I lift my chin and groan loudly at the ceiling. Because it’s all so much . . . everywhere. Building, surging—yes—a brutal, beautiful onslaught.

And then his tongue is replaced by the firm press of his finger sliding in and out of me. My muscles clench hard around him without a thought, wanting to keep him there—keep him inside—because he feels so good inside.

“Fuck,” Edward groans, the hot pant of his breath fondling my thigh. “I knew it. I knew you’d be tight just like this.”

He kisses my tender skin, nipping with his teeth and scratching with his stubble. “Lenora, do you touch yourself, pleasure yourself? In the shower, the bath, the bed?”

And I don’t even care anymore—there is no modesty or shyness, no secrets. It’s as Edward said . . . there is no wrong.

“Yes.”

He reaches for my hand, kissing the tips of my fingers, sucking them into his mouth, wetting them with his tongue. “Show me how you do it. The pace . . . the rhythm . . . show me, love.”

Not following his command is not even a consideration. I slide my two fingers through my . . . pussy . . . to the juncture, spreading my lips and unashamedly rubbing my clitoris in firm, slow circles. And it’s always felt good, but never like this. This is liquid, illustrious pleasure.

Edward growls my name and he’s on me again. I feel the wet heat of his mouth on my fingers as he licks at me, feasts on me—like a famished man’s first meal. Like he wants to consume me . . . and I would let him. My fingers move faster and my hips rise. And I thrust shamelessly up into Edward’s mouth.

His hands slide under me, squeezing and kneading my arse, before lifting me up to his relentless lips. He pushes my slippery fingers aside with his chin, and his tongue—his glorious tongue—takes over, pressing flat against me, dragging back and forth over my clitoris in perfect sensual circles. Building and building, and yes . . .

My nails dig into the cushion of the chaise, grasping for something to hold. My head tilts and I scream as pure, piercing pleasure pounds through me. My vision goes white and it’s like I’m flying, soaring, swirling. The feel of Edward’s strong hands and sure mouth makes it go on, prolonging the deep sensual bliss.

Slowly, I sink back to myself, breathing in racing gasps. Edward peppers soft, gentle kisses on my pelvis and stomach, before gazing up at me. And I want to lose myself in his emerald eyes. I could. I could disappear forever into him and be insatiably happy.

I reach for him, touching his brow, his regal cheek.

And I beg. “Show me how to do that to you. To make you feel like I feel.”

He flexes his jaw and his eyes go dark.

“You’re sure?”

I nod. “I’m sure.”

He rises, standing beside the chaise, the hard shaft of his . . . cock . . . jutting out, weeping fluid at the tip. Edward slides his fingers between my legs, gathering my wetness and bringing his hand to his erection—coating it, stroking. He takes my hand and wraps it around his . . . dick. It’s warm against my palm, smooth as silk and rigid as steel.

He’s too thick, too large for my fingers to circle all the way around, but by the pleasured hiss that whistles between his clenched teeth, that doesn’t seem to matter. He moves my hand beneath his, and we’re pumping together in long, tight strokes.

“Harder.” He groans. “Grip it harder.”

When I squeeze tighter, he releases my hand—leaving me to my own devices. I bring my other hand between his legs, cupping his heavy testicles, palming the delicate skin there.

“Yes . . .” Edward grunts.

And his face . . . his face is beautiful . . . contorted in hungry, surging gratification. And I want more. More moans and grunts—I want to wring those sounds from his lungs. So without thinking, I lean forward and take the tip of him between my lips.

He shouts, smacking the cushion behind my head violently, curving his spine, leaning over me—his hips jabbing in shallow thrusts. And it’s amazing. Edward’s not even touching me and I can feel the sweet, delicious sensation between my legs throb to life. Building and building all over again.

He cups the back of my head, gently, pushing forward, feeding me more of him. I run my tongue along his length, tasting the manly tang of his skin, suckling hard to taste him more. And there’s such power in it. I was weaned on power—to keep it, wield it—but this intimate power is something new and miraculous.

Humbling and heady at the same time.

This giant of man, who could break me with his bare hands, stands above me, but is utterly at my mercy.

Pleading in a way that makes me moan with him.

“That’s it, sweet girl . . . take it . . . take it just like that.”

And I do. I relish in the taking of him.

Edward pulls back, suddenly, out of my mouth—he strokes himself fast above me, then with a deep, long groan his thick, hot semen pulses from him—splashing on my chest, my breasts, my nipples.

When it’s over, he grips my hair and yanks my face up, plunging his tongue between my lips with a raging, desperate force even while his chest heaves to recover his breath. After a moment, his tongue slows, gentles, and his fingers stroke my face tenderly. He goes down on his knees, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, before resting his forehead on my thigh.

“Christ almighty . . .”

I run my fingers through his hair. But then, something occurs to me and my hand stills.

“Hmph.”

Edward rubs my knee soothingly. “What is it?”

I frown deeply.

“Dr. Hatchet definitely left some parts out.”

And Edward laughs—a joyful, masculine rumble right from his chest.

“God, you fucking delight me, Lenora. Nothing on earth will ever delight me as much as you.”

PREPARING FOR A ROYAL WEDDING is like preparing for war—everything must be coordinated, staged, executed to perfection. The palace may have a staff of hundreds, but just as there are orders that can only be given by a general, there are responsibilities that can only be performed by the bride and groom. Dignitaries to entertain, luncheons and brunches to attend, invitations that must be personalized, proclamations that must be planned, dress-fitting appointments that must be kept, and thousands of thank-you notes that must be signed by hand.

I despise thank-you notes. If I could, I would ban them from the damn country, just to save myself the trouble. One can dream . . .

The next two weeks go by in a blur of duty-filled days. Edward and I see each other, of course, but it feels like we share more longing glances across rooms than actual time together.

And then suddenly, D-Day is here.

Or more to the point . . . the night before D-Day. Both Edward and I are in the palace, but we might as well be in two separate countries. He’s spending the evening with the male relatives and lords who have a role in the wedding. They’re in the private library on one side of the palace, while I’m stuck with my bloody batty aunts, cousins and other female relations in the music room on the other side.

The men get cigars, liquor and probably stag films . . . while we ladies get tea and crumpets and a private performance from a renowned female opera singer.

But tradition is tradition. And this is who we are—so this is who we must be.

When the opera singer concludes her last song, the sky is black from the moon being snuffed out by heavy clouds. We all clap gently.

And now begins the mind-numbingly polite, pointless chatting portion of the evening.