The Controversial Princess

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  “Why?”

  “Because addiction means wanting constant access to the hit you need.” He kisses each corner of my mouth. “And constant access isn’t the kind of thing a man can depend on when he’s addicted to one of the most protected women in the world.”

  I catch his lips and coax his mouth open, lapping my tongue softly across his. “So it is bad news for you, yes?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been in so much trouble.” He deepens our kiss, his body sliding across mine briefly before he rises to his knees, smiling at his growing cock. “Cross your hands at your wrists,” he orders, which I do immediately, just in time for him to flip me onto my knees. “Hold tight, Your Highness.” I grip the gold bar of my headboard hard, grunting when his palm connects with my right cheek, reigniting the blaze across my skin. I don’t shout, don’t curse, and I don’t even jolt. In fact, I smile sadistically, focusing on the warmth that follows the sting and my body’s need to turn that sting into pleasure. My hair is gathered into his fist and tugged back viciously, and I still smile. With his body bent over mine, he brings his mouth to my ear. “Was that a smile?”

  “What of it?”

  “I love your cockiness.” He curls my hair around his hand and yanks until my head is forced back and I’m confronted with his face. “I need my belt.”

  “Too bad it’s being used to restrain your prey.”

  “Then I’ll have to find another.”

  I wonder what for, but I don’t voice it. Because deep down, I already know. Squaring unaffected, sure eyes on him, I speak, just as certain and strong. “Bottom drawer of the chest in my dressing room.”

  His smile is a blend of awe and approval, and he kisses me hard, fisting my hair tightly as he does. “Don’t move,” he orders as he gets off the bed and paces to my dressing room.

  “Because where the hell can I go?” I say quietly, knowing I’m about to be thrashed, and wondering where the hell my objection is. I’m on my knees, hands tied, arse exposed, and I have never been so relaxed in my entire life. What is wrong with me?

  Or maybe I should be asking what is right with me? Him. He is what’s right here. Josh bloody Jameson, actor extraordinaire, who is currently rummaging through my drawers to find a belt in order to whip my arse. I shake my head at myself and then still when I hear the crack of leather.

  “Nice belt,” Josh says quietly, prompting me to look over my shoulder. He’s threading the leather between his hands, slowly and purposefully, that wicked grin on his face again. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Josh Jameson is a kinky bastard. Hankies, slaps, belts, and restraints. Why I am so eager to play with him is not something I’m prepared to analyze right now. I’m too wound up. Too desperate for him to bend me to his will, to beg, to make me melt away under his expert touch. To make me forget I’m a product of the most privileged family in the world, and this kind of behavior should be well off the agenda.

  Another sharp crack jolts me from my reasoning, and I zoom in on the belt again, now dangling by his naked thigh. He stalks slowly forward, eyes rooted to my bare bottom, his face full of gratitude. “When I’m done with you, Your Highness, you’re going to be questioning who your true king is.”

  I inhale sharply, not just at his words and that he’s most probably right, but at what he’s holding in his other hand. My maternal grandmother’s tiara, a beautiful piece bequeathed to me—her only granddaughter—by the late Spanish queen. It’s personal to me, and though it was argued that the treasure should be locked away with the rest of the family jewels, my mother insisted that as a Spanish treasure, it was a gift for me to admire, to wear, to cherish. It is one of the only battles she has won with the King. The antique, diamond-encrusted headpiece weighs a ton, and is so very uncomfortable. But it’s stunning, and it screams royalty. And it’s even more special because my mother fought for it. For me. What’s Josh doing with it?

  He must catch the question in my eyes. “It’s beautiful.” He comes to a stop by the bed.

  “It was the Queen of Spain’s.”

  “It’s heavy.”

  “Which is why I rarely wear it, except for the occasional royal engagement in Spain.”

  “That’s a shame. Something so beautiful shouldn’t be hidden away.” He reaches forward and places the embellished tiara on my head.

  I close my eyes, aware of what happens next. “Get on with it, Josh.”

  “Are you telling me what to do?” The leather of the belt snaps threateningly.

  My flinch is mild. “No.”

  “Good. As long as you know where you stand.”

  “I’m not standing,” I retort, unable to stop the words before they fall from my mouth.

  “One,” he shouts as I’m thrashed with the belt, my backside bursting into raging flames. But just as quickly, the tip of his finger draws a line up my center, transforming that pain into pleasure of the most desperate kind.

  “Too hard?”

  I bite down on my lip, taking oxygen into my lungs, breathing through the pain. “Not enough.”

  I can almost hear his smile. And a second later, another thrash of the belt. “Two.”

  I pant, squeezing my eyes closed as his whole palm strokes at my entrance.

  “Fuck me, Adeline. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a superb vision. You, restrained, a crown upon your head, and your ass glowing.”

  I can only imagine what I must look like. The Princess of England on her knees, bound by leather, being whipped by leather, a priceless family heirloom perched on her head, with a famous Hollywood actor delivering the blows. It’s a mind-bender, for sure. But good God, I feel too uninhibited to devote any time to examining it further than that. He is a hedonistic man. I am a willing woman. That is it.

  I space out, struggling to keep my head up with the weight of the tiara weighing it down, my palms sweating and slipping around the gold bar that I’m clinging to, causing me to slip a few times, the bonds cutting into my skin. Yet the pain is only a blip on the pleasure sweeping through me, Josh’s fingers tickling the edges of my dripping pussy, teasing me, torturing me. I vaguely hear him count through five lashes, three to my arse, and then one to the top of each thigh. They sting terribly—my flesh throbbing—but it doesn’t even dent the passion surging through my veins. I am on the brink.

  I hear the ripping of a foil packet, and then a firm hand on my waist holds me in place as he walks on his knees toward my waiting arse, the head of his cock sliding straight past my lips and hitting me deep. “Have mercy,” Josh chokes, stilling, sending me dizzy with the depth he has achieved from one perfect stroke. I pant, fighting for air, my mind twisting. He reaches for my hair and yanks back, eliciting a small cry from me. “Ready to let go?”

  “Ready,” I confirm, desperate to let go. Or let go even more. I’m already in a sex-induced daze. It’s laughable really, because we haven’t even had sex yet.

  “God, I’m so ready.” He withdraws and pounds forward brutally, and the pace is set from there. Fast. Hard. No mercy, no holding back. Our bodies slap together as loudly as the leather did, the force of his body smashing into mine making me unstable on my knees. I lose my grip of the bar, forcing Josh to release my hair and manipulate my hands back into place. “You tell me if it’s too much.”

  “No.” I accept his ruthless pounding, silently begging him for more.

  Because with each violent drive, I’m being taken further and further away from my reality.

  My stomach begins to furl, my mind spinning faster, the blood racing quicker. “Josh,” I breathe, warning him.

  “Not yet, baby,” he spits urgently. “Don’t you dare let go yet.”

  I groan, tinkering on the edge of explosion, losing my fight. “Josh, I can’t hold it.”

  His strokes become more measured, more timed and accurate. “There’s no such thing as can’t.” He slaps my sore arse, but it doesn’t serve as a warning; it is more of a trigger, making my mission to cling to my release harder. And I t
hink the bastard knows that. “Hold it,” he growls, squeezing my breast.

  “You are not helping.”

  “No?” He pinches my nipple, sending a shot of pain straight to my pussy, the sensation mixing with the unrelenting burn.

  “Oh God!”

  “Hold it.”

  “Josh!”

  “Don’t disappoint me, Adeline.” He rams into me, grunting with every hit. “You can do it.”

  I zone out, closing my eyes and breathing through the torture. Because—and it is a revelation—I don’t want to disappoint him. His strokes are beautifully consistent now, albeit still brutal. I feel completely out of my body, entirely at his mercy, and my challenge has lessened under his expectation. Then I hear the words, “Let go, baby,” and I tumble, spiraling into my release on his command, my skin tingling fiercely as my inner walls are massaged through my climax by Josh’s throbbing cock.

  He moans, his pace reducing until his movements stop and he’s held within my warmth, our heaving bodies rolling as we both gasp for air. I would collapse if it wasn’t for the belt and Josh holding me in place.

  I feel his hands move to mine, unfastening the buckle quickly until my wrists slide free. I don’t have the chance to fall to the mattress. Josh catches me and turns me in his arms, bringing me to my back and our sweaty chests together. My arms are stiff, my wrists sore, and my arse burning. But none of it takes away from the serenity I feel in this moment.

  “Thanks for playing,” he mumbles against my wet cheek, biting it. I feel him smile around his mouthful of my flesh.

  “Have you not marked me enough without putting teeth marks in my face, too?”

  “Be quiet and give me a hug.”

  I laugh, utterly amused. “You have thrashed me to within an inch of my life, and now you want a hug for it?”

  “Are you questioning me again?”

  “No.” I reach around his shoulders and hug him, smiling into the crook of his neck. “It was fun.”

  “Wasn’t it.” Lifting up, he blows a wisp of hair from my face and pushes my grandmother’s tiara to the side of the bed. “Let me get you a drink. Water?”

  I frown around my smile, intrigued by his offer to wait on me. “I have staff who can fetch drinks if you would like one.”

  “Of course. How could I forget? But surely you don’t want them to see me.” He plants a solid peck on my mouth and gets off the bed. “Besides, I’d like to get you a drink.”

  “If you must. There are glasses and bottled water on the cabinet through there.” I roll over, wincing at the instant pull of every muscle I have, some of which I didn’t know I had. “Hurry up, now.”

  Josh grabs his jeans and tugs them up his perfectly sculptured thighs, grinning. “Yes, ma’am.” He disappears out of my bedroom, and I’m unable to stop the satisfied smile from forming. I have never felt this before. So . . . sated. So looked after. Yet I was anything but, really.

  I look at my wrists, where red welts are developing before my eyes, and I shift, flinching at the soreness rubbing on the covers. He really doesn’t give a stuff about my status. “Bloody hell,” I mutter, struggling to sit up. I have an official engagement in two days, opening a new art gallery that’s been set up by a charity that I’m a patron of. It looks like long sleeves will be in order.

  I’m distracted from inspecting my injuries when Josh rushes back into the room, no water in sight. “You forget something?” I ask.

  “Your boyfriend’s back.”

  “What?”

  Josh makes quick work of snatching up his shoes, T-shirt, and belt, before darting into the bathroom, just as Haydon marches into my room. I quickly grab my covers and pull them up my body. “Haydon, what on earth do you think you are doing?”

  He scans the room, before his eyes land on me. “I was just checking if you are all right.”

  What the hell? Annoyance replaces the amazing weightless feeling I had, which only serves to piss me off more. He’s not checking if I am all right. He’s checking if I am alone. “I’m fine, Haydon. Now, if you don’t mind, I was trying to get to sleep.”

  His face screams regret, and I don’t feel in the least bit guilty that he is onto me, even if he thinks he has made a massive mistake. How dare he? How dare he barge into my suite unannounced like this? Where’s Damon? “I thought you left?”

  “My car won’t start. Damon’s taking a look at it.”

  So he used Damon’s distraction to sneak up here? “I suggest you leave right this minute before I call Damon and have you escorted off the grounds.”

  “Adeline, I’m—

  “I don’t want to hear it.” I flip myself onto my side and snuggle down, dismissing him. “Please leave.” I wait until the door closes before I look over my shoulder, checking he has gone. Then I cast my eyes across to my bathroom. Josh appears in the doorway, but he isn’t grinning in satisfaction like I would have expected. He looks pensive, and for the first time since he sprinted away to hide, I wonder why. He was more or less marking his territory in the foyer earlier when Haydon showed up. “Why did you hide?”

  He pouts his lush lips, seeming to think really hard about it. “I don’t know,” he admits, making his way back to me. I eye him suspiciously, moving over when he nudges me to give him room. He lies next to me in his jeans, his bare back against the headboard. “All part of the game, right?”

  “Right,” I agree slowly, a little injured for reasons I’m not willing to look into. We’re playing. Just playing.

  “So, are you gonna marry him, then?”

  I snort, patting down the covers around my body. “Did it sound like I want to marry him?”

