His Princess (A Royal Romance)

by Abigail Graham

  Sweat trickles down my back and I glance over at Quentin’s house.

  No signs of life.

  What did Kelly mean, about what he said? Being nice to us couldn’t make up for something?

  What does he need to make up for?

  Here I am again, mooning over him like a ditzy teenager with a crush. I wanted to think it was more than that, more than just physical attraction. I’m sort of past my prime anyway.I can’t believe somebody would be into me just for my looks anymore.

  I down the rest of the water and head over to his house, looking back at Kelly and Karen to make sure they’re okay. They’re just fine. I can relax a little. The music is starting up. There will be hot dogs soon. I hope Kelly leaves some for the rest of the block.

  There’s no answer when I knock at the door. Typical. I just want to talk to him. I want an answer. I don’t want to be brushed off.

  I stand there as long as I dare, before somebody might notice, then start back.

  I stop at the end of the front walk and glance at the backyard. Past the garage, I walk around the back as my heart beats a little faster. The house is the same pattern as mine, so I’m familiar with the layout. There are two sliding windows on either side of a basement door with its own set of steps.

  You shouldn’t be doing this, Rose.

  I check the basement door. Locked.

  I check one of the windows. Locked.

  The other window slides open silently.

  I look at it for a half minute, my heart pounding in my chest. What do I do? Quentin probably didn’t bother checking or locking it, figuring that no one could get in through it.

  Well, a grown man couldn’t, but I can if I skinny through.

  God, this is stupid, Rose. What the hell are you doing?

  I sit in the grass, poke my feet through, and start shimmying my way into the opening. I have to put my hands on my chest and press myself flat and suck in a breath to fit, and dangle in space with my feet kicking in empty air before I feel something cool and metal with my toes. The dryer, probably. I grab the windowsill and slip in, and end up falling on my butt on top of his dryer with a squeak.

  God, Rose. Are you insane? Get out now.

  I could just climb back out but I don’t.I lower my feet to the floor. It’s dark down here, the lights are out, but the windows are uncovered and cut two rays of bright light across the basement, and cast a hazy gloom everywhere else.

  I yelp and yank my hand back as a hairy spider skitters along the block wall behind me. I take a deep breath and look around.

  It’s…a basement.

  I already know the floor plan. All of the electrical and utility junk is by the window I just climbed through. There’s not going to be much else in the basement unless it’s finished, which it is not.

  I make my way through the room, slowly. There’s a lot of stuff down here. At the far end is some gym equipment, a bench and barbells and big metal weights all on a rubber pad, and what must be a place for him to grab onto and do pullups. The rest of the room is full of boxes and boxes, and crates, actual crates made of wood.

  One of them is as big as a coffin. Curious, I tug at the lid, and it rattles a little but doesn’t move. It must be nailed down.I shouldn’t touch it.

  No, there are latches, heavy-duty latches like some kind of footlocker. I smear some dust away with my hand and find something written on the side in Cyrillic.

  Uh, what?

  I can’t help myself. I flip the latches and raise the lid. Inside is all padded foam, covered by a thin layer of the same material. I push the lid all the way back.

  Under the foam blanket is a skinny tube, maybe five feet in length, with one flared end and the other straight. Sitting in little niches are conical objects a bit smaller than a football, with tubular ends that look like they slot into the big tube.

  Gingerly I lower the lid back in place and latch it shut. There’s another crate. The lid is nailed down, but I don’t need to open it. On the side, stenciled, it reads, DANGER: HIGH EXPLOSIVES.

  “What the fuck?” I whisper.

  I make my way through the boxes, breathing harder now. High explosives? Why high explosives? What does Quentin need with high explosives?

  Construction? No, that makes no sense, if he used them for construction he wouldn’t keep them in the basement, and that other thing was some kind of a weapon.

  I think it was a grenade launcher.

  I should leave. Now. Get out, Rose. This is too weird.

  The stairs creak under my foot and I freeze, listening. There’s no sound but the happiness of children outside, faint music, and cheering. I take another few steps up, watching each step as I put my foot on it. They’re bare wood bolted together, like the stairs in my basement. There are two staircases, one at either end. One goes to the kitchen.

  This one goes to the garage.

  I push the door open lightly and watch for movement, expecting to see him inside waxing his car or something, but the big Impala sits there alone, dominating a full half of the garage.

  Creeping out into the garage proper, I take a look around. There are two big, heavy safes, each taller than I am. More like vaults, really. It dawns on me as I touch them that I don’t need to open them to know what’s inside. These are gun safes.

  I should leave. I should leave right now. I should not open the garage door and walk up into the kitchen.

  I open the door and walk up into the kitchen.

  It’s empty. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. What will Quentin do if he catches me in here? I can feel the walls closing in around me.

  The kitchen is empty, I mean empty. Bare cupboards, no pots or pans, just a pile of canned food on the counter and a fridge with nothing inside but beer, bottles of bourbon, and what appears to be a half-eaten key lime pie.

  As I close the fridge I hear something, a movement upstairs. It must be him. I should go. Really, I should get out right now, the way I came. I take a step toward the staircase and pull back.

