tomorrows that follow
four
The Daily Mail
September 30, 2020
PRINCE NIK AND THE MYSTERY GIRL
Second in Line Spotted with Unknown Date
By Bryanna Whyte
Follow: BryWhy
It's the best kept secret in Britain: just who is the woman in the photos?
With her back to the camera, the mystery girl provides an enigma to royal watchers both devoted and casual alike. Take an exchange between two women as overheard by this author, at a local pub a mere few days ago: "Blonde means it isn't Aurora [de Martel] or Hayley [Marshall]. Maybe Camille [O'Connell]?"
"No," her friend argued, "Camille is on tour in Southeast Asia! She posted that same day from her concert in Singapore!"
Reps for all three women have declined to comment.
While the palace has remained reliably tight-lipped, sources close to Prince Niklaus have confirmed that he is, in fact, dating someone new—and not just new to the British public. "His family hasn't met her," one source claims, "though Kol and Rebekah are particularly eager to change that." The source added that Niklaus is "besotted" with his new mystery girl.
CLICK FOR COMMENTS:
WindyCityWendy: well mystery girl needs to eat a sandwich
GarnertheGardener: WindyCityWendy that's pretty rude tbh, she looks fine!
Rosie_Is_Riveted: GarnertheGardener WindyCityWendy I mean a deep condition or three wouldn't go amiss but otherwise yeah she's fine
MagicMummy: WindyCityWendy for the record, i agree with you and T B H, no one who wears leggings as trousers should be allowed to date royalty. xx
—
One week slips easily into a second, a second into a third, and in the blink of an eye, July becomes August, then September. Though her face and name are still known to fewer than ten people— Caroline ticks them off: herself and Nik, Bonnie and Meredith, Royal Protection Officers Daniel and Stacey, and possibly David Fell (she can never tell if he's paying attention and hasn't bothered repeating herself)—she can't help but feel like she's one wrong move away from a Superman-style reveal via The Daily Mirror's Royal Watch section.
The first week, Nik takes her to a matinee movie; she piles her hair into a black beanie, borrows Meredith's Duke Medical School hoodie, and pulls the hood up over her head. It makes Nik laugh, her attempt at incognito— "A little overboard," he says with a grin that makes her heart flip over. He tugs on the sweatshirt drawstring that hangs down her front, wrapping it loosely around his finger. "One or the other will do, sweetheart."
They sit in the back row, Daniel and Stacey lingering somewhere nearby, but Caroline doesn't feel an ounce of embarrassment when she and Nik make out the entire movie. She can't even remember the name of it when Meredith asks afterwards.
The second week, she digs out a pair of massive circle sunglasses and hides her face underneath their plastic rims; he laughs when he sees her and calls her Ashley Olsen for an hour before she finally swats at him playfully.
It's easy to forget Nik's status when she's with him—when he grins at her as she tries valiantly to pretend like she enjoys some of the food he has her try (she mostly succeeds with baked beans on toast—it's fine, but black pudding is a bridge too far), or when he wrestles with Olive in the backyard of the nearby royal estate.
He's ridiculously charming, in no small part, Caroline is certain, to his upbringing; and has even mostly won over Bonnie, by far his biggest skeptic. "I reserve the right to change my mind," she says once he's dropped her off after their fourth date, "seeing as how I'm staunchly anti-monarchy, but—" she shrugs. "Consider me charmed."
"How can you be anti-monarchy when you aren't British?" Caroline asks curiously.
"I'm Canadian," Bonnie retorts, "and his mother's face is on our money, so I reserve the right to criticize."
Other times, it's all she can think about.
If she turns her head just to the right, away from watching him play with Olive, the royal estate of Ashbury literally looms large. The sprawling mansion—castle? Palace? She's still not sure which is the more accurate descriptor—sits on acres of land that stretch off into the distance, emerald green hills rolling gently beyond her sightline. She can't quite hide her star struck reaction to his casual mention of meeting her favorite actors (Nicole Kidman is lovely, she learns, and Chris Evans once hit on his younger sister, Rebekah, much to Nik's chagrin).
After a month, he casually refers to her as his girlfriend, and her heart nearly beats right out of her chest. They haven't discussed any labels, and in conversations outside of Meredith and Bonnie, she's been referring to him as the guy I'm seeing. Liz Forbes has tried to pry, Matt has not, and neither knows his name.
