"What the hell?" he asks. "When did you become a monk?"
I shrug, attempting to exude a nonchalance I don't feel. "Sorry if I don't want to stick my dick where a thousand other guys have been."
"Twins, Albie," he says, rolling his eyes as he leans back against the upholstered sofa. He swallows several fingers of vodka in a single gulp. "Since when have you ever given a shit about who you put your dick in?"
"Shut up." I can't think of a single time, other than the crazy ex, when I'd even bothered to get a girl's name. Well, maybe a few times, when I screwed women I already knew socially – countesses, duchesses, people like that. But they were forgettable.
They've all been forgettable.
Until now. Until Belle. And I'm not even screwing her.
Apparently, now I can't get her out of my mind, even when I try.
"You're ignoring me." Standing behind her in the tearoom, I whisper the words into her ear. I speak softly, mindful of the room full of people, an event for whatever the hell we're hosting today that my presence is mandated for. At this point, the events are a blur, and I just show up wherever my presence is requested, like a dutiful robot prince.
Belle doesn't turn around. She doesn't move or turn or acknowledge that she heard me, standing motionless with her teacup and saucer in her hand. From where I am behind her, I catch a whiff of the perfume she wears, something light with just a hint of something floral – jasmine maybe, or gardenia. She smells like summer.
Her dark hair is down, tumbling over her shoulders in waves to the middle of her back, over the pale blue tailored suit jacket she wears that matches her fitted pencil skirt. The outfit is made for a forty-year-old woman. It's conservative, respectful, and appropriate.
And I don't even need to look at the front of it to know that it's the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen. The way the skirt skims over her curves, caressing her ass like it was made for her, makes me crazy.
My cock stirs.
I'm at an afternoon tea, in a room filled with people I should care about impressing -- and I'm getting a boner looking at Belle's ass.
The problem is that Belle has been avoiding me for the past few days. I swear she's doing it on purpose, making sure we're never in the same room together for more than a few minutes. Last night at the club, I could have gone home with the Lara twins. I should have gone home with them, fucked my brains out until they erased every thought of Belle from my head.
That would be the smart thing to do. Instead, I jerked off, thinking about Belle.
And now, seeing her here, all I can think about is yanking that far-too-appropriate skirt up around her waist and coming all over that perfect ass of hers.
Belle finally half-turns toward me, her eyebrows raised. "Oh?" she asks, holding a teacup to her perfectly glossed lips. "I wasn't aware you needed my attention."
The way she speaks is laden with meaning, her words practically dripping with innuendo.
"I think you're mistaken," I say softly, my words barely audible. "It's the other way around. You need my attention."
Belle brings the tea cup to her lips, slowly taking a sip, her eyes trained on mine as she swallows, then licks her lips. The gesture is subtle, yet somehow the most sexual thing I've ever seen.
She glances down toward my cock, where my growing hardness is evident, and then back up at me. "You're lying, Your Highness," she whispers, then straightens. Her expression changes to a professional one as an older man in military regalia walks toward us with his wife on his arm.
“Miss Kensington,” I say, my voice excessively formal, while I’m willing my hard-on to deflate, “May I introduce the Count and Countess of Etier?”
Belle smiles – primly and properly. She laughs at one of the Count’s jokes, and talks with the Countess about gardening or something.
I’m not paying a damn bit of attention to what we’re talking about, because the only thing I can think about is Belle’s ass.
“I don’t need your attention,” she whispers, as soon as they leave. “Or your fingers. My fingers have been working just fine.”
I nearly spit out my tea. The image of Belle in bed, with her perfect legs spread, her fingers inside her wet pussy flashes into my head. When I glance at her, she smiles smugly.
I notice someone else important walking toward us, so I whisper in her ear quickly, before they arrive. “You should touch yourself in front of me,” I say, my voice barely audible. “Since we both know you’re thinking about me when you do.”
Belle’s face flushes, but she looks straight ahead, smiling appropriately as another dignitary approaches us. “Oh, I think that might be arranged, Your Highness,” she says, her voice sweet. “But only if you beg.”
From the corner of my eye, I glance at her as I greet yet another person of interest to my father. When Belle catches my eye, she smiles.
Little Miss Do Gooder has more of a backbone than I thought she did.
16
Belle
I wipe a towel across my forehead – navy blue monogrammed with the royal crest in gold stitching. Even the towels in the gym are excessively formal, perfectly placed in a little pyramid on an antique table against the wall.
