Aug 23 2008
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Men do not go into heat. When faced with a line of willing women, frustrated refusal was not the correct reaction. Who the hell cares if they are the right woman? Men fuck the willing. The right woman is the one in his bed.
Alexander Francis Jozef VIII, King of Dracovia, Guardian of Kersonov, moved through the dark room in barefoot silence to the expanse of windows across from his mammoth bed. Harsh lines bracketed firm lips as he swung them open to breathe the night. Far past midnight but a long way from dawn, it was the predator’s hour and he wanted nothing more than to hunt. Hunt the witch screwing with his libido. Doing it bare assed wasn’t a problem but would probably upset the locals.
Until recently, being the crown prince of these two small kingdoms that no longer existed after the maps changed in World War I meant nothing to him or the world. His family had no illusions of regaining a throne.
This tiny slice of Eastern Europe had accomplished the feat of extracting itself from the crumbling Soviet Empire. Apparently not everyone had forgotten his family and suddenly he was a king. Damn it.
He didn’t need classes in world politics. He’d spent fifteen years on the front lines of world politics in action. What they did need to give him was crash courses in diplomacy and the rules of being royal. It was a thin skin over the hardened warrior but the combination worked. Dragging a struggling country out of the dark ages wasn’t a job for the timid. Tabloids called him the Savage King.
Five years he’d been working the plan that got them to the prosperity his little kingdoms were enjoying. The authentic renaissance festival promised to bring years of financial return. He would not tolerate the distraction he was feeling. The woman he couldn’t find was a problem he couldn’t afford.
His lips thinned in a grimace of concentration as he reached into the night with senses much more advanced than he’d be willing to explain. Natural abilities that edged on phenomenal were the weapons that made him a deadly opponent in his former life. Uncanny knowledge of which way an enemy would jump, night vision better than twenty/twenty and the heart of a predator had always been his. But he’d never felt the type of awareness that invaded his body this week.
A breeze picked up, pushing the mist into swirling agitation and he felt her, the essence of a woman. He knew her the same way he’d often known there was an enemy in a place it shouldn’t be. The knowledge was instinctive. With her it was more. He felt more.
She was restless tonight. Her body ached and she sighed as she threw off covers. Unable to sleep, she was- fear suddenly gripped her-
NO! Alex rejected threads of emotion reaching for him. He would not put up with some phantom female slipping in and out of his soul. The hard evidence that his body disagreed throbbed between his legs. Alex stretched, flexing layers of tense muscle to deny the ethereal sensation of gentle hands sliding down his taut body. A scent drifted on the air but he chose to consign it to the night blooming jasmine far below. There were no soft sighs disappearing with the mist.
Scrubbing a hand down his face, he turned to his starkly empty bed.
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