"Girlfriend, huh?" she says casually, and the look he shoots her makes her knees go weak.
"If you like."
She hums and tilts her head, pretending to think about it. "I guess it's fine," she demurs playfully, grinning up at him from under her lashes. When he dimples, her heart leaps.
Seven weeks in, he cancels last minute twice; and that Friday night, she's half listening to Channel 4 from the silent kitchen, Bonnie having long gone home for the day.
She's making herself a bowl of cereal for dinner when she hears the anchor say in perfect, crisp Queen's English, "…and the contingent from the American embassy had a full state banquet tonight at Buckingham Palace, with Her Majesty cutting an elegant figure, along with four of her five children—"
Caroline looks down at her socked feet and ratty sweatpants. Fiona had wanted to play hide and seek in the expansive gardens on the property, and Caroline had ended up ankle deep in mud puddles while her small charge searched for her. She's pretty sure she still has mud in her hair.
"God," she says aloud to the empty kitchen. "What are you doing, Forbes?" She shakes her head and stares down at her Cinnamon Toast Crunch, poking at it with her spoon. Her appetite has vanished, replaced by the suddenly overwhelming knowledge that she's entirely out of her depth—American, firmly middle class, and extraordinarily ordinary.
She fiddles her phone in her hand before setting it down firmly. "Don't torture yourself, Caroline," she chastises herself before she nods once and walks out of the kitchen, phone firmly in her pocket.
On her way up to tuck in Fiona, she turns the TV off without looking at the news story. She doesn't need to see it to know that state banquet ready, she is not.
—
"Car-o-line," Fiona says after her third bedtime story, "what's an oh-pear?"
Caroline, grateful that her back is turned as she shelves The Snowy Day, winces. "Well," she says, forcing the lightness in her voice, "it's basically what I do right now, for your mom and dad." She turns and offers Fiona a smile. "I take care of you," she reaches down and secures the comforter tightly around Fiona's small body, "and play with you, and make sure that you're okay and happy, and that you do your homework." She smooths heavy bangs off of Fiona's forehead. "Why do you ask?"
Fiona bites her lip and looks away. "Some of the girls at school were being mean," she whispers and Caroline's heart contracts. She pulls her small stool over from its spot in the corner and settles herself back down on it, leaning forward so her elbows rest on her knees.
"Were they being mean to you?"
Fiona shakes her head once. No.
"Hmmm," Caroline hums. "Were they being mean about me?"
Fiona's eyes go wide, then she nods. Yes.
Ah.
She doesn't ask what they said—they were likely just repeating what they'd overheard their mothers say—but Fiona provides it anyway. "They said my daddy is probably sleeping with you, but I told them that you have your own room to sleep in, and Ollie, and a boyfriend, and that they don't know anything!"
"Hey, hey," Caroline cajoles soothingly as Fiona's cheeks turn pink, "it's okay, Fi. It's okay. They're just silly little girls who don't know what they're talking about."
Fiona nods again, scooting down further into her sheets. "I know," she says, a touch petulant, "but they shouldn't be so mean about it." She scrunches her tiny face. "When do I get to meet your boyfriend, Caroline?"
The word boyfriend twines its way around her heart and squeezes. "I'll ask him," she says evasively, standing and pushing the stool back to the corner.
"Does Ollie like him?"
The question makes Caroline smile. "Yes," she assures Fiona as she reaches to turn the light off. "Olive likes him very much."
Fiona beams up at her. "Then I like him," she declares, one small arm wrapping around her stuffed elephant. "Good night, Caroline."
"Good night, Fi," Caroline says quietly before flicking the light switch.
—
In the privacy of her bedroom, she can't help but pull up the Daily Mail's homepage.
As queen, Nik's mother leads the line of dignitaries, escorted by none other than the president himself—Caroline can't help but scowl at the sight of the man. "Fucker," she grumbles, but then her eyes slide over to the Queen, who is nearly glowing in a soft, navy blue ball gown, her bright blue sash a perfectly coordinating bright line across her front.
