Page 69 of That Prince is Mine
Prince Michel didn’t make mistakes, because the consequences would be too great. Apparently, Michel Chevalier made mistakes like a fool. But no matter how he wanted to pretend otherwise, this wasn’t the ordinary mistake of an ordinary man. The consequences of his mistake could be catastrophic. He could have blown his last chance at love. He took a deep breath. He had to think this through.
Sure, she would be angry at first that he’d kept something so important a secret from her. But being a prince wasn’t a crime. In the end, it might even help convince her to come to Rouleme with him. Wasn’t that the exact outcome he wanted? Not if she only came because of some fantasy of becoming a princess—a queen. The claws of his insecurities dug into him. Would he ever know if Michel the man, not the prince, would’ve been good enough for her?
But she wanted him just as he was. Wasn’t this afternoon proof of that? What they’d shared was more than sex—so much more than satisfying a physical need. They’d opened up to each other—given freely to each other. He’d never done that with anyone else. And he was certain the same was true for her.
Michel trusted Emma. He trusted what they’d shared. He would tell her the truth and trust that it wouldn’t ruin everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emma felt funny. She was sore and achy in places that she would usually not be sore or achy. And her limbs felt heavy and limp—she thought for a minute—in a not unpleasant way. She actually really liked how her body felt at the moment. Her eyes were slow to open, as heavy as the rest of her body, but as soon as they were open, she sat up fast enough to make her dizzy.
It was disorienting to wake up in someone else’s bed, but her brain quickly and thoroughly reminded her whose bed she was in and why. What puzzled her, however, was why Michel was sitting fully dressed at the other side of the room, staring at her naked breasts with his mouth hanging open—she squeaked and pulled up the bedsheets to cover herself—and not naked beside her in bed. Something was wrong, and all the oxygen seemed to leave her body.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Somehow sensing what she needed, Michel got to his feet and poured her a glass of water from a carafe on his nightstand. After a split second’s hesitation, he slowly approached her side of the bed and held out the glass to her. She took it from him and sipped at it until she was certain her voice would work.
“Thank you,” she said, setting the half-full glass on the nightstand closest to her.
“Of course. My pleasure.” His good manners were fully functional despite the odd tension in the room.
Michel didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands as he stood an arm’s length away, until he gestured awkwardly at the bathrobe at the foot of the bed. Had he laid that out for her? It was considerate, yet… disappointing. She’d hoped that she wouldn’t need to put on any clothes for another few hours.
She noted again that he was fully dressed—in the most casual clothes that she’d ever seen him in, but still dressed. Uncomfortable with being the underdressed one, Emma hurriedly pulled on the white terry bathrobe. Oh my God. It was the softest thing she had ever felt against her skin. She shook off her momentary distraction and turned her attention back to Michel.
“Is… is something wrong?” She hated how hesitant and unsure she sounded. Was the after always supposed to be this awkward? Because the before and the during had been perfection. She didn’t understand why the after had to be this way.
“No, no, no.” He shook his head and hands vigorously. “No. Of course not. Nothing is wrong. I… I just need to tell you something. Something I wish I’d told you before we…”
I need to tell you something was her all-time most hated sentence, but the last time Michel said that, he’d just told her that he had a bodyguard. It was unexpected but not bad. He probably looked like he wanted to bolt from the room rather than tell her this something because he was conscientious and considerate. She shouldn’t panic. It couldn’t be that bad.
“Shall we take a seat over there?” He gestured toward the sitting area by the windows.
When she nodded, he offered her his hand and helped her out of bed. They both pretended to ignore the jolt that passed between them at the innocuous touch. But when she got to her feet, she found herself standing closer to him than she’d expected, and her heart hammered in her chest.
Without thinking, she took a step closer to him, eliminating the space between them. Her breath hitched as his heated gaze bored into her and he wrapped his hands around her waist. She might have pushed herself onto her toes. He might’ve dipped his head toward her. Maybe they’d moved at the same time. Who knew? All that mattered was that they were kissing each other like there was an apocalypse approaching and this was the last kiss they would ever experience.
Suddenly, Michel tore his mouth away from hers and held her away from him with a firm grip on her arms. They stared wordlessly at each other, their breathless pants the only sound in the room. Her confusion became indignation, which quickly morphed into… she settled on anger, because anger was safer than fear. She couldn’t give in to her fear that something was very wrong.
“What the hell, Michel?” she squawked in outrage. She left the How dare you stop kissing me unsaid.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He gently but insistently ushered her to the armchairs. “Please sit. Would you like more water?”
“No.” Emma plopped down on the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Talk.”
“Talk? Yes, well.” Michel settled himself across from her and cleared his throat with a fist pressed over his mouth. “Of course.”
Then he proceeded to not talk for a full minute. Her anger fizzled out, and fear edged in at last. She chewed her bottom lip, her legs bouncing nervously. After a moment, he reached out with the pad of his thumb and tugged her lip free from her teeth.
“Have you ever wondered what I do in Rouleme?” He laced his fingers together on his lap and not quite fidgeted in his seat. It was more of an uncomfortable shift. Even so, it wasn’t like him. And the fact that he was nervous made her even more afraid.
“Do? As in a job?” She grabbed fistfuls of her bathrobe over her thighs and squeezed until her knuckles turned white. She’d wondered about a lot of things he did in Rouleme, but she never let her thoughts linger on those questions. She didn’t want to think about him at home—away from her. “I assumed you were a professor there as well.”
“No.” He seemed to gather himself, and quiet determination replaced his nervousness. “I’m actually not a professor back home.”
“Oh, I see.” She didn’t really see, but her panic eased a fraction. If this was about his job, she couldn’t care less. It didn’t matter what Michel did for a living. That wasn’t what made him who he was. “Then what do you do?”
He barely moved, but his posture changed somehow and he seemed taller—bigger. She found herself straightening up in her chair for some reason. The set of his lips turned solemn and stern, and she didn’t know if she liked it. It was very un-Michel-like but made him kind of imposing, which was hot. So maybe she liked it?
“Well?” she prompted. He’d taken advantage of her distraction to not talk again. She needed to focus.
