X: Command Me through Alexander's Eyes (Royals Saga)

by Geneva Lee

  “Not really. Hence why I didn’t learn much. I wanted to know how the pretty American girl wound up at a boring British graduation party.”

  “I’m not American. Not really.”

  “That did catch my attention.” I take a bite and consider what that means. It feels important somehow, but I’m more interested in why she made that choice. “You chose British citizenship. You could have chosen dual citizenship. Why?”

  There’s a momentary pause where she weighs what to tell me. Her answer is simple but loaded. “There’s nothing for me in America.”

  “That sounds like a story.” I want to hear it. I want to know how Clara Bishop wound up at Oxford and then at that club and in my life.

  “How about you?” she asks like she doesn’t already know everything about me. That’s the joy of having your life documented by every media outlet in the world—not a lot goes unreported.

  “I’m an open book. You only have to go as far as the nearest tabloid to learn everything you need to know about me.”

  Her head tilts before she shakes it and returns to her meal. “I doubt that. Tabloids seem to think rumors are facts, after all.”

  “Yes, they do.” I’m not hungry anymore. Abandoning my plate, I stand and move toward the window. She has questions, which isn’t unreasonable. “What do you want to know, Clara?”

  “What will you tell me?”

  I smile flatly and turn to watch the London Eye spin outside the window. I know the right answer. Instead, I answer honestly. “Nothing. I’ll tell you nothing you want to know. I’ll crack a joke or distract you with a kiss.”

  Clara falls silent, and I almost look to see if she’s checking the exit. It would be the smart move—and the one I don’t want her to make. How is a woman supposed to react when you tell her that you’ll lie to her? A smart one might run, and Clara is smart. I’ve seen her marks from Oxford. But she’s something else, too. Something hard to place.

  “You’ll like me better if you believe the tabloid headlines,” I add when she doesn’t speak.

  “Even the one that claimed you had an orgy at Brimstone last month?” she asks, breaking the tension.

  “Wouldn’t you rather believe that one was true?” I smile. “It promises inhuman stamina.”

  She smirks as though to say it had already been established. “I will admit I don’t like the idea of you screwing a whole room full of women.”

  There’s confidence in the confession, and I realize what that hard-to-place characteristic is: she’s brave.

  “Ahhh. The jealous type?”

  “How would you feel if I screwed a room full of men?” She calls my bluff.

  That image pops into my head, and I react, my fist hitting the window frame and surprising both of us. “Touché, poppet. But I should warn you I’m not good at sharing.”

  “No doubt that comes from never having to share much as a child.”

  “More than I would have liked.” I don’t want the distance between us anymore. I need her to see me—to understand me. “While I’m fucking you, no one else will. Do you understand?”

  She stares up at me for a second before calmly placing her dish on the table and standing to meet my eyes. “Is that an order?”

  “You didn’t seem to mind my orders earlier.” Maybe she needs a reminder. My hand pushes between the folds of her robe to the taut plane of her stomach. “You liked being told what to do.”

  “In bed,” she says, moving away from me. “I don’t like being ordered around.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of ordering you around outside the bedroom, Clara.” What would be the point? Our relationship can’t go further than that. But what she did in any bedroom did concern me. “But asking you not to sleep with other men seems to be on point, no?”

  “Am I allowed to sleep with other women?” She says flatly.

  “No, but that’s an interesting idea.” But—I could never find another like her.

  “Okay, down, boy. I’m just trying to prove that you’re being irrational.”

  “It’s not irrational,” I say. My hand lashes out and yanks open her robe. It’s time for show and tell. “I have many things I plan to do to this body. I want to take my time with it. I need to, so I’m not interested in playing games. If you want to be with me, I expect loyalty.”

  This time she doesn’t try to back away. There’s no protest when I step closer and slip a hand between her legs. My fingers stroke along the bare flesh until she’s whimpering.

