Page 3 of His Savage Sweet
Fook this. There was a door to the courtyard off the cold room. I didn’t even need to stop to talk to this Anna. I’d head outside, run off some of this anger that had been simmering since Father made his announcement.
Aye. That’s a good plan.
Right up until I stepped into the coldroom, saw the redhead with the huge tits bent over the heavy wooden table in the center of the room, and all thoughts of running disappeared.
Instead my cock jumped to attention, my thighs clenched on their own, and my jaw dropped.
Sweet. Holy. Hell.
In that moment, I knew I didn’t give a good goddamn about running or food. Every single cell in my body was pointing at her—her!—screaming: “She’s yers!”
My cock bobbed its head in agreement, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I was going to make her mine.
Mine.
Chapter 2
Anna
It was hard to distract me when I was concentrating hard, and this evening I was determined to get this twelfth layer of pastry right. I bit my lip, bent over the rolling pin—and a low growl distracted me.
Irritated at the interruption, I looked up and completely forgot about the pastry, the pin, the coldroom, and even my own name.
Oh my God.
It was him. The Royal family had never made their way into the kitchens since I’d been working here, but Alisa said he used to come down all the time when he was younger. And here he was, standing in my coldroom, staring at me as if I was one of my pastries, ready to be eaten.
Oh my God oh my God oh my God.
Prince Beowulf was any girl’s dream. Not as tall as his brothers, his shoulders had to be twice as broad, and those arms—oh my God, those forearms!—were the stuff of dreams.
Heaven knew I’d dreamed of them often enough.
Tonight he was wearing a waistcoat and a button-up shirt rolled up to the elbows, and I adored how he’d tried to dress formally for dinner, but couldn’t quite contain those forearms.
Unconsciously, my tongue flicked over my lower lip as I dragged my attention from those muscles back up to his face. His gorgeous, nose-broken-twice, scar-on-his-lip-from-a-sparring-match, birthmark-on-his-brow face.
Not that I’d spent hours imagining his face—his body—or anything.
Any hot-blooded Faencairn woman over the age of sixteen thought about the princes at least once while she rode her own hand, and if she didn’t…well, she was lying.
And Prince Beowulf was my very own fantasy. The one I’d pictured in my mind as I flipped through the pages of my well-worn copy of A Harlot’s Guide. The one whose name I moaned while I rubbed my clit and fingered myself.
And he was standing right here in my coldroom, looking at me like I was some kind of…some kind of dessert.
His voice was as deliciously deep as I remembered. “Ye ken who I am?”
“A-Aye, Yer Highness.”
“And ye dinnae curtsey?”
He sounded only mildly curious, but I was mortified. The first time I meet royalty in person, and I forget all the basic etiquette my mother drilled into me?
“I’m sorry, Yer Highness.”
I went to bob a curtsey in this stupid black servant’s gown, but he held up his hand and stopped me.
“Nay.” That dark head cocked to one side and his ice-blue eyes dragged over me. “Nay, I like that ye dinnae curtsey to me. I prefer women with…merit. Boldness.”