Pinned to one side are several small ribbons, and Caroline is sure that each represents some royal honor that she'll never even whiff at. A sparkling tiara of glittering diamonds is set in her hair, and the design of her earrings match its peaks. She wears no other jewelry—a good call, Caroline thinks. Any more would overwhelm her, and draw attention away from her face. The caption notes that Nik's father Michael is not present, and the tone of the short phrase makes her head tilt in brief curiosity before she scrolls on.
Behind Esther, Prince Elijah is escorting the first lady, who earns another scoff from Caroline; he, however, is objectively handsome in his perfectly tailored suit. Her thoughts wander to Katherine, who, given her status as not yet a wife, is absent from the dinner. Maybe she too spent Friday night in sweatpants and messy hair, although Caroline sincerely doubts her dinner also consisted of soggy cereal.
Her finger scrolls down her Mac's trackpad, past the ambassador, and comes to rest at Nik's photo. His suit, much like Elijah's, fits him perfectly, and he's half smiling at something the Secretary of State next to him is saying—the caption under the photo reads Prince Niklaus with Secretary Peters.
She's seen him in dress clothes before, but this is white tie, and multiple emotions war within her. There's attraction, of course—he looks incredible, and the comments under the article seem to whole-heartedly agree; and a healthy smattering of pride. He's handsome, and polished, and could have anyone—
—while she has nothing to her name except a useless degree, a few years of acting in community theater and off-off Broadway, and absolutely no plan. She can almost hear Liz Forbes in her ear: no future.
Biting her lip, she exits the article, and the photos of Nik and his family vanish, replaced by the homepage, where, in a small article to the side, there's a candid of Katherine in stylish wedge heels and a fashionable dress that the text bubble claims was only £99 at Zara. She's still nailing the casual, yet unattainable elegance as she walks to—Caroline squints at the fine print under the photo—what the Mail claims is a wedding dress fitting. The large ruby on her hand doesn't exactly sparkle, but it stands out on her finger, a brilliant red surrounded by glittering diamonds. Her eyes are hidden once again by her sunglasses, though the ghost of a smile is lingering on her face.
In her mind's eye, Caroline tries to imagine what a photographer's lens might capture should it find her on any given day—jeans, an NYU sweatshirt, Fiona's grip tightly held in one hand, and the little girl's homework in the other. It's not exactly the picture of glamor, and it just reinforces the sensibility of secrecy.
Next to her computer, her phone buzzes then lights up, forcing her attention from the Daily Mail's homepage. A smile automatically tugs at her face when she sees Nik's name—clearly the Secretary of State isn't a riveting conversation companion.
Date tomorrow? the text reads and her heart, the treacherous thing, skips a beat.
She hesitates, her finger hovering over the tempered glass, before she types out, Okay.
His reply comes quickly. I'll pick you up. 8 am.
The next text comes on its heels, almost as an afterthought: Wear something nice.
—
It's a breakup. She can tell.
He picks her up in the rain, the standard protection officer in the car several car lengths behind his own, and as soon as Caroline slides into the passenger seat, there's a vibe. She picks up on it, the lingering edge in the air, and she's surprised at how much she dislikes the thought of not only getting dumped, but getting dumped specifically by him.
"Good morning," he says, nodding down to where there are two coffee cups waiting in the cup holder. "Took the liberty of ordering for you."
"Look at you, knowing the way to a girl's heart," she says approvingly, pushing away all morose thoughts. Best to enjoy her time with him while it lasts, she decides, before picking up the cup closest to her and inhaling deeply.
"I do try," he says wryly, pulling away from the Fell house and easing out into the road.
Caroline raises an eyebrow and tilts her head in exaggerated suspicion. "Yeah but don't act like this was entirely selfless," she accuses mildly. "I know you had a late night of what had to be thrilling discussions with—" she winces dramatically, her free hand making air quotes, "—the American contingent."
Nik scoffs derisively. "Tactical geniuses, those lot—no offense, love," he says, his tone bordering on acidic, and Caroline sends a tiny grin into the mouth of her coffee cup.
"You looked handsome, though," she blurts out, and immediately winces internally. But he glances over at her and grins, her favorite grin that sends a tiny shock zipping down her skin. "I mean—anyone would look good next to—"
"No," he interrupts, "You can't take it back now. It's too late, I'm afraid. You looked?" He seems pleased at the idea, and the hope that maybe this isn't a breakup at all begins to flutter tiny, delicate wings in her chest.
