He sent me a golden cock.
I peek into the box again, stifling my laughter as I take out the contents one by one and lay them on the bed:
Another vibrator of some kind, egg-shaped with a remote control
A glass dildo that looks more like a piece of art than a dick, purple and blue swirls of color through it.
And…
I pull out the last piece, unsure what the hell it is, turning it over in my hand for a moment, a long pink piece of hair attached to a glass object that looks like a small dildo.
Then I realize what it is.
Oh my God.
It’s a butt plug. With a fake, bright pink horse’s tail attached.
I toss it on the bed like it's radioactive, shaking my head as I open the card that came with this way-too-far-over-the-line inappropriate set of gifts.
Thought you might need a little help with your obvious frustration. If you’d only just ask, you could get more personal assistance.
I slide open the screen on my cell phone and text the royal bastard who thinks he’s so funny.
Got your gifts. Using them now. How did you know pink is my color?
I’m barely finished sending the text when he responds.
Pictures or it didn’t happen.
That text is followed immediately by another message:
Unless you want to show me in person. Just ask me to come down and help.
I think for a moment, before replying.
You’re a smart prince. Use your imagination.
I lay back against the bed for a second, before sending another message to him.
What’s with the horse tail? Does the Prince of Protrovia secretly have a pony fetish? Are you a Brony?
It’s a few minutes before he texts back.
Sorry, I was…busy. Using my imagination, you know. Thought you might like it. Weren't you a big equestrian when you were in high school? I read that somewhere.
I toss the toys back in the box and put the lid firmly on the top, as if by closing it up I can shut out the inappropriate thoughts I’m having about Prince Albert. It would be so easy to just say yes, to ask him to take the secret passageway between our rooms and show up here to finish what he started that day in the village.
That’s not going to happen, I tell myself.
On principle.
I’m not begging him for anything. The spoiled smug bastard is used to women throwing themselves at him, to people jumping just because he says jump. He thinks I'm going to be completely embarrassed by this little present, or that I'm going to giggle and blush at his inappropriateness. Well, two can play this game.
I text him back.
I’m sending you a gift.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Albie
I set down the phone, lying back against the bed. My cock is hard as a rock, rigid as hell thinking about Belle and the box of toys I sent her. I can picture her right now, her hands sliding over the sides of the box, pulling the lid from the top, and peering inside. She'd pause, not sure whether to be embarrassed or turned on.
Definitely turned on. I know she is.
Belle might act like Little Miss Perfect, but she’s wild. That afternoon in the alley taught me that. She was mine then, totally at my mercy, with her back against the wall, wetness nearly dripping down my hand when my fingers were inside her sweet pussy.
Fuck. The thought of her legs spread, sliding the dildo inside her, makes me so hard I think I might explode. Unzipping my pants, I pull out my cock and slide my hand up and down the length of it.
Before I can continue, there’s a knock on the door.
“Your Highness?” One of the staff asks.
Damn it. Talk about a boner killer. “I’m busy,” I call. “Could you come back later?”
“There’s an envelope from Miss Kensington,” the voice says. “Should I slide it under the door?”
“Please do,” I call.
I lay there for a second, cock in my hand, waiting for the staff member to walk away and wondering what the hell Little Miss Perfect’s gift is.
I lie there in bed, sliding my hand over the length of my cock, and close my eyes. Immediately, an image of Belle pops into my head – Belle on her knees in front of me, those plump glossy lips of hers hanging open, her eyes wide as she gazes up at me.
I’m not sure there's anything else in the world that would be hotter than that sight.
Damn it. Curiosity overwhelms my fantasy, makes me have to know what the hell that girl put in the envelope.
Yanking up my pants, I walk to the door to get it. Reaching inside, I pull out Belle’s gift.
Black lace panties.
Black lace panties that are still warm.
Black lace panties that are still warm and damp.
Bringing the panties to my face, I inhale deeply. My cock jumps in response. Sweet and light, I’d recognize Belle’s scent anywhere.
Well, hell. I was wrong. Maybe I can imagine something hotter than Belle on her knees in front of me. And that's Belle on her bed, her legs splayed open, sliding her fingers inside her pussy covered in these little black panties.
Thinking of me the whole time she does it.
Coming as she thinks of me fucking her.
I strip off my clothes, depositing them onto the floor forcefully, my thoughts completely consumed by her.
The girl is screwing with me, giving back as good as she gets. And that fact makes me harder than anything else.
I pick up her black panties again, their silky soft smoothness cool in my hand. I stroke the length of my cock, picturing what Belle just did in those panties.
Belle lies against the pillow in her room, wearing that light blue suit from tea -- that powder blue, so very appropriate suit -- except that the jacket is unbuttoned, and she's wearing nothing underneath it. The lapels of the jacket hang down, just barely covering her nipples, but the mounds of her breasts are exposed. She runs her hand down the middle of her chest, her fingers lightly trailing over her breasts until she reaches the side of her jacket and opens it, revealing her perfect tits. Her head lolling back against the pillow, she lightly closes her eyes as she runs her finger over her nipple, bringing it to attention immediately. Her lips fall open, and she lets out a quiet moan as she caresses her breasts, her fingers playing with her nipples until she's ready.