  “I have no issue with exclusivity, but you don’t do relationships,” she says in a strained voice.

  “I don’t court. I’m not looking for romance or marriage. I want to fuck you, Clara. I want to make you come, and I want your perfect cunt to be mine exclusively.” Her eyes shudder for a moment when my thumb finds her clit. Then they reopen, blazing with determination, and I feel her hand on my cock.

  “This is mine then,” she says.

  I bite back a smile, even as I thrust it into her warm, soft palm. “It’s all yours, Clara.”

  I kiss her to end the argument because I don’t want her to think about this. I’m offering her so little. She’ll see that eventually. I’ll let her go back to her life then, but for now—for however long we have—I’ll make her mine. My fingers slip inside her and work until her breath comes fast and heavy, her forehead pressing to my shoulder, and as she unravels me, I almost convince myself this can be enough.

  Chapter Eight

  The royal family’s motto should be: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. It seems I have to endure a cadre of back-stabbing acquaintances at every social event—my life in London is a string of one demanded appearance after another.

  “You don’t look excited to be here,” Edward says under his breath before kneeling to speak to a small child waving to him behind the cordoned-off entrance to the theatre.

  That’s an understatement. There’s one place I’d much rather be, and it’s wedged between Clara’s thighs.

  “Does anyone enjoy the opera?” I mutter to him as we continue down the ragged red carpet. It’s seen as much action as I have, but of an entirely other variety.

  Edward guffaws and shoots me a look. “Of course, I do.”

  “You have your reasons,” I say dryly.

  “My kind does love the theatre,” he agrees, his mouth pinching slightly when he catches sight of our father ahead of us.

  Another reason to dread this evening.

  “It’s a wonder he lets me attend,” Edward says. “It’s so gay of me.”

  My brother’s carefully concealed homosexuality was no secret amongst the family, but our father has made it clear it will never be public knowledge. As if he’s thinking the same thing, Edward peeks over his shoulder to the parasitic group of young aristocrats that’s always at these goddamn events. Judging from the frown that momentarily eclipses his smile, David is among them.

  He’s made the mistake of falling in love. I wasn’t around to teach him that this life and commitment are mutually opposed concepts. He never saw our parents together. Our mother died when he was born, so he doesn’t have the memories of the screaming matches and ultimatums. I know the picture my father paints of his marriage. I also know the truth. It’s why I won’t make the same mistake. Nothing—not even love—can survive this life.

  “You haven’t told me how you met,” I said.

  “You want to discuss this now?” he whispers, glancing around as though someone can hear us in the crowd of onlookers. Considering that Norris won’t allow anyone within a few yards, I think we’re safe.

  “What else is there to talk about?” I shrug. My brother, who wasn’t exiled to the desert, has an active social life, which means we haven’t spent much quality time together. “Maybe we should save this conversation for inside. I’ll need something to keep me awake during the performance.”

  Edward rolls his eyes. “It’s not terribly interesting.”

  “Neither is the opera.”
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br />   “David was in the same circles at St. Andrew’s. We danced around things for a while until one of us made a move.”

  “He made a move,” I guess.

  “Is it that obvious?” Edward shoves his hands into his pockets, doing his best to look like we aren’t discussing his most closely-guarded secret.

  We share a number of characteristics: our mother’s coloring, dark hair, blue eyes. But nothing about Edward screams domination.

  “Good for David,” I say with a low chuckle. It must have taken guts to gamble that he was right about Edward’s interest.

  “Just don’t say anything,” he says in a rush.

  “I know it’s a secret.” I look toward our father, feeling the familiar bubble of hatred in my chest. “But why should it be? It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “The monarchy isn’t exactly progressive. Dad needs time to get used to the idea and—”

  A woman falls against me, and I catch her instinctively, wrapping my arms around her. My palms slide against black silk, and there’s a flash of tumbling blonde curls as she presses herself closer. Before I can process the sudden turn, two sinuous limbs hook around my neck.