She offers him a tiny smile, careful to keep her face neutral. "Maybe a quick glance," she demurs. "How was it?"
Nik shrugs, his gaze turning back to the road. "No offense meant, love, but your president is a bloody wanker." He glances over at her conspiratorially. "Mum said it was absolutely excruciating at her table."
Caroline snorts. "That's about what I'd expect," she grumbles, shifting in her seat. "So uh, you didn't say where we were going—"
"Oh did I not?" he hums with a half-grin.
"No, you did not, so if we're going somewhere fancy—"
"You'll ruin the surprise," he scolds, and her stomach swoops.
Please don't dump me.
It's on the tip of her tongue, but even in the safety of her own mind, the words sound pathetic. Just enjoy the time while you have it, Forbes, she tells herself, and she pulls her best actress smile from her arsenal.
But he notices.
"Alright then?" Nik asks.
"Good," she says brightly, shifting in her seat. "Just wondering where we're going."
He doesn't look like he entirely believes her, but he lets it go. "Don't tell anyone," he instructs lightly, "but I'm abusing my station." He motions ahead, where the lane ahead of them is suspiciously empty; then down to the speedometer. "Free reign, I'm afraid."
Despite herself, she laughs. "Your secret's safe with me."
—
True to his word, a four hour trip only takes two.
Caroline blinks at the bustling traffic in front of them, instinctively sliding down in her seat and pulling the hood of her rain jacket over her head. "We're...in London," she says slowly.
"Well-spotted," he says with a grin as he directs the car into a secluded underground carpark— a secluded underground car park that is suspiciously empty for a Saturday morning.
"Don't be cross," he warns as he parks. The protection officers pull in next to him as he continues, "I called ahead and requested a private box."
"A private box for what?" Caroline asks as she follows him out of the car and towards a discreet back entrance. "Nik—"
Instead of answering, he pulls open a side door and looks over his shoulder at her, a finger on his lips and a devilish spark in his eyes. "Quiet," he says, his own voice dropping to just above a whisper. "There's a rehearsal on."
—
The royal box at the Royal Opera House is nestled into a corner, and the dress rehearsal has just begun when Nik leads her to it. Her hand is clasped in his, his thumb running lightly over her knuckle as they settle into ornate chairs with plush, richly colored cushions.
On stage, the dancers are taking final instructions, and Caroline's heart stops when one looks up, his eyes zeroing in on the royal box. As though sensing the path of her thoughts, Nik squeezes her hand and leans forward to whisper in her ear, "Spotlight, sweetheart. They can't see a thing."
Right on cue, the music begins to swell and the dancers disperse, darting off to the side of the stage and vanishing. The opening bars pull a thread in her memory and as soon she tugs, she gives a tiny gasp in recognition.
This is Romeo and Juliet.
She had seen it once, in New York. Her seat had been mere feet from the theater's ceiling, but it had hardly mattered; she had leaned forward in rapt attention, barely willing to blink lest she miss a moment of the graceful dancing, the swirling colors of the costumes, the crest and fall of the orchestra crescendo. At the end of the ballet, she had mourned the thought that she might never get to experience the performance again just as much as she had mourned the characters of Romeo and Juliet.
But here she is, at a private dress rehearsal. In the Royal box, no less.
As the music builds, she wonders if he knew.
The next three hours pass in the blink of an eye—three hours, three days, or three decades—Caroline can't say. She doesn't look away from the stage once, enthralled by performance. Her eyes track the pirouettes, the visible emotion on the dancers' faces as they tell the tragedy through graceful movement.
It isn't until the music stops abruptly, and the dancers drop character and congregate at the edge of the stage to listen to their director, that she realizes it's over. Her cheeks are wet; she didn't even realize that she had been crying.
Nik stands, and offers her his hand. For a moment she only stares at it, her mind spinning with questions: what does it mean that he took her on her idea of a perfect date, and more importantly, what comes next?
"Can they go again?" she finally asks, trying— and failing—to subtly dab at her eyes.
That makes him laugh. "Afraid not," he says with a grin. "They open tonight."
His hand lingers at the small of her back as they slip out, unnoticed by the dancers.