I stroke myself, my movements regular and rhythmic, as I think about Belle and her panties. My cock is rigid to the point of practically exploding at the mere thought of Belle in bed, touching herself as she thinks about me.
I wonder if she fantasized about me with my head between her legs, my tongue flicking over her clit until she's breathless.
Until she's wet.
Until she's at the point of no return.
Until I thrust my tongue inside her and she comes on me, her legs wrapped around my head, hands pulling at my hair as she cries out my name.
I stroke my cock as I picture her fantasizing about me, her hands sliding up the sides of her thighs, pulling that skirt up around her hips to reveal those lace panties. I bring them to my face again, inhaling deeply her scent, knowing that just a few minutes ago, she was wearing these.
She was touching herself in these, reaching down the front of her panties to roll her finger over her clit, with that appropriate skirt of hers bunched up around her waist. I imagine Belle sliding two fingers inside her pussy, her wetness soaking the fabric of her panties. She fucks herself with those fingers, stroking herself the way I did, imagining that it's me inside her.
I stroke myself faster, more furiously, as I picture Belle finger-fucking herself until she's at the brink. No longer satisfied with just the scent of her, I palm her panties, running the silky fabric down the length of my cock until I'm jerking myself off with her panties in my hand.
When I come, shooting my load into those lacy panties of hers, it's Belle I picture, Belle that pushes me over the edge. It's the thought of her fucking herself as she thinks about me, her
orgasm soaking the little black panties that are in my hand now.
I'm barely satisfied when I'm finished. I'm still hard as a fucking rock, not nearly satiated, still wanting her.
I should be disgusted with myself for jerking off into Isabella Kensington's panties. Coming all over my stepsister's panties is a new level of filthy, even for me.
The problem is, I'm not disgusted at all. I'm more turned on than ever.
I slip the panties back into the envelope she sent them in, and seal it up before I put on a robe and lift the receiver on the phone on my desk. "Yes," I say, into the phone. "I have an envelope that needs to be delivered to Miss Kensington's room, please."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Belle
I adjust my dress, smoothing the knee length skirt. It's a breezy material that moves with me, swinging around my legs at a respectable knee-length. Paired with nude heels and a jacket, it’s a perfectly appropriate outfit from my giant walk-in closet filled with perfectly appropriate clothing.
What’s not appropriate is that I’m not wearing panties. I’m totally bare underneath, and even though I tell myself that it’s because I don’t want visible panty lines in a photo that’s part of my mother and Leo’s official press release announcing their engagement, the real reason has nothing to do with that.
The real reason has to do with the envelope I’ve tucked away in the zipper section of one of the designer purses in my closet, stuffed into the only place I could think of where someone wouldn’t inadvertently discover it while cleaning and draw the inevitable conclusion that I’m some kind of pervert who keeps jizz-covered panties.
I think I am some kind of pervert.
I’ve never been one of those women who sleep with a guy and suddenly go off the deep end, becoming totally obsessed with dick. But now suddenly I am.
And I haven’t even slept with Albie – I haven’t even seen his cock.
Except in photos. I did look up those pictures after all, the uncensored version of Albie’s bare-it-all-for-the-press cock photos, the ones where he stands with his pants unzipped, proudly displaying the full monty for the press.
And he should be proud of that thing.
It’s not exactly small.
So now, I’m one of those cock-obsessed, can’t-think-about-anything-else girls. And it just happens to be the cock of one of the most irritating, domineering, pompous men in the world.
Who wants me to beg him for that cock.
Well, that is just never going to happen, I tell myself as I apply a coat of bright red lipstick to my lips. This is not an appropriate shade of red at all, especially for a photography session. The rest of me is subdued, with my cream-colored dress and matching nude heels, hair pulled up into a smooth high ponytail.
In reality, though, I’m far from subdued. I’m agitated, edgy, being driven to the brink by frustrated thoughts of Albie.
And that’s the reason I walk down the hall to the photography session, wearing my appropriate dress with no panties.
There, in one of the drawing rooms, the rest of my new family is already standing – my mother and Leo by a set of antique sofas, a photographer on his knees at their feet, camera in hand. The photographer's assistant hovers anxiously, jumping each time he barks a terse one-word order.
I pause for a moment inside the doorway, and Albie and Alexandra both turn to look at me. Alexandra is scowling, texting furiously on her phone. She glances up at the overly happy couple, who gaze into each others’ eyes like a couple of lovesick puppies, and rolls her own eyes before returning to her phone.
I purposely avoid Albie’s stare, even though what I want to do is stand there, taking him in with my eyes. I can feel the heat of his eyes on me, traveling up the length of my body from my feet to my head, until his eyes finally meet mine.
He watches me as I walk toward him. He looks at me with hunger. Knowing he wants me makes me wet. It also makes me acutely aware of my aching emptiness.
“You’re late,” Albie says, a small smile on his lips. “Busy schedule?”
“You know what they say about idle hands.”
As soon as I speak the word hands, Albie’s mouth turns up on the edges. He thinks he knows exactly why I was late.
