Whenever he looks at me, I can feel the desire well inside me. It brings out strange little tics that I never knew I had. I bite my lip, I sweep loose strands of hair aside, I tug on my shirt because it feels too tight around my chest, or perhaps not tight enough.
I pick up the dice from the board and survey it quickly, sparing Jason the barest glance. I smirk to myself. He probably thinks I am stupid because I have blonde hair. Americans think this, I am told. I weigh them in my fingers, thinking as I survey the state of the board. This game really is trivial, and I am in an excellent position thanks to the foolish trade he made with me earlier.
"I choose to trade," I announce.
I turn to Jason.
"I offer you these three"—I hold up the property cards—"in exchange for those four and that railroad."
The others look at him nervously.
"Dude, you already screwed us," Akele sighs.
Jason evaluates his own meager holdings and counts his cash. He sits back.
"Make your decision," I say, my voice dripping with impatience.
He scratches his chin, and his eyes rake over me from head to toe. I feel like his gaze is peeling back every fiber of cloth until it seems the air kisses my skin and I feel naked. I like the feeling and suppress a shiver, cursing myself for the way I feel my cheeks grow hot. I keep my gaze steady and my lips tightly pursed, willing myself not to bite my lip or stick out my tongue or flutter my eyelashes or some other foolish thing.
He sits and sits, his firm, muscular stomach moving as he breathes.
I cock my head to the side. "Deal or not?"
"I'm thinking. It's a big choice."
"Dude," Akele booms, "don't."
"I need better terms."
"I'm not offering you any more properties."
"Maybe it's not a property I want, Princess."
I roll my eyes. "Then what?"
Jason
I won't make it around the board again even with passing Go. She offers me a trade that would give me a monopoly on the far side of the board, so at least I'd have something. Of course, I'd get dinged every time I roll, practically.
Late game is like that. I take a moment to think about it.
"I'll do it if you kiss me."
"You must be joking," she says, laughing softly. "I'm only allowing you to stay in this game because you amuse me."
"Oh, really? Trust me, Princess. I can be really amusing."
"I'm sure you can," she says slyly. "I'll give you a kiss as part of our deal, but I want a favor from you."
"Great."
I hand over the properties and she even gives me some cash, enough to cover the rent from my landing on her tile.
"Where's my kiss?"
"I didn't say you get it now."
"Oh yeah? I feel cheated. You don't get your favor until I get my kiss."
"Duly noted."
She rolls the dice and nervously pays rent to Aheahe. Anastasia doesn't have much. If one of them doesn't land on her monopoly she won't even be able to put hotels on her new one.
Thankfully for Ana, Aheahe pays her the top rent from one of her properties. She puts down hotels, and I roll.
I land on her twice, on one side of the board, then the other. Our house rule says I forfeit everything to her, so I hand over all my properties.
"Bro, you can mortgage," Akele protests.
"It's my choice. If this is the price to serve my princess, I pay it gladly."
Anastasia sticks her tongue out at me and rolls.
I lean back and watch the game. Dee lasts one more roll, and she's out. Anastasia has a slight edge, but it's gone when Aheahe goes bankrupt on Akele and gives him almost total control of two sides.
The buzzer on the dryer goes off.
"Okay, we need to go," Dee announces.
"But the game isn't over!" Ana protests.
"We tally up our money and properties and whoever has the most wins," Akele says.
After adding it all up, Ana is the winner, by ten dollars. Seriously.
She bounces up and down in her seat and claps, full of excitement.
"I win!" she declares.
"You still owe me that kiss."
She blushes when she looks at me. "So I do. Come get it."
I lean in, and she darts away, bursting from the couch to grab her bundle of clothes and run for the back door. I leap the couch and chase after her, running through the kitchen to catch up.
Anastasia and Dee are already on the back porch.
"You promised."
She shrugs. "So I did. Here."
She darts to me, jumps up, and plants a kiss on my lips. I try to grab her waist. It's a good kiss, and I'd like to keep it going. She even tastes sweet.