—
On the drive back to Avondale, Caroline's mind is spinning, carefully turning over information like tarot cards, bent on reading her future.
The first card flips in her mind: he did not break up with her.
The second card flips: not only had he not broken up with her, he had arranged a private viewing of the Royal Ballet's dress rehearsal for Romeo and Juliet—something she never once dreamed she would be able to see again, much less from the secluded royal box.
The third card, the last one she draws from her mental deck as the car pulls into the circle drive, is barely a complete thought—it's the simple realization that this may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for her.
Nik parks the SUV in the drive and leans back in his seat; he doesn't seem to expect her to get out just yet, so she unbuckles her seatbelt and turns so her body is angled towards him. "That was a great surprise," Caroline tells him sincerely.
"Glad to hear it," he says, and he must be trying to kill her with charm, because he picks up her hand and brushes his lips across the knuckles.
"Seriously," she continues, "I saw Romeo and Juliet one time before, back in New York. It was amazing then, like truly incredible, but that—" She shakes her head, words tumbling out of her. "I can't even explain it—like, how can someone convey so much emotion and not even use words? I mean, that's the—that's an actor's dream, and they made it look so effortless and—" she cuts herself off and feels her cheeks heat. "Sorry. I'm gushing."
"No," Nik says firmly, his thumb sweeping over the back of her hand, "don't apologize." His eyes are intent on her face, and she has the distinct feeling that he's waging an internal debate before he says slowly, his thumb continuing its journey over the peaks and valleys of her knuckles, "I paint."
His voice is quiet, but not soft; his tone clipped, but not harsh, his syllables the crispest Queen's English she's heard him use.
"I'm no great talent," he says, "but I have a few works in traveling exhibits under the name Nicholas Michaels." She watches as he smiles faintly, the expression tinged with the slightest bit of self-deprecation, as though he's listened to himself and dubbed the words worthy of mockery. "My family doesn't know."
And she isn't royalty, nor has she ever had to give up pieces of herself to a curious populace, but she gets it—gets wanting to keep a piece of yourself to just yourself. On impulse, she lifts his hand and kisses the back of it, mirroring him.
"Thank you for sharing," she tells him quietly. "It means a lot to me."
As she lets their still clasped hands fall back to the console, he leans forward and kisses her gently, a soft brush of his lips against hers. It ends all too quickly and it's in the space between them, in the quiet air of the car, that she makes a decision.
"It's Saturday," she says finally, looking down at where their fingers are intertwined. "Meredith and David are both off, for the first time in like, ever, and they took Fi to the zoo. They, uh, had plans all day, said they'd be back late." She doesn't dare glance up for fear that she might spontaneously combust. "If you wanted to get out of here."
She feels the moment Nik's gaze moves to her face; she still can't look up, her heartbeat picking up speed.
"Let's," he says.
—
Caroline has been inside the sprawling royal estate of Ashbury only a handful of times—mostly to use the restroom, though Nik had shown her the art gallery on her first visit and grinned in poorly hidden amusement as she had gaped over a genuine Rembrandt that hung near a doorway.
But her time at the estate had been mostly limited to the gardens and the laughable excuse for a backyard. "A backyard," she had mocked on her first visit, "more like a National Park." She had batted her eyelashes at him. "Is there a visitor's fee?"
But none of those trips to Ashbury are like this one.
He leads her through the front door, through the foyer that stretches on for what feels like miles, her veins zipping in anticipation. Miraculously, the staff seems to have made themselves scarce and for a brief moment, Caroline wonders if they're just that well-trained.
The paintings on the walls—his ancestors, or their associates, she's sure—glower down as though they know, can sense what his tight grip on her hand means as he leads her through richly colored hallways.
But then they've reached their destination, the doorknob turning swiftly and the heavy door with its ornate carvings opens and shuts behind them just as quickly.
This kiss is nothing like the one in the car.
Nik's mouth is hot on hers, his teeth capturing her bottom lip, and something about the way the light from the setting sun is streaming in through the window of his enormous bedroom seems so—tawdry. It feels daring and exciting and nerve-wracking all at the same time, and as his hands slide under her shirt and linger against her skin, a flash of self-doubt—an all too familiar feeling lately—strikes true.
