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."
18
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 if you’d like to wear it,” I say. “I mean, if that’s what you’re into.”
“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 enou
gh 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 steps 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 call 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."
"But today, there are no panties," he says, crossing the room with long, purposeful strides until he reaches me. He stands in front of me, too close for comfort, and I suck in a deep breath of air as my heart races a million beats a second.
He looks down at me, using his knee to spread my legs. "Just say you want my fingers there, stroking your clit. You want me to put my mouth between your legs, suck your clit until you're breathless…"
“No,” I say.
I reach between my legs, pushing aside the breezy fabric of my skirt to slide my fingers down the front of my mound to touch my throbbing clit. I bite my lip at the shock of arousal that courses through me, watching the expression on Albie's face change from one of unabashed lust to surprise.
He didn't think I would touch myself in front of him.
Hell, I didn't think I would do something like this. Lust is making me insane. Temporary insanity, I think. I've never been left so unsatisfied before, and yet the only thing I can think about, the only think I care about right now, is pushing him to the brink. Making him be the one who begs for it.
"All you have to do is say please, Belle," Albie says, his eyes on mine. He stands there unmoving, unwavering, his leg pressed against the bottom of my pussy. I know I'm wet, and the thought of my wetness soaking the fabric of his suit -- the thought of leaving my mark -- makes me insane.
"After you," I say, my voice breathy. "It's such a small word. Just a request, really."
"Ladies first."
But I'm not going to say please. I'm not going to beg him, the way every other girl in the world has begged him.
He watches me, unable to disguise his arousal, the bulge in his pants more than enough evidence that he's turned on.
The knock on the door startles me and I jump, pulling my skirt down and straightening up immediately, my heart racing. "Oh my God. Is the door locked?" I whisper.
Albie raises his eyebrows and winks at me. "Live a little, luv," he says, chuckling as I push him away.
19
Albie
Live a little.
That’s what I told her, hours ago in the game room, when we were interrupted by a member the household staff who needed to prepare the room for an afternoon event.
Live a little. Detour to the observatory.
That’s the text she sent me ten minutes ago, as I was making my way toward the petite ballroom, to an event for some cause or another, something utterly forgettable.
Of course I’m going to detour to the observatory. My cock is rock hard, thinking about what just happened in the game room earlier today. Thinking about Belle, with her dress hitched up around her thighs, giving me a view of her bare pussy under that conservative dress of hers.
The thought of bending her over in that conservative dress with the flirty skirt makes me want to come right now. I won’t pretend I don’t want to slide my cock inside her tight pussy, push her up against a wall and fuck the living hell out of her, because I obviously do. I want to do that, more than anything.
Almost anything.
I like the game we’re playing, the back-and-forth between her and I, the way she ups the ante each time I do something inappropriate. I like pushing Belle’s boundaries. I like the idea that I can make someone like her – so proud, stubborn, unyielding – even consider begging me to fuck her.
I want her to beg me.
The idea is thrilling.
The observatory is empty, completely deserted, and I wonder if she’s about to up the ante in the ultimate way – if she’s called me here because she’s giving in. Reaching into the pocket of my pants, I finger the condom I brought with me.
But it’s deserted, even of Belle.
I wander the expanse of the room, the moonlight from the glass ceiling bathing the room in an eerie glow. It’s the only room in the palace that’s more modern, the furniture reflecting the fact that this was an addition to the palace in my father’s time. It’s the only room he’s added onto the palace. Everything else dates back to the fifteen hundreds. In this room, the furniture is sleek, modern, navy and cream colors that are elegant but fitting for an observatory.
This used to be one of my favorite places to be in the palace when I was a kid. My father would bring me up here to look at the stars with the telescope.
I haven’t been up here in years, since before I left for the Army.
The phone vibrates in my pocket, and I open a text from Belle.
Look down.
She’s not in the room. I know immediately where she is. I walk across the observatory, where a set of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooks the music room.
And there is Belle.
She’s sitting on top of the fucking piano.
She's sitting on top of the piano, wearing a red strapless gown, her breasts practically spilling out of the top. Her legs crossed, the slit in the side of the skirt falls open, revealing the expanse of her creamy thigh.
The dress is scandalous. It will be scandalous, if she shows up to the event in that. I’m sure it looked less scandalous on the rack, or on the runway, but on her is looks like sex. She looks like sex.
And she’s sitting there, her legs crossed, looking up at me.
Should we finish what we started?
I send the text, waiting for her to beckon me down and beg me to take her up against the piano. Or on top of the piano.
I want to lay her back across the lacquered surface of the grand piano, spread her legs, and devour her.
D
epends. Are you asking nicely? Are you saying please?
The text makes me laugh. Even now, she’s refusing to bend. It’s such a small thing.
I shake my head, knowing that she can see the gesture from where she sits. When I call her, she answers, her voice breathy. “Ask me to come down and join you,” I say.
She just laughs. “No.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” she asks.
“I think you want me to touch you,” I say. “I think that you want me to spread your legs, spread you out right there on the piano, and lick you until you come.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her breath catch in her throat and then she exhales heavily. From the window, I watch as she moves, just slightly, her legs parting so that the red material falls down between her thighs. She’s a tease, obscuring what she knows I want to see.
“Are you wearing panties tonight?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. She looks to the side, glancing toward the door like she’s afraid of someone walking in, even though most of the staff and guests are far away on the other side of the palace right now.
Then she shows me she’s wearing nothing underneath that dress of hers. She pushes the fabric to the side, spreading her legs for me on the piano bench, and she’s completely bare.
Completely and totally bare.
And the expression on her face, the sly smile, says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me right now.
As if my raging hard-on wouldn’t be obvious from a mile away.
“I want you to touch yourself,” I say. There’s nothing in my voice that leaves room for discussion.
She doesn’t argue, doesn’t say a word, but I can hear her breath get shorter on the phone, and she listens.
Double Team: A Menage Romance Page 41