  Go home, Rose. There’s something going on here and it’s a lot bigger than you.

  I creep back down into the garage, stopping to slow my breath. I can feel my heart pounding in my neck. I tug on the basement door, but it doesn’t budge.

  Oh God.

  It’s stuck or locked. I don’t know, but I need to get out. I head for the garage door. It’ll make a racket but it’s a door, and I can go.

  Except, I can’t. The car is locked. I can see the remote inside, but that’s no use to me. There’s a switch on the wall but there’s a clear plastic panel over it, with a padlock. I don’t even know where to begin to look for the key.

  What am I even doing here?

  It doesn’t matter now. I can kick myself in the butt later. Having no other choice, I slip back into the kitchen, walking lightly, testing my footing so I don’t make a noise or let out a creak. The living room is still empty.

  I make my way across. When I glance over my shoulder there’s no one behind me. I’ll just go through the front door, lock it, and pull it shut. No harm, no foul. Mrs. Campbell will probably see me coming out of the house, but to hell with her.

  As I touch the doorknob, powerful arms snap closed around me, trapping mine against my sides. A hand closes roughly over my mouth, fingers digging into my cheek and jaw.

  Quentin growls in my ear.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Mmmph!”

  Gingerly he lets his hand off my mouth and grazes his thumb along my jaw.

  “Answer me.”

  “I was just… I don’t know. Let me go.”

  His breath is hot on my neck. I feel his lips, then his teeth. He moves up and pinches my earlobe between his teeth. I jerk in his arms and squeak.

  “I don’t want to let you go.”

  Excitement floods through my body, mixing in a strange cocktail with fear.

  “You’re shaking,” he says, his hand trailing over my stomach. “Are you scared of me?”
/>   “No,” I lie.

  “You should be,” he murmurs in my ear. “I am.”

  “I didn’t see anything…”

  He laughs softly, and his fingers stroke over my throat. It sends a flutter through my body and I go rigid, trying to hold still like a scared rabbit, wary of a stalking fox.

  “You’re lying,” he says, very softly. “I know how to sniff out liars, Rose. I’m very, very good at it. Do you know how I know you’re lying?”

  “How?”

  “You just admitted it,” he whispers. I can almost feel him grinning.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Shhh.”

  He cups my chin in his hand.

  “I knew you were lying because you volunteered unnecessary information. It’s a very basic mistake. You learn these things when you study the art of interrogation.”

  “Interrogation?”

  “Asking questions,” he purrs in my ear, “sharply. I can make anyone tell me anything I need to know.”

  “You’re scaring me, Quentin.”

  “I know, and it’s turning you on. I can feel it here.”

  He slips his hand between my legs, pushes his palm against me, and holds his hand there, soaking in the heat from my arousal. It is turning me on. I like it.

  I like losing control, don’t I?

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “What should I do with you? You were trespassing in my house.”

  “I’ll scream.”

  “You promise?”

  I shiver.

  “I like that.”

  He pulls me tighter against him. I can feel his cock in his jeans. He’s hard as a rock. He steps forward and pins me against the door.

  “You still want me to fuck you, don’t you?”

  I press my lips shut.

  “Oh, the silent treatment, eh?”

  His arms slip around me and pin mine against my sides, hard, squeezing the breath out of me. He tips back and lifts me bodily from the floor, my toes dangling above the carpet, and carries me like that up the stairs. I struggle but only weakly.

  “You shouldn’t struggle in the jaws of a predator,” he murmurs in my ear. “It only makes him want his meal more.”

  He’s carrying me into the bedroom.

  Quentin kicks the door closed and lowers my feet to the floor.

  He doesn’t let go. I’m still trapped, my heart pounding. He buries his face in my hair and breathes deep.

  “You smell like tea.”

  “Quentin, let’s talk about this.”

  “We’re going to talk,” he says. “You’re going to tell me all sorts of things.”

  “Quentin…”

  “Hush. I need you to be a good girl now. I’m going to put you on the bed and you’re not going to try to get away from me. If you do I’m going to have to punish you. Do you want to be punished, Rose?”

  “No.”

  He laughs. “I can smell your lie.”

  Quentin drops me on the bed and immediately falls on top of me, straddling my legs. I start to squirm and he grabs my wrists.

  “Don’t try to fight me.”

  My heart pounds as he reaches over and pulls open a drawer in his nightstand. I start to shake as he reaches inside, and blink as he draws out long lengths of silk. Scarves. What’s he going to do with scarves?

  I know the answer when he knots the scarf around my wrists, tight.

  “Try to get loose.”

  I do but I can’t. The more I pull, the more the knot tightens around my wrists.

  “Don’t fight it. It’ll just get tighter.”

  He pitches forward and pulls my arms back, over my head, pulls the other end of the thick scarf around a heavy wooden post in the headboard, and knots it.

  He sits back, still pinning my legs, and pulls his shirt off. I can’t help but stare, watching his muscles bunch and ripple, distorting the dragon tattooed on his chest that winds around his body, its tail disappearing into his jeans.

  “This is going to be sweaty work.”