She thinks at first that she hides it well, but Nik murmurs against her ear, "Stop thinking."
"Shouldn't you close your curtains?" she retorts mildly, her fingers skimming under his shirt and touching warm skin. This isn't unfamiliar territory for them, but her heart is still picking up speed.
"I should," he says into her neck, making no move to let her go. His teeth scrap her collarbone and for a second, her eyes shut.
Then the backs of her legs hit the bed, he's suddenly gone, and both her eyes and her mouth open in protest—
Swish.
Caroline almost laughs. He's shutting the stupid curtains.
Almost as soon as he'd left, he's back, his mouth insistent on hers, and his fingers playing with the buttons of her shirt, careful to keep them in their buttonholes. "You're sure?" he says against her lips, and she pulls back, unable to hold the tiny laugh at bay.
"Beyond," she confirms, and the smile he rewards her with is so dazzling, so sweet, that she thinks she might die.
"Good," he says, and within the blink of an eye, the buttons are undone, her shirt falling to the floor. His shirt is next, her hands following the path of exposed skin until she feels his hips beneath her fingers. His mouth is insistent on hers, his tongue slipping between her teeth as her bra loosens and then drops away. They're skin to skin, flush together; and Caroline is fairly certain that if the heat in her cheeks is any indication, her face must be the same color as the red carpet in the estate's hallways.
"Stunning," she hears him say when he pulls back an inch, and it's so quiet, so soft, that she isn't sure it was even meant for her to hear. She kisses him fiercely and his arms wrap around her. The ground vanishes and her back hits indelible softness before he covers her again. Her fingers tangle in his hair as his mouth traces a line down her throat, stopping at her collarbone for his teeth to scrape against her skin. Her breath catches in her throat before he moves further.
"Nik," she murmurs, and is treated to a devilish glance from him, his eyes locking on hers as he slowly, tortuously touches his tongue to her nipple. She barely has time to react before the rest of his mouth follows as his hand reaches for the button on her jeans, his tongue swirling her nipple into a stiff peak. Her face flames, and she bites back a moan as Nik slides the zipper down.
His mouth releases her breast all too soon and traces down her stomach.
"Lift, darling," he says into her hip bone, his voice a rumble from his throat.
The world spins and she barely hears the sound of her jeans landing on the floor over the blood roaring in her ears.
In a flash she remembers—oh no—
"Caroline," Nik says, and he sounds delighted. "Caroline, sweetheart. It's Saturday." Her hands come up to her face as she stifles a groan.
"I know that! It's laundry day," she protests, half curling to one side. His chuckle chases her and despite the echoing giggle that threatens at her lips, she wants to die on the spot. Her underwear is not only supremely unsexy, it also says Tuesday on it in bold, 70s style disco lettering. "These aren't in normal rotation, I swear." She peeks at him through her fingers. "And if I'd known this was happening, they wouldn't have been my first pick!"
He laughs, low in his throat. "I look forward to seeing your first choice," he says and the giggle she's been fighting escapes.
"Play your cards right," she says flirtatiously, and the grin that he shoots her from his spot at her hip is enough to send her into spontaneous combustion. She's almost surprised when she doesn't burst into flames on the spot.
"I happen to be excellent at cards," he says, and any witty rejoinder she might have had dies on her lips as he hooks his fingers around the terrible panties' waistband and pulls them down. Caroline barely has time to breathe before his mouth descends and her hips instinctively tilt upwards. White hot streaks of pleasure zip down her veins as his tongue swirls around her clit, and her fingers entwine their way into his hair as her eyes close.
White hot stars dance behind her eyelids and she can't hold back the tiny sounds of pleasure that escape. Through the haze, she feels him slip a finger past her folds, his mouth easing the pressure slightly. Later she thinks she might be mortified at the protesting sound she makes, but the warm laugh that presses into her thigh followed by renewed vigor against her clit erases all embarrassment.
Her entire body stiffens, her back arching, and somewhere through the haze, Caroline thinks her grip on his hair must be hurting him, but her fingers only dig harder as she comes. Her body curls and she gasps as orgasm rocks through her. She thinks she hears Nik say good girl, but the blood in her ears is roaring.