“Hey Alexandra,” I say, tearing my eyes away from Albie.
“They’re supposed to finish up in a few minutes,” she says. “Family photos will be next. Apparently black was not an appropriate color for the pictures, so I'm stuck wearing this thing.” She rolls her eyes, finishing a text on her phone, and then looking up.
“You look really pretty, Alexandra,” I say, meaning it. She’s wearing a cream-colored shift, tailored to fit her curvy figure, with matching nude heels.
“Ugh,” she groans. “I’m like so blah beige.”
“You’re stunning.”
“It’s Alex, by the way,” she says, looking down at her phone when it vibrates. “Stop calling me Alexandra. That’s what my dad calls me, not my friends. I meant to say that to you the other day.”
I nod, feeling pleased that she counted me as one of her friends. “Yeah. Don’t ever call me Isabella.”
“Girls! Albert!” My mother waves us across the room.
“Showtime,” Alex says, sighing audibly as she walks ahead of us, the click-click of her shoes more of a clomping sound as she stomps just a little too hard on the floor.
“She’s pissed,” I whisper to Albie, while maintaining an appropriate distance from him. He smells like aftershave or cologne, I’m not sure which. All I know is that the scent might as well be an aphrodisiac, because I have the sudden inexplicable urge to rip his clothes off.
“I like the lipstick,” he whispers softly.
Arousal surges through me at the thought of wrapping my red-painted lips around Albie’s dick, down on my knees as he grasps a handful of hair, and pulls me onto his shaft.
“I can let you borrow it,” I say. “Seems like a weird fetish.”
“Nah,” he says. “You know what I want."
"Oh?"
"I want you on your knees. I want to see that bright red lipstick on my cock.”
We’ve almost reached my parents, and I pause for a moment, leaning close to him to whisper. “I’m not wearing any panties,” I say, and I don’t wait for his response before walking ahead of him.
My mother directs me to the side of the photo, and then I’m lost in the dizzying array of instructions, directions to turn my body slightly or adjust my chin, the photographer and his assistants styling and re-arranging us a thousand different ways in the span of thirty minutes.
During the shoot, King Leopold makes jokes, the corny kind I thought were the type of thing that dads do, except he’s a king and not a regular dad, which somehow has the effect of making the lame jokes actually funny. The eighth one – something about an armadillo – has Alex, Albie, and I finally giggling, and earns a stern “Leopold,” from my mother.
“Do you remember the time we got in trouble for coming in here when we were kids and jumping on the sofa?” Alex asks Albie.
“Dad was going to blow a gasket,” Albie says, as a flashbulb goes off mid-sentence, bright white light practically blinding for a split second.
“Dad was?” Alex says, laughing. “Mom took away your dessert for a week.”
The mention of their mother changes the mood in the room almost immediately, and Leo smiles wistfully. “Yes, she did,” he says quietly, pausing as if he’s remembering her, and then speaks to the photographer : “I trust we have enough photographs at this juncture.”
The photographer immediately lowers his camera. “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” he says. “More than adequate.”
“Thank God,” Alex says, kicking off her shoes before she even gets a few feet away. “I’m out of here.”
My mother puts her hand on Leo’s arm. “Shall we?” she asks.
Albie and I trail behind everyone else, lingering, putting distance between us and them. When we leave, Albie walks behind me, his st
eps purposeful. I half-expect him to grab my wrist as we walk, to yank me back and pull my body flush into his, bringing his mouth down on mine. Maybe I half-hope that will happen.
"You really should stop playing games, luv," he says.
I look down the side of the hall, checking to see if any housekeeping staff have noticed us.
But no one's there. The hallway is quiet and deserted, as if fate itself is giving us permission to flirt, to engage, to continue walking this lust-fueled tightrope.
If I had any sense at all, I'd turn around and head for my suite. I’d Raine and tell her that I'm going to buy a plane ticket, that I will meet her and Phoenix in Amsterdam and pretend none of this ever happened.
I'll forget I'm a soon-to-be princess.
I'll forget that I'm Albie's soon-to-be-stepsister.
I'll forget that I'm his wife.
If I had any sense, that's what I'd do.
But I don't.
Albie grabs my wrist, right in the hallway, and pulls me into the nearest room. It's a game room filled with antique furniture like every other room in the palace. Except this room has old chess sets and a gilded billiard table. In the center of the room sits a circular gaming table topped with cream and gold marble, surrounded by gilded antique chairs.
Albie pulls me into the room, walking briskly around the area without a word before going to the door and securing the lock. He turns to me, his back against the door. "You and I need to stop this back-and-forth," he says. "We both know you’re dying to have me.”
I back up until my back is flush against the marble topped table, taking Albie in. He's wearing a dark suit, tailor-made for him, that sets off his blue eyes and dark hair perfectly, as if he stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. But what I see in those eyes is nothing like what I'd see in a magazine. It's intense, feral. Filled with lust.
"I know you want me," I say. Heat courses through my body, the marble top of the table cool against the small of my back. "Based on the state you returned my panties in."
Prince Albert: A Billionaire Stepbrother Romance Page 10