«Chosen By The Prince» by Alana Church

Prince Jothri didn't want a wife. Milkmaid Alessandra Shipbourne CERTAINLY didn't want a husband. But the law was clear. The prince of Westhaven must sire his heir on a commoner. And with both the land and their own desires driving them together, only a fool would try to stand between. Alessandra will need her wits about her, because she has been “Chosen By The Prince!”
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~


Her voice, when she spoke, was deeper than usual, with a slow, rolling cadence which was older than the hills.


“The Land speaks through me. What is the desire of the Lord who comes before me?”


Jothri stood. In the low light, wrought of candlelight and the low glow of the fire on the hearth, his body was magnificent, golden red, like bloodstained gold. His eyes were deep and shadowed, and she saw, with a stab of triumph, that the fabric at his loins could no longer disguise the signs of his swelling arousal.


“I am the Lord.” His voice was deep and steady. “I come to claim the Land for my own. Mine and the heirs of my body.”


A wave of displeasure rolled through her. This one is arrogant. He will need to be taught a lesson.


She raised her chin haughtily. “I am the Land. I submit to no Lord who does not kneel before me.”


As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Jothri bowed his head, kneeling before her. “I am the Lord. I come seeking the Land’s blessing.”


His position put his head nearly at the level of her groin, and Alessandra stifled a wild impulse to pull up the hem of her robe and demand that he kiss her throbbing womanhood until she climaxed.


“Disrobe, my Lord,” she murmured, somehow hiding her panic. “Let us see what you have to offer the Land.”


His hands flew to the waist of his robe, and she knew he was aroused as she. It took only moments before he was nude, standing before her proudly.


Her legs grew weak, and before she knew what she was doing, she had fallen to her knees.


“So lovely,” she whispered, bending forward. It was impossible to resist. The tip of her tongue flickered out, laying a darting kiss on his skin. His taste was divine. Clean soap and male musk and the faintest acrid tang of his sweat, all combining to make him irresistible.


She murmured, voiceless, deep in her throat, her body raging for release, as she licked him. His taste burst on her tongue in an explosion of pleasure, and before she knew it, her mouth was open wide, only a hairbreadth from swallowing him whole.


Stupid, wretched slattern! The voice was a whip-crack in her mind. Will you ruin everything? Do you want him to spill his seed uselessly in your mouth or on your body? Your child will be queen. But only if you don’t make a bloody stupid balls of it. Stop it. Stop it now!


Although it was close to agony, somehow, shaking, she pulled away, raising her head and letting him escape her mouth. Above her, Jothri was shaking like a fly-stung horse, the muscles of his stomach jumping and trembling spasmodically.


“Oh no,” she teased, hiding how close she had come to losing control. “You will not spill your seed on barren ground, my Lord.” Why was she still wearing this stupid robe, she thought with a trace of her old irritation. She undid the knot and let it fall to the floor, at last leaving her naked with her lifemate. Teasingly, she ran a finger down her breasts to her stomach, pausing below her navel. “Only within my fertile valley will it take root.


“Are you the plowman I have been looking for?”