“Good,” he says. The tip of his cock presses against my ass. I can still feel the piercing through the condom as he begins to enter me, his hands spreading my ass cheeks. “Bend down, Belle. Keep fucking yourself, and raise your ass in the air for me.”
The way he talks is so filthy.
The things he does to me are so dirty.
My fingers pressing the dildo into my pussy, I lower myself to the bed. My face presses against the sheets, my ass in the air. This is the most vulnerable I’ve ever felt, the most naked. The most exposed.
He talks to me as he enters me, his hands caressing the flesh of my ass as he works his cock gently inside me. I wince at the flash of pain that runs through me. The burning sensation that gives way almost immediately to pleasure.
“Do you like this, Belle?” he asks. “Do you like giving yourself totally to me?”
“Oh fuck,” I moan as he settles fully inside me, holding my hips tightly against him. I can feel his heavy balls pressed against me, and he’s pressed against me so hard that it holds the dildo in place, pushing it deep inside me.
“That’s right,” he says, his voice gravely. “You’re mine, Belle. All of you belongs to me, my love.”
I stroke my clit as he begins to move inside me, slowly and gently, taking his time with my ass, his hands gripping my waist as he holds me against him. The dildo slides in and out of me with every thrust of his into my ass, building up a steady rhythm as I adjust to him.
It seems like he fucks me forever. I whimper, asking him if I can come, barely able to hang onto my sanity as he takes me in every way.
“I’ll tell you when you can come, luv,” he whispers. “Not yet.”
Not yet.
Even when I’m on the edge, every cell in my body screaming for release. Even when I stroke my clit more furiously, knowing that I’m only bringing myself closer to the edge but denying myself the pleasure of crashing over it. Even as he talks to me, telling me how tight I am, how I squeeze his cock so very well.
Even when I feel tears rolling down my cheeks, frustration at being so close. “Please, Albie,” I whine. “Make me come. I’m begging.”
Then Albie cries out, without his usual warning, without the “come for me” I’m waiting for. He utters a long, loud, guttural cry from deep in his throat as he thrusts deeply into my waiting ass, his cock throbbing.
Knowing he’s coming pushes me over the edge. I don’t hold back, and I don’t try to be quiet. I cry out his name as I come, wave after wave of sweet release washing over me, obliterating my awareness of anything else in the world.
I’m not sure how long it is before either of us speak. I think I might have lost my ability to articulate anything. When I unclench my eyes, my pussy still throbbing. Albie is still inside me, holding me tightly against him. He reaches for me, drawing me up until my back is flush against his chest and wrapping his arms around me. He nuzzles my neck with his lips pressed against my skin. “God, I love you.”
I breathe in deeply, settling against him where I belong. “I love you too, Albie.”
47
Belle
It’s been two days since everything happened. We made it two days in the hotel room in Budapest before King Leopold had Royal Intelligence round up all of us and escort us directly to the palace.
Albie and I got a royal ass-chewing from his father. His father was more concerned with the fact that we ran off to Budapest accompanied by our bodyguards than with the fact that Albie and I were together. The royal PR team was more concerned with the fact that we basically issued a public statement un-vetted by anyone.
In the past two days, videos of Albie and I at the restaurant have gone viral. One of them was viewed over eight million times.
The cat is officially out of the bag.
We’re supposed to do an interview on a television show tomorrow. And I should be terrified. The old Belle would be anxious and afraid. Except that I’m not. The way Albie stood in front of everyone that night, holding my hand as he told people how he felt about me – unrehearsed and speaking from the heart – gave me a confidence in us I didn’t know I could have.
And it turns out that the video struck a chord with people. Most of the public response has been positive.
My mother’s response, on the other hand…
She stands in my room now with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for my explanation.
But I’m not going to give her one.
This time, I’m standing up to her.
“This is going to happen, whether you like it or not,” I say, watching her expression harden. “And the thing is, it’s not that big of a deal after all. Ask your PR team. People just aren’t as scandalized as you think. I’m sorry about the timing. I’m sorry this happened before your wedding. But you brought that part on yourself.”
Her jaw drops. “Isabella Kensington, how dare you suggest that I had anything to do with you and that boy sneaking around –“
Suddenly Albie is that boy.
“You invited Derek to the charity event!” I say, my voice rising. I’ve never dared to yell at her before, but suddenly I’ve found my voice. “You tried to get me to take back my cheating dirtbag ex-fiancé, but you balk at the idea of Albie and I – a man who loves me, completely and entirely – being together?”
“It’s unseemly,” she says.
I shrug, because I don’t care. “I guess you’d better get comfortable with a royal scandal, then,” I say. “Because you can either be okay with it or disown me. It’s really your choice.”
