Sex with Nicholas is thrilling. Exciting in a heart-exploding kind of way. I didn’t know having my wrists held down above my head could feel so amazing—not until he did it. I didn’t know the slide of sweaty skin, drenched from hours of exertion, could be so erotic. I didn’t know certain muscles could even be sore—or that everything still feels awesome when they are.

I didn’t know I was capable of multiple orgasms—but glory be to God, I am.

I’m not uptight—or a prude. I know how to get myself off—a little rub and grind after a stressful day is the best and quickest way to fall asleep. But, after the grand finale, I’ve never tried going back for an encore.

Nicholas tries—and even better, he succeeds.

In the days that follow our first night together, we fall into an unspoken routine. I spend the day at the coffee shop and the night at his hotel suite. Sometimes he comes to pick me up, sometimes he just sends the car—trying to keep his frequent visits to Amelia’s hidden from the public for as long as possible.

When I arrive, he sends the security guys out of the suite—going as far as to get them their own room one floor down. Logan grumbled the loudest, but went along with it.

The customer is always right, and apparently so is the royal.

We haven’t gone out to dinner again—we order in or make something easy, like sandwiches or pasta. It’s all surprisingly…normal. Some nights, we watch TV—try to binge on American Horror Story, season two, but we haven’t made it past the second episode.

Because…sex.

Amazing, mind-blowing, I’ve-literally-had-to-change-my-panties-at-work-reminiscing-about-it sex. Marty noticed and was jealous. Then he teased me about it.

In bed, after the sex, we talk a lot—Nicholas tells me stories about his grandmother and his brother and Simon. And though I feel an intense growing tenderness for him that could quickly turn into something deeper, I make sure to keep it all casual and light. Un-clingy.

Nicholas already gets a whole lot of clingy from his day job.

The closest we’ve come to having “the talk”—the “Are we exclusive, where is this going?” talk—is when a story about him and a gorgeous blond he’d been photographed with in Wessco flashed across the television. “Wedding Watch,” they called it.

Nicholas told me she was an old friend from school—just a friend—and that I should never believe anything any journalist said or wrote about him.

I mean, hey—they couldn’t even get the underwear thing right. They obviously know dick.

Two weeks after that first crazy night, my growing tenderness toward Nicholas makes me do something I haven’t done in years: take a Saturday off from the coffee shop.

Marty and Ellie cover for me.

And I do it because I want to do something nice for Nicholas. Not just to pay him back for all the fabulous orgasms—but just because.

What do you give a prince? A man with a country at his feet and the world at his fingertips?

Something only a New York girl can.

“I have a plan.”

We’re in the library of the suite. Nicholas is behind the desk, his hair falling still damp over his forehead from a recent shower, while James and Tommy stand near the windows.

“Take off your clothes,” I say, dropping a stuffed backpack at my feet.

He stands, giving me a curious, dimple-flashing smile that makes my stomach tingle.

“I like this plan.”

He pulls his shirt over his head—and at the sight of that gorgeous chest and ripped abs, I have to close my mouth to stop the flow of drool.

“Should I send the lads to their room?” he asks.

I toss him a Beastie Boys T-shirt and ripped jeans from the backpack. “They can stay—I’ll get to them in a second.”

Nicholas puts on the outfit, his disguise for the day. I hold up a thick gold chain with a dangling cross, and he dips his head so I can loop it over his neck. Then I squirt gel into my hand and reach up on tiptoes to rub it through his hair—mussing it at the top and slicking the sides.

Perfect.

“How do you feel about piercing your ear?” I ask, teasing.

He whispers, “Needles terrify me.” Then he winks.

Nicholas’s eyes are already sparkling with excitement—this next part is going to blow his mind. “Do you know how to drive a motorcycle?”

He mentioned the other night that he was a pilot during his stint in the military, so I made an educated guess.

“Sure.”

“Perfect.” I pull a helmet with a full, tinted face shield out of the backpack and hold it up. “Marty’s bike is downstairs. He said to tell you: break it, you bought…a Ducati.”

Logan steps into the room from where he was stationed just outside the door, lifting his hand, like a traffic cop. “Hold on, now—”

Nicholas takes the helmet. “It’ll be fine, Logan.”

“And…” I say cautiously, turning to the three big, strong, probably-have-a-license-to-kill boys. “I want Nicholas and me to go on this outing alone. You guys stay here.”

Tommy says, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

James crosses himself.

Logan takes another route. “No fuckin’ way. Not possible.”

But the look on Nicholas’s face says it really fucking is.

“No,” Logan insists again, his voice straining with a faint hint of desperation.

“Henry used to slip his security detail all the time,” Nicholas offers.

“You’re not Prince Henry,” Logan counters.

“I have an itinerary!” I jump up and down from excitement—like Bosco when he has to pee. “I wrote everything down for you, just in case—exactly where we’ll be, every minute.”