in the fuck is right.
Logan opens the front door and a hundred cameras click at once—like a machine gun firing. They’re reporters, photographers . . . and they’re in Logan’s front yard.
There’s a break in the crowd, a parting of the sea, and James pushes his way into the house, slamming the door behind him. James is a good friend of Logan’s and a former member of Nicholas’s personal security team. He went back with him and Olivia to Wessco that first summer and guards the royal family at the palace now.
“Morning, Lo.” He nods. “Miss Ellie.”
“What the hell’s going on, James?” Logan asks.
James cocks his head apologetically. “You are.” He glances between me and Logan, his blond hair falling over his forehead. “While they wait for the babies to be born and the wedding day to arrive, the press is looking to fill their pages with some kind of scandal. And you two are it.”
Logan drapes his arm around me.
“Also,” James continues, “I brought the car. The Queen wants to see you. Now.”
That doesn’t sound good.
Logan and I wait in the Queen’s private drawing room—an amazing custard-yellow-and-dark-wood-accented room—wearing the wrinkled clothes we threw on from last night. Queen Lenora strides in like a pissed-off general—if the military uniform were a pink skirt and jacket, and pillbox hat.
Logan bows and I curtsy.
She smacks several newspapers on her desk—tabloids. All with screaming headlines about me—the bright-eyed royal relation getting down and dirty with the rough security guard from a shady family. Great.
“I am so disappointed in you, Eleanor.” She shakes her head. “Poor George. The young mayor had such promise for you. I can’t imagine what he will say.”
I raise my hand. “He actually texted me this morning. He said thanks. He’s had a crush on the upstairs maid forever and now he’s finally got the guts to ask her out.”
The Queen lifts her nose. “You could have reached so much higher. For a man of importance, of significance.”
She turns to Logan and lowers her nose at him. “And you—you had a duty to this family to protect her—”
I step forward, cutting her off—knowing it’s improper and inappropriate but not giving a single shit.
“He has protected me. Since the day I met him—in every way he knows how. Don’t you dare question his loyalty to your family.”
“Ellie!” Logan hisses quietly. Because even now, he’s trying to protect me.
Queen Lenora shakes her head. “You could have been Madam Eleanor, Lady Eleanor, Duchess Eleanor . . . and you’ve chosen to throw that opportunity away.”
I stand taller, straighter. “My name isn’t Eleanor. It’s Ellie. And Logan St. James is a man of significance and importance, and if you can’t see that, it’s your loss. I don’t need a title.” I look at Logan. “I just need him.”
The Queen scoffs, regally, of course. “Oh, good grief.”
She turns to the painting behind her—the one of her husband, Edward—and shakes her head at it, like it’s the only thing that understands her.
Then, with a breath, she focuses her attention back on Logan.
“Leave us.”
Logan hesitates for just a second—looking to me, checking with me—and I nod. He bows low to the Queen and leaves, closing the door behind him.