“Isabella Kensington, if your father were alive to see –“
“Don’t,” I say, holding my hand up. Anger surges through my veins. “Don’t you dare tell me my father would be appalled, because that’s not true. He’d want me to be happy. Don’t you want me to be happy? Isn’t there some part of you that wants me to fall in love? I see the way you look at Leo sometimes. I know that as cynical as you’ve become, there’s part of you that still believes in love. I know that you love him. And it’s not fair for you to not want that for me.”
The words pour out of me, more words than I thought I was keeping inside, and I take a deep breath the minute I stop.
My mother looks at me for a long time, standing still, her hands clasped in front of her. “I loved your father,” she says. “Madly. Passionately. And when he died, I thought it would destroy me. And I do see the way you look at Albie. It reminds me of what I had with your father, and that frightens me. I…”
Her voice trails off, and she blinks, standing still, like she’s afraid to move. She’s become so practiced at restraint and decorum that it makes me sad for her.
“I thought you wanted me to be miserable,” I say.
“Belle,” she says. “Of course I want you to be happy.”
“I’m not afraid,” I say. “I love him.”
She sighs heavily. “I know,” she says. “I do know that.”
“Can you be happy for me?”
“I love you,” she says. "And I can."
It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.
48
Albie
"It's official," I whisper, her hand in mine as we waltz around the dance floor in the ballroom in sync with the music from the orchestra. "Now we're related."
Belle glares at me. "Stop saying that."
I affect an exasperated sigh. "I hate when my wife tells me what to do."
"You have to stop calling me that," she says, trying to sound disapproving, but I know she's not. The corners of her mouth turn up. "The marriage was annulled, remember?"
As if I could forget. The royal lawyers went ballistic over our drunken Vegas marriage, immediately initiating the annulment, since we'd both admitted publicly that we were intoxicated.
So we're no longer married.
And now our parents are.
"Maybe I'm a little disappointed that you're no longer my wife," I whisper in her ear. She moves against me with the music, her body
suddenly much too close for a waltz, less than appropriate for our parents' wedding. Especially a royal wedding.
It would be a lot more inappropriate to have a huge hard on while dancing with Belle at the wedding reception.
Belle just laughs. "I'm sure you'll find a way to manage," she says.
"I can think of a way you might help me manage," I say, my hand sliding up the middle of her back.
Belle moves away from me in tune with the music. "Nice try," she says laughing, as I pull her back. "At our parents' wedding?"
"If I recall correctly, the first time I made you come was at our parents' engagement party," I whisper into her ear. "You should be glad I didn't make you wear a vibrator tonight."
"You can't make me do anything," Belle says, laughing.
"I'll bet I can make you come," I whisper, pulling her close to me again. "Let's get out of here."
"Everyone will notice," she whispers.
"We've been on national interviews," I say. "And all over the internet. I'm pretty sure that everyone already knows we’re together.”
“You’re wicked,” she says, a smile on her lips.
“No, luv,” I say, pulling her close against me as the music shifts to a slower song. “Wicked would be if I told you what exactly I was thinking of doing to you right now.”
Alex comes into view beside us, slow-dancing with Max. “Get a room, you two,” she whispers.
“That’s what I’m trying to convince her to do, but she won’t listen,” I say.
Belle slaps me playfully on the arm. “It’s a breach of etiquette to leave,” she insists.
“There is no end to the number of etiquette rules we’ve broken, luv,” I say, laughing. “I’m with you. Alex is openly slow-dancing with her bodyguard. I think etiquette has gone out the window.”
“This family practically deserves a reality show,” she says.
“A Royal Scandal,” I suggest. “Happily Ever After with the Royal Family.”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“All of my ideas right now involve you wearing considerably fewer articles of clothing.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And I’m all yours, luv.”
“Lucky me,” she says, sarcastically.
I spin her around, my hand on her back, pulling her tightly against me. “No,” I say. “Lucky us.”
“That is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
49
Belle — One Year Later
I’m standing at the altar in Protrovia’s most historic and lavish church, in front of fifteen hundred people. There are throngs of people outside in the streets.
I should be practically doubled over now, crippled with panic doing this in front of everyone.
But Albie stands beside me, and I can’t keep my eyes off of him. He’s wearing full military dress, Navy blue with gold trim, saber at his side. He’s never looked more like a true royal than right now.
Classy, distinguished, mature.
He squeezes my hand, and leans over to whisper to me. “I just want you to remember that I love you,” he says.
“What did you do?” I whisper back.
“Quiet,” he says. “We’re at an important event.”
I glance to the side to see Alex, my maid of honor, smiling. Then I hear the titters of people in the crowd, white noise that ripples through the church.
I look up.
They’re laughing because Albie has done something totally unprecedented. I can’t imagine this has ever happened, in the history of royal weddings, around the world. I don’t know how many people he had to bribe to make it happen.
It’s not the priest standing in front of us right now, the one who was supposed to officiate the ceremony – the one who officially marries members of the royal family, important people.
Nope.
It’s Fake Elvis.