When she relaxes, her spine liquid against the bedsheets, he follows, and she tastes herself on him when he kisses her. His fingers trail down her side, coming to a halt at her hips. He kisses her again, and then he's gone and she protests—
But she hears the sound of a wrapper tearing, and then his body is covering hers again.
"You're sure about this?" Nik asks again softly, and it doesn't matter that they're both fully naked in his bed, his hand drifting between her legs, and stars still in her eyes. She looks up at him, directly into his eyes, and has the distinct feeling that she's standing at the center of two diverged roads.
The blue of his eyes matches the color of the Atlantic the day he had taken her sailing.
"Completely," she whispers back.
Slowly, so slowly Caroline thinks her skin might catch fire, the tip of him nudges at her entrance; then, in a single, smooth thrust, he's inside of her. Her breath catches in her throat as Nik hitches up, his nose brushing hers and a tiny, lazy smile on his lips.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and she feels herself smile back in response.
"Flirt." The accusation floats out on an exhale.
"You make it easy," he replies, kissing her before she can volley a response back. He pulls back slightly, his arms bracketing her head; and she allows herself to admire the shape of the muscles that jump as he holds himself above her. Just as slowly as he had entered her, he pulls out, and her toes curl in response.
"Mean," she complains breathily, and she feels him laugh into her neck.
"Allow me to beg your forgiveness," Nik coaxes, still chuckling as he moves so that his nose brushes against her cheek. His hips begin to cant faster, and her breath catches in her throat as her fingers grip his shoulders.
There is no more talking as she holds on to him, his thrusts increasing in force and speed. Lightning strikes in her belly, sparking along her blood as the heat of it spreads through her body; and the gasp that she lets escape seems to spur him on. Caroline arches beneath him, muscles locking into place as she comes again. As she floats back down into her body, she feels his teeth scrape her shoulder blade and then he tenses, his hips pinned onto hers as he finishes.
They lay there in sated silence, until Nik breaks it, one hand coming up to push damp curls off of his forehead. "I'll have to get a list of your favorite ballets, sweetheart." He glances over at her, a grin lingering on his face. "If this is the thanks they get."
—
Moonlight is streaming in through the cracks in the curtains and Nik's stubble scratches at her temple as she scoots in closer, tucking her head in the crook of his neck. A text to Meredith letting her know her whereabouts has been fired off, she's had no less than three—three—orgasms, and the music of the ballet is still playing in the back of her mind. How, she wonders idly, did she get so lucky?
"There's a polo match next weekend," Nik says softly, breaking the stillness, "and I'd like you to come. We can tell the press you're Bekah's friend from the States, met on a tour or through a friend."
Her eyes still shut, Caroline considers.
Secrecy has been their constant companion, lingering in doorways and hallway corners, and despite all the very real and still very concerning reasons Caroline has to keep their relationship out of the public eye—
She can't stop thinking about Romeo and Juliet. And maybe she'll regret it on some faraway day in the future, but all of her meticulously argued reasons for staying hidden seem small now.
"Or," she begins softly, and his fingertips slow on their path down her shoulder. "Maybe…maybe we can tell them the truth."
His fingers still entirely as she dangles on the precipice, awaiting his answer. "Caroline," he murmurs.
"Just the bare bones of it," she hurries to add, "you know, that we're dating and it's fun, and that's, you know, it." Her heart trips at the last few words. She's gone far past that, but she keeps it to herself for now. "If it gets too bad, you…you can always tell them to back off. Meredith says your brother did that once."
He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a scoff. "Hardly worked."
"But worth a shot?"
Nik leans back slightly to study her face. "Caroline," he says, his voice gentle, "we can carry on as we are."
It would certainly be easier—and she likes to think she's gotten better at being clandestine.
But that afternoon's date replays in her mind.
"You just made the grandest gesture anyone's ever made for me," she tells him instead. "Let me do the same."
Something flashes in his eyes as one of his dimples appears. "Reciprocity is hardly required," he says and she grins before touching her nose to his.
"If it were, I wouldn't be here."
Still Nik hesitates, his eyes fixed on her. "Your grand gesture will have farther reaching consequences, I'm afraid."
Caroline waves her hand. "Consequences considered," she tells him, "and accepted."
The dimple turns into a full smile and he leans forward to kiss her. "Pick you up, then," he says.
—
tbc