She slips out of my hands before I can get ahold of her.
"Now I collect my favor."
"Which is?"
She sighs, and a sad look takes over her soft, beautiful features.
"I like you, but forget about me. You'll be happier."
She turns, takes Dee by the hand, and runs.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up. No, I will not forget about you."
She stops and looks at me, blinking. "Oh. Ah. I'm leaving now."
"Wait!"
"It's not you. I promise. I just can't."
Anastasia gives me one last, longing look before she vaults the fence. Wow, she's very flexible.
I walk to the door and lean on the frame, staring after them.
"Damn, that's cold," Aheahe says.
Akele joins him a moment later.
"Did she say 'forget about me'?" Akele asks.
"Yeah." Aheahe nods.
"Not a chance in hell," I say to no one in particular.
Chapter Three
Anastasia
"What was up with that?" Dee asks me as we take the long walk back.
"With what?"
"That 'forget me' routine."
I look away from her, toward the horizon. It must be near noon. I have been gone far longer than I intended, and I may have hell to pay when I return. I should have Dee leave before she is seen with me.
"You know what was up with it," I sigh.
"Not this again."
"You know how it must be."
I've known it since I arrived here. Being a princess comes with duties. Expectations. Responsibilities. When I return home, I will be expected to marry. Whichever man I take as my husband must be appropriate to my station.
Mother has been trying to find me a husband since I was nine. We no longer marry cousins, and half the island is related to me anyway, so that meant looking abroad.
She made polite entreaties to the British crown, but was refused. For one, the British royalty no longer even arrange marriages. More importantly, they no longer marry foreigners. Marriage alliances are a relic of the past. That did not stop Mother from trying to betroth me. As I grew older, more suitors appeared.
A few even deigned to visit us. One, a Prince Liam of Anglefell, disgusted me. Mother insisted we dance, and he did nothing but look down my dress and try to grope my buttocks. I told her I'd rather marry a lamprey than take that one as my husband.
I threw a fit when she told me she'd asked Prince Kristoff of Kosztyla to visit us and meet me, or if he would be willing to accept a delegation so we would be introduced. I was ready to chain myself to my bed to keep her from saddling me with him, until he curtly refused with no more than a letter brought by courier. Mother ripped it to shreds and would have had the man who brought it thrown in the ocean if I hadn't stopped her.
Until I left to study abroad, the stream of suitors was constant. When she ran out of nobility, she tried to pair me with the children of rich, old-money families. I took one look at a man named Damien Blackthorne and walked out of the room; his eyes frightened me. The others I barely remember. They were all the same—soft, boring men whose only interest in life was counting money and venal pursuits, or drunken partying and fornicating.
Yet here I
am thinking about a man whose only interests in life are football, drunken partying, and fornicating.
"Don't tell me you're already doing the 'how it must be' thing over this guy."
"I didn't say that."
"You totally did. You like him. Jason Powell, you like Jason Powell."
I sigh. "I did not say that."
"You're not denying it."
"He is interesting," I huff. "He amuses me. He has fire."
"He has a chubby. The only things he finds amusing about you are between your legs and in your bra. Oh, and your ass. Probably also your legs. And—"
"I get the point. You do not need to list everything but my mind."
"I just don't want you to get hurt, Princess."
I give her a sharp look. "I don't need you to mother me."
"I know." She rolls her eyes. "But you princesses, you're not the cautious type. Jason will twist you around his little finger and then dump you."
"What if that is what I want?"
I stop on the sidewalk and plant my fists on my hips.
"What?"
"Maybe I want to have a fucking and then quit." I stare her down. "Other people do it. Why can't I?"
She looks at me sadly. "You're not the type."
I scowl and turn away. "I need to get back. It's better if you are not seen with me."
"I know, Princess," she sighs. "I'll see you in class."
We part ways and she heads for the dorms, while I head for my house.
When I settled on De La Warr, Mother bought a house near the school and had it appointed for my use. It stands separate from the others on the street, and has its own yard. I reach it by cutting through the neighbor's property and climbing over the