Fake Elvis is standing in the middle of this church, ready to marry Prince Albert and Princess Isabella of Protrovia.
Wearing a white and gold jumpsuit with so much bling it rivals any of the wedding party.
I turn to Albie, my eyes wide. “You did not get fake Elvis to officiate,” I whisper in disbelief.
King Leopold is probably going to have a coronary.
I try to stifle my giggle, covering my mouth with my hand, but wind up snorting, which makes it worse. It’s terrible, and awful, and the most ridiculous thing imaginable.
And so incredibly inappropriate.
But it’s somehow just right.
Albie takes my hands, and the murmurs from the crowd begin to quiet. It’s not even time for the vows, but he speaks. “I know this is off script,” he says. “But I’d like to say my vows now, if that’s okay.”
He’s asking permission from Fake Elvis to go off-script at our wedding.
The thought sends a ripple of laughter through me again, and when I try to hold it in, my eyes water.
“I know you’re all shook up by this grand gesture,” Albie says. And I snort. Out loud.
I try to glare at him, but find it impossible to be angry.
“On a serious note,” Albie says, clearing his throat. “People have an idea about how relationships should be. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after. Nothing about our relationship has happened the way it’s supposed to. We got married first. And you couldn’t stand me.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I say, and the crowd laughs.
“But then we fell in love,” Albie says. “And here we are, getting married for real this time. But that night in Las Vegas, when it was just the two of us – and Fake Elvis – that was the night I first fell in love with you. And as ridiculous as it might be, that’s where we began. And I never want to forget it.”
Albie pulls me forward, his lips close to mine, and now we’re really off-script, but I don’t care.
Fake Elvis says, “Well, you may kiss this hunk of –“
And I do.
Before Elvis even finishes, Albie pulls me against him and brings his lips down on mine. And when I close my eyes, it’s like kissing him again for the first time – butterflies in my stomach and the world spinning around me. Except this time, that’s not because I’ve had five shots of tequila in the back of a limo in Vegas.
This time, it’s because I’m undeniably, head-over-heels, irresistibly in love.
And I’m not the least bit nervous about showing it.
In front of God and all of these witnesses.
Including Fake Elvis.
What I’m working on…
Her Bodyguard
Max
I protect royals – I don't screw them.
I definitely don't screw spoiled, rich, out-of-control brats like Princess Alexandra. She's a walking disaster, a whirlwind of public scandal and bad behavior.
She's smart-mouthed, argumentative, and doesn't do a damned thing I say.
And the idea of throwing her over my shoulder like a caveman makes my blood run hot.
She's the ultimate in forbidden – bodyguards don't touch princesses. I could lose everything.
But this is one princess I'll bring to her knees.
Alex
My bodyguard is a royal ass.
He's ridiculously arrogant, completely insufferable, and always plays by the rules.
B-o-r-i-n-g. I definitely don't do boring.
If there's one thing I can't stand, it's someone telling me what to do.
Yet the idea of him turning me over his knee makes me wet.
Princesses don't slum it with bodyguards – it's the ultimate transgression.
And they definitely don't fall in love.
Excerpt
"You're not going anywhere with him, princess." Max grabs my wrist, his expression dark.
"I'll go wherever I damn well please," I huff, shaking off his grip despite my nearly overwhelming attraction for this man.
My bodyguard.
The most irritating, poss
essive brute in the universe. The man who's been telling me what to do for the past year, bossing me around like he owns me. Overstepping his role. Looking at me like he wants to tear my clothes off.
I could have requested another bodyguard a dozen times. I could have traded him for someone else. Someone professional. Someone who has respect for my position, the fact that I'm a royal. Someone who doesn't think that an appropriate method of protecting me is to pick me up and throw me over his shoulder to physically remove me from whomever he thinks I need protecting from – usually an attractive man hitting on me.
"No, princess. He doesn't take you anywhere. He doesn't put his hands on you. He doesn't put his mouth on you. He doesn't fucking look at you."
"He doesn't look at me?! Are you insane? You're certifiable if you think you have any right to tell me who I can and can't see!"
"That's right. He doesn't fucking look at you."
"We're in a fake relationship, Max. All of this – " I gesture wildly to emphasize my point, but really because I need to put some space between us before I wind up crossing the line with him and doing something I can't take back. "It's not real. Just because I made up a scandalous thing with you to take the heat off my brother doesn't mean you should actually take it seriously."
"Tell me how fake this feels, princess." He pulls me against him, his hardness pressing into my leg and sending arousal coursing through me like a wave. I take a deep breath and tell myself to stay in control.
I'm not the kind of girl who goes weak-kneed over a guy. I don't get a rush or butterflies in my stomach at the thought of a crush. In fact, I don't do crushes. I don't do relationships or 'I Love You's or pet names or talk about breakfast the next morning, let alone next week or forever.
Double Team: A Menage Romance Page 56