Five miles on the treadmill.
That’s what it took to run off the frustration caused by seeing Albie today at tea. Five miles a day for the past few days, since we got back from the summer estate. If I keep this up, if I keep running until I’m nearly exhausted in order to run off the overpowering attraction and sexual tension between us, I’m going to be a damn marathoner.
I could go back to the States, I think as I walk back toward my room. I could return to the States and put all of this behind me.
“Isabella,” my mother calls, her voice echoing down the hallway. I turn around to see her walking toward me in a tailored silk suit and a matching pillbox hat. “I texted you, but you didn’t respond.”
“My phone is in my room,” I say. “I was in the gym.”
“There’s a foundation,” Sofia says, handing me a packet of paperwork. “I’d thought you might like to be involved with it.”
“What is it?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Reading?” she asks, absently, pulling out her phone and scrolling over the screen. “Or refugees? I’m really not sure. There’s a packet of information. Charity is your thing. You should organize a dinner, fundraising or something. You can use your time at the summer estate to plan something for the fall, when we return to the palace. Nothing that takes attention away from the wedding, of course.”
“Fundraising isn’t really my thing, mother,” I say, but she’s looking at her phone, her brow furrowed. And you're assuming I'm going to stay until Fall.
“I have to run, I’m afraid,” she says. “There’s a crisis with the event tonight.”
“What event?” I ask, as she draws me in, kissing my cheek.
“Read the packet, darling,” she says. “I’m late.” I roll my eyes as she starts to walk away. Then she pauses, turning back to me. “Oh, I almost forgot to ask. How are you adjusting to everything?”
“Fine,” I lie. Thinking about returning home is what I deliberately leave out. Except the problem is that I’ve been living overseas the past two years, so I'm not exactly sure where home is anymore.
“Protrovia will grow on you,” she says. “Albert is taking care of you?”
My face flushes and I cover my reaction with a fake cough.
Albie is not taking care of me, I think. I’ve been taking care of myself. Every night. While thinking about how I’d like Albie to take care of me.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, my voice faltering.
She walks toward me, and speaks, her voice quiet. “Alexandra has…problems,” she says. “Albert can show you around. He was in Afghanistan, you know. He’s more serious now. Responsible.”
I choke back a laugh as my mother whirls around without waiting for a response from me. She walks down the hallway, every step of hers purposeful
.
When I reach my bedroom, I pull open the door and toss the packet of paperwork on the desk. I know my mother wants me to be part of a foundation, to take some kind of administrative or public relations role -- whatever it is that a princess does.
But that’s just not me.
I’m hands-on, which is why I went to Africa in the first place. She totally doesn’t understand that.
I’ll read the paperwork later.
I turn, my eyes resting on the box in the middle of the bed – bright pink paper embossed with a subtle floral pattern and tied with an ornate gold fabric ribbon. There’s no card attached to the outside, so I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the ribbon to open the box lid.
It’s probably a gift from my mother, a bribe to follow the not-so-subtle order to get involved with the foundation. The thought makes me immediately annoyed. If my mother thinks I can be bribed with some stupid gift, she’s mistaken.
I pull off the lid of the box, expecting to see a purse or new pair of shoes, something my mother thinks someone my age would like.
It’s definitely not a new purse or a pair of shoes.
I stare at the inside of the box, blinking several times to make sure I’m actually seeing what I’m seeing.
That prick did not do this.
I look at the contents of the box, unsure whether to be appalled or amused. A notecard is perched on top of a small pile of sex toys, and I set it on the bed beside the box. It’s no mystery who left me this ridiculously inappropriate gift.
I reach inside the box, pulling out the first thing I touch.
It’s a fucking gold dildo. Or gold-plated or something. It’s so shiny it’s nearly blinding, the end opposite the tip crusted in jewels, red and blue and green. I run my hand down the shaft, my fingertips sliding easily over the smooth cool surface. I should be appalled, I think. Instead, heat pools between my legs as I touch the toy.
The golden cock comes to life in my hands, vibrating when I accidentally trigger something on it, and I yelp, dropping it onto the bed, where it bounces around in a circle on the mattress. Scrambling to shut it off, a giggle builds up in my throat, escaping my lips despite my best efforts to not be amused by Albie’s antics.
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.
17
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 unbutt
oned, 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.
Double Team: A Menage Romance Page 40