The princess’s personal protection officer’s brow inched up his forehead. “That’s what I was afraid of. I’ve been standing here since you came out of the door.”
“Blaming a guy for being starstruck?” Tristan should have quit while he was ahead, but it wasn’t in his nature to admit defeat or weakness or momentary insanity.
“Looking at Princess Eleanor the way you were could get you on the watch list.”
Tristan couldn’t stop his smile. He supposed a man who had been trained to observe had caught his dumbstruck ogling. Thankfully, his teammates had been otherwise engaged. The bodyguard’s assessing gaze never left him, and Tristan struggled to determine his best response.
“She’s special,” he said quietly, as if Tristan didn’t get that. “And not any man would be able to handle her.”
Tristan wanted to beat his chest and proclaim he was just the man to do it, but then he caught himself. What the actual fuck?
The personal protection officer looked like he wanted to laugh but was too damn professional to actually show emotion.
“You’re fucked,” he said instead, and Tristan thought the dude knew exactly what he was talking about.
He shook it off when the door opened to the right of him. Princess Eleanor stepped out of the changing room, outfitted in national team gear. He liked the casual sophisticate she’d presented when she watched them practice, but wrapped up tight in joggers and a hoodie, wearing the same colors as he was, blew his appreciation into the stratosphere. She glanced hesitantly at her PPO, who signaled his approval with a nod. Her shoulders relaxed, and she turned her attention to Tristan. The icy blue of her eyes warmed him all the way to his toes.
He shot her a half-smile and then held out his hand to her. “Shall we?” he asked.
He expected her hesitation, but her hand slipped into his like it was a foregone conclusion.
He led her away from the changing room toward the heart of the building. “First time here, right?”
“Yes.”
The clipped response could have been nerves or just her natural reticence. He couldn’t be sure one way or another, but he didn’t let it deter him.
“The most interesting place is the physio room.” One of the more incredible aspects of playing at a high level was the technology used for evaluating players and dealing with injuries. He wasn’t sure, but he figured Princess Eleanor would appreciate something in this building other than football. “When we first got here, we had to do a strength and conditioning profile. We ran through a series of exercises, and the results were analyzed.”
She glanced over at him, her first spark of interest.
“In this room”—he pulled the door open—“we do joint testing, gait analysis, strength training. But they also have hydrotherapy pools, an altitude chamber, and an antigravity treadmill.”
Eleanor’s face lit up. Tristan let go of her hand, so she could look around without him hindering her. He sat on a nearby weight bench while she weaved among the machines. It was eerily quiet in a room normally full of staff and players alike. She paused when she got to one of the machines and looked over at him.
“Body composition analysis,” he answered her unasked question. She waited, another question in her gaze. “Body fat, water in your body.”
“Body fat?”
If he didn’t know who she was, her proper diction and accent might have given her away.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I would like that.”
Tristan couldn’t stop his gaze from licking up and down her body, like he could measure her body composition with just a look. When his eyes met hers, a blush stained her neck and cheeks.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Her gaze darted away. When she got to the next apparatus, she paused in front of it. “And this?”
“The Batak test. It tests your reflexes.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? Wanna give it a go then?”
Her head was shaking from side to side before he could even finish his question.
“Why not?” he pressed. “I think I can operate this one. Get it started for you.”
Her gaze shot back and forth between him and the machine. “What do I have to do?”
“There’re lights on each of these buttons. When it flashes, you have to touch it.”
“Why does it sound so simple when I know it’s not?”
He grinned. “Kind of like life then.” He set up the test and moved her into position. “Just tap on the button when it flashes.” He looked around, noting the silence again. The emptiness of the room registered.
“My security detail cleared the whole building when you offered a tour,” she remarked, apparently noting his surprise.
“Of course,” he said.
The quiet hit him like a buckshot. His life was loud and full and cramped with people. Hers was quiet and cluttered but devoid of crowds. He wondered if she ever got to experience anything as it was supposed to be and not merely as they set it up for her.
The test started, and she moved to respond. She laughed when she touched the first light. Then, she met the test with a fierce determination. The Batak test didn’t know it was challenging a royal; it had no expectations of who she was, and it made no excuses for her. It was real and honest and straightforward. She finished and turned to him expectantly, her eyes alight with some sense of victory. Little wisps of hair escaped the confines of her braid and softened the angles of her face.
“Can I do it again?” she asked on a rush.
“Of course.” Tristan started it again.
When her next test was faster than the first, she shot him a look like a kid begging for a second helping of dessert.
“Again?”
She nodded. Again, her time improved. Her face flush with accomplishment, she turned to him. He held his hand out to her, and when she clasped his, he pulled her in for his standard bro hug. All reticence evaporated, Princess Eleanor willingly came into his arms.
“Nice.”
When he stepped away, she followed naturally. Then, her delicate, finely boned hands reached out. Elegant fingers smoothed along the line of his jaw, and he froze. Her thumbs rubbed against his bottom lip. His tongue flicked out and licked the tip of one of them. Her quick inhale relayed her surprise; the curve of her mouth telegraphed her delight.
Her lips met his in a move so unanticipated that he froze. The first tender drag of her mouth against his shot lust through his whole body. The caveman who lived just beneath his skin wanted to drag her down onto the floor and take control. But he knew she needed to be in charge of the situation, so he parted his lips infinitesimally, letting her know this was up to her.
She tilted her head back, and they locked eyes. Her hands trembled against his face, and he knew she needed some sign from him. He placed his hand on her hip and gently nudged her forward. Her thumbs moved against his mouth again, and like Pavlov’s dog, his lips parted. When her mouth landed on his, it was not the gentle nip he’d expected but rather a headlong dive into the rawest, most hedonistic kiss of his life.
She rose on her tiptoes for more leverage, and her tongue dipped inside, tasting, stripping him. He’d never been so exposed. He gave her a moment of exploration, enjoying every second of her flavor, her desire, her abandon. Then, he shifted closer, and his hands found their way to her face. He cradled her jaw for a brief second, savoring the smooth texture of her skin, the sharp angle of her chin. Then, for his own self-preservation, he slowly withdrew. He knew this wasn’t something she did, and his desire to protect her feelings made him cautiously move away. Their lips met in a closed-mouth brush.