  Leaning over, he pulls out more silk and ties each of my ankles to the corners of the footboard, spreading my legs. They’re just loose enough that I can squirm a little, but pulling them only makes them tighter.

  There’s one more, but it’s not red, it’s black. Quentin slides it behind my head and wraps it around, covering my eyes. I can’t see.

  “You’re blindfolding me?”

  “Shhh,” he says.

  I feel the bed shift as he kneels between my legs and runs his hands up my sides, over my breasts, where he stops to squeeze, and then up to my throat. He doesn’t choke. He just holds my neck in his hands.

  “I can feel your pulse.”

  I swallow, hard.

  “Felt that, too.”

  “Quentin, please, don’t hurt me…”

  “You keep saying that. Why are you afraid I’m going to hurt you?”

  “I-I-I-I saw downstairs,” I stammer. “There was weapons and things and…and bombs…”

  “Yes. Tools of the trade.”

  “What trade? What are you?”

  He runs his thumbs along my jaw then strokes my bottom lip with the tip of his finger. It makes my whole body go rigid and I involuntarily pull against the bonds holding me to the bed.

  “I’m a bad man,” he says, very softly. “I do bad things. That’s why I have to go away.”

  I want to ask what things, but I don’t.

  “Do you want me to go away, Rose?”

  “No,” I whisper.

  “You’re not lying. Pulse is the same.”

  “Don’t hurt me.”

  “You keep giving me orders, Rose. Do this, do that, don’t do this, don’t do that.”

  “Quentin…”

  “Hush. Just let go. I’ve got you now. I’m giving the orders. You like that, don’t you?”

  “I…” I trail off.

  “Why don’t you want me to leave?”

  “My girls… My girls like you…”

  “That’s not why. You’re not lying but that’s not why.”

  “I want you. I want how you make me feel.”

  “You want this, don’t you? You want to just let go.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have to give yourself to me completely, Rose. You have to be mine.”

  He takes his hands from my neck.

  “I’m going to do things to you now. I’m going to make you come so much and so hard you’ll forget your own name.”

  I whimper and bite my lip.

  He touches my chin. “Oh, I like that. I like it when you bite your lip like that. So sexy. Do you think you’re sexy, Rose?”

  He moves his hand to my breast and teases my nipple through the fabric.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m old,” I confess, “I had kids…”

  “Hmm. Nothing wrong here,” he rubs my stomach, “and I love these.” He cups my breasts in his hands.

  “That ass, you have an incredible ass, Rose. Nice and big and thick, just how I like it.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah.”

  The bed creaks and he leans down over me, resting on his arms by my sides. He’s close.I can feel his breath on my cheek.

  “You know what I want to do when I see your ass?”

  “What?”

  “Grab it, squeeze it, spank it. Have you ever been spanked, Rose?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything. You’re going to give yourself to me completely. Did you know you can come from getting your ass whipped?”

  “I can?”

  “Yes. I want to fuck your ass, Rose. Have you ever been fucked in the ass?”

  “No, I… Won’t that hurt?”

  I feel his mouth on my jaw, a soft kiss. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not going to hurt you?”

  “You have me tied to a bed and blindfolded.”

  “Pick a wo
rd for me. Something you usually don’t scream when coming.”

  “What?”

  “A weird word. Just pick something.”

  “Umm… Toboggan?”

  “Good, Rose. That’ll be our word. You say that and I’ll stop, I won’t do anything more to you. If it hurts or you need a break, that word is your release.”

  “O-o-o-kay,” I choke out. “I’ll remember.”

  “Good, because I’m going to get a little rough with you.”

  “Rough?”

  He leans back and I hear something click.

  I think it’s a knife.

  He bunches the cloth of my shirt in his hand I can feel him sawing through it. The blade touches my skin, a cold, quick touch that makes me go totally still, fighting not to move a muscle. There’s an open hole in the front of my shirt now, and then the growling rip of fabric as he tears it apart from top to bottom.

  Exposed, I start shaking. He has the knife in his hand. I can almost see his outline as he moves. First he tugs my bra away from my skin, between the cups. I feel the dull back of the knife slide against my skin and jerk, and my bra snaps apart. More cuts sever the straps and he pulls it all away and tosses it aside.

  The bed jerks and bounces. Quentin pulls my sweatpants away from my skin and slices through them, cutting them away from my legs. Soon there’s nothing covering me but my underwear, and then the elastic band snaps as he cuts it and slices the side open along my hip, on each side, and pulls them out from under me.

  I lie naked on the bed. There’s a soft click as he folds the knife and a tap of metal on wood as he sets it on the nightstand. He still has his jeans on—I can feel them against my skin as he lies down next to me.

  Quentin’s hand rests on my stomach.

  “You’re tense,” he says. He can feel me quivering.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “I don’t want you to be scared. I want you to let go.”

  I feel his breath on my side then under my arm. He sniffs my armpit and I writhe on the bed.

  “Stop it, you’re tickling me.”

  “Tickling you,” he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Like this?”

  His hand jerks and his fingers dance over my ribs, and I can’t help it, I bark out laughter, writhing and flopping on the bed. He’s tickling me. Tickling me.