  “Do you have a choice?”

  “Yes,” I reply adamantly. “Despite what my father thinks.”

  “But your father is the King of England, Adeline,” Josh cruelly and unnecessarily reminds me. “No one gets away with saying no to him.”

  “What can he do?” I ask. “Send me into exile? To the Tower of London to rot? Behead me?” Any iota of peace, any serenity I found, has been completely chased away with the reminder of who my father is and what my obligations are.

  Josh crosses his ankles, his long jean-clad legs stretched to full length on my bed. I have to admit, he looks good on my bed, all roughed up and relaxed. “You sound resentful.” He looks at me, a little thoughtful. “Is life as a royal that bad?”

  I shrug a lot more nonchalantly than I feel. “It is if you refuse to abide by the rules. I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if I bowed to every order and expectation.”

  “So why don’t you? For an easy life?”

  “Easy doesn’t make me happy. It would be settling for second best. I don’t want to settle for anything.”

  He holds my eyes, and I see compassion in their blue depths. “Then don’t,” he says quietly, taking my hand and toying with my fingers.

  “I don’t plan to.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not a second-best kinda guy.” Tracing one of the red blemishes around my wrist, he stares at it, leaving silence lingering that I try to use to figure out the meaning of his statement. And in this moment of quiet, I sense a kindred spirit in Josh. He lives a life before the focus of many lenses too, has little to no privacy, and quite possibly feels as suppressed as I do. But before I can think more about that, he shakes his head, as if shaking himself from some unwanted thoughts. “So, when are we playing again?” He smirks that devilish smirk and rolls onto his side, settling his hand neatly on my stomach.

  I stall, and even though it’s because I’m wondering if playing again would be a good idea, I don’t express my reservations. “I’m a busy woman.”

  “Then make yourself unbusy,” he orders, with no hint of amusement.

  I laugh anyway. “I am in demand, Mr. Jameson. Representing the Monarchy and behaving for the cameras, remember?”

  “Behaving? Oh, behave.” Josh chuckles and shifts quickly, pinning my w
rists above my head and crowding my body with his. His nose touches mine, his brow furrowing. “You’re only allowed to misbehave with me in future.”

  Creases invade my forehead. Is he telling me no other men are allowed? “I don’t do exclusive,” I say. “You know that.”

  “The rules have changed.”

  “What rules?”

  “The rules of this game we’re playing.” He subtly pushes his groin into mine, failing to hold back his victorious smile when I breathe in and hold it. Bloody hell, there goes my body temperature again, through the flipping roof.

  “I thought the game was finished.”

  “The game only finishes when I say it finishes.” Landing his lips on mine, he kisses me deeply, backing up his confident words with a confident kiss. And as I lose myself in it completely, I wonder if Josh hiding in the bathroom was because he understands that if anyone catches wind of our encounter, this game really will be over. And the game only finishes when Josh says it finishes, therefore no one can know about us. Which should be fine by me, since a massive part of me wants to play his game. But another part of me, a part I am finding too easy to ignore, is wondering if I should get out before I become too swept up in it. “Aren’t you a little too busy also?” I ask around his mouth. “Films to make, billboards to grace, women to send dizzy?”

  He smiles against my lips and pulls away. “Are you trying to get rid of me, Your Highness?”

  “I’m simply reminding you of who you are.” When does he imagine we are going to play this game of his?

  “Don’t you worry that pretty little princess head of yours.” He kisses my forehead delicately. “All you have to do is as you’re told.”

  “You are outrageous. Haven’t you figured out yet that I don’t like being told what to do?”

  Taking my cheeks in his palms, he scans me for a few thoughtful seconds, allowing me the pleasure of viewing his lovely face so close. His jaw is perfectly peppered, his eyes perfectly sparkly, and his hair perfectly fucked. Josh Jameson is perfect. “And haven’t you figured out, Your Highness”—he languidly brings his eyes to mine, his pupils dilated, drawing out the blue and green completely—“that you did very well being told what to do when it was me telling you?” He watches as my eyes expand in silent realization, and he nods mildly. “It was easy then, wasn’t it, Princess?”