  “Smile,” she demands.

  I do it, posing for the next picture that will appease her—and my father. Then, I extricate myself as politely as possible. I’d rather push her away and find the nearest shower. It feels wrong to touch another woman when I’ve spent most of today fantasizing about Clara. But it’s not just any other woman. It’s Pepper.

  To me, she’s still my kid sister’s best friend—far too young and off-limits. Even if I could process that she’s a woman now, I wouldn’t be interested. Maybe it’s the way she manages a photo op every time we’re within a mile of one another. Maybe it’s that there’s a snake hiding in her smile.

  This wouldn’t have happened if you brought Clara. Where the fuck did that come from? I’ve spent the equivalent of a day with the woman. The last thing either of us needs or wants is to draw attention to the relationship. Plus, there’s the very real possibility that my father and his sycophants would corner her and tear her limb from limb. Pepper would probably lead the charge.

  But it’s the fact that she doesn’t belong here that makes me wish I’d invited her. I don’t belong either.

  Pepper lingers, continuing to brush against my arm. The touches turn my stomach.

  “I’m not the Royal you’re interested in,” I remind her with a smile for the cameras still following us.

  She stumbles back a step but regains her footing gracefully. Her eyes narrow into slits before she shakes off my subtle threat.

  “What was that about?” Edward asks as we finally reach the foyer.

  “You don’t want to know,” I assure him.

  “I doubt most men would turn Pepper down.” He’s searching for information. My brother reads the tabloids.

  “You would,” I point out.

  Edward straightens his bow tie. His eyes on the door, waiting for his boyfriend to arrive. I have no idea why. They won’t risk being spotted together. He echoes my earlier sentiment. “I have my reasons.”

  “I do, too.”

  “Why didn’t you invite her?” Edward asks, turning the force of his mirror-like gaze on me.

  “I thought tonight’s show was a comedy. You would have preferred a tragedy?” That’s what it would become if I’d brought Clara here amongst this viper’s nest.

  “No one could object to a legitimate relationship.” To his credit, he sounds like he believes this. It’s worse than I thought. Not only has Edward made the mistake of falling in love, but he’s also made the mistake of buying that love conquers all.

  “She’s half-American,” I remind him. “The wrong half.”

  “How can you be the wrong half?”

  “No accent. Self-confident. Feminist.” I might not have spent much time with Clara, but all these things are apparent. They account for why I find myself drawn to her. They’re also one of many reasons a relationship won’t work.

  “So, you’re just shagging her?” Edward picks at his cufflink, his eyes still on the entrance.

  “Are you just fucking him?” I ask as David enters with Jonathan and Priscilla.

  “I don’t know what to make of that,” Edward mutters. Neither do I. Why am I being so defensive where Clara is concerned?

  “He looks miserable,” I say. “Perhaps, you should save him?”

  Edward flinches at the suggestion and turns away. “Let’s find our box.”

  I follow as he strides away, leaving his real-life behind, abandoning the man he loves. It’s fitting, I suppose. Neither of us is a white knight. We don’t save the day.

  That only happens in stories.

  I wake up the next morning at the Westminster Royal with a hard and extremely frustrated cock. After an evening with family, I needed distance. The hotel is beginning to feel more like home than Buckingham.

  But the bed feels empty.

  I don’t know what Clara and I are. I only know that I haven’t been inside her for over forty-eight hours. My cock, it seems, is keeping track of our time apart.

  Fisting it, I run my hands along the shaft, trying to get up the enthusiasm to do it myself. The trouble is that it’s felt her beautiful cunt squeezing over it, and it’s less than interested in a pathetic stand-in. Still, thinking of how she responded to my touch—how her body submitted again and again—is only making me harder.

  Reaching for my mobile, I shoot off a text to her with one hand, my other still stroking myself. What else am I going to do today? My day is mercifully free of more official engagements. I’m merely a photo op waiting to be dragged to the next ball or state event or memorial day. Despite my father’s insistence that I need to learn about my future responsibilities, he keeps me away from the important meetings. I’m not king yet. I’m only expected to sit and wait until someone hands me the crown. At least, I know the best way to kill time.

  Clara responds almost instantly, but it’s bad news: Can’t. Shopping and lunch with my mom.

  For a moment, I imagine tracking her down and slipping into a dressing room. It only makes me want to fuck her against a wall. She wouldn’t be able to stay quiet—all those hot, desperate noises escaping her full lips. Everyone would know what we were doing. Fuck, the thought makes me harder. I want them to know. I want them to hear how she begs for it. I want to enjoy the shocked looks on the other shoppers’ faces when I stride out, practically holding her upright because I’ve fucked her so hard her knees are weak.

  But that will bring the press to her door. It will destroy the few shreds of privacy she has left after our disastrous meeting at Brimstone. The speculation surrounding us remains high, even though I’ve been careful to not be seen with her. It’s for the best. The media will eat her alive—or what’s left of her after my father gets through destroying her.

  Still, that means I’ll have to find a more discreet way to see her. Dialing Norris, I touch base.

  “Are you keeping an eye on Miss Bishop?”

  “I have a man tailing her.” He sounds concerned, which is one of his three resting states. “She’s at a spa of some sort. Would you like me to meet her?”

  “No.” There’s no point. I’ll have to tempt her away, and no matter who has his hands on her at the spa, I’m betting I can make her a better offer. “I was only checking in.”

  “Very good.” Norris hesitates, and I know he wants to say more. It’s been off between us since I got back from the Middle East. He needs to know his opinion still matters to me. It does, but that won’t always mean I take his advice.

  “Out with it.”

  “Checking in on Miss Bishop belies a certain…”

  “I’m not stalking her,” I tell him.

  “That’s not what I’m suggesting.” His voice is so dry the connection practically crackles. “I hope you’re being cautious.”

  “I think that I am,” I bite out. What does that mean? No one saw us toget
her at the hotel. I’m not copying anyone on our text messages. I didn’t take her to a family dinner. “We’re being discreet.”

  “I’m not concerned about when people find out,” he corrected me. “I’m concerned about your heart.”

  “My heart?” I repeat, wondering where this came from. “My heart is the only bit of me that you don’t need to worry about.”

  Silence stretches across the line before he finally clears his throat. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Thank you.” I hang up the phone and glare out the window. Below me, millions of people are leading perfectly ordinary lives going to jobs, shopping, meeting friends for a pint. I have to justify wanting to fuck my girlfriend in private.

  Girlfriend. I let the word sink in. I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would. Mostly because it suggests ownership, and I want to own Clara Bishop.

  I send her another text:

  There’s a window in this room that would benefit from having your naked body spread across it.

  It takes her a moment to respond. When she does, I groan. Apparently, she’s going to tease me back.

  I’m already naked.

  I pop off another: Tell me more.

  What I actually want is to tell her to get knickers on and tell whoever’s hands are on her to shove off. That body belongs to me.

  There’s no response after a few minutes, and my mind flashes to a muscular man kneading her tender, flawless skin. It seems prudent to remind her that I don’t share:

  As long as no one else is touching you, poppet. That’s my job, and I take my job very seriously.

  Her response is frustratingly brief:

  Noted, X.

  I like her dirty little nickname for me almost as much as I like the one I’ve given her. Poppet—that’s what she is. She lets me play with her, lets me direct her, lets me pull her strings.

  I want to see how far I can take that. I want to feel the vibration of my palm when it makes hard contact with the soft flesh of her ass. I want to tie up those slender wrists and fuck her mouth.

  I want my hands on her.

  But I have to wait until this bloody lunch date is over. I order room service, giving up on getting myself off. When you’ve had champagne, it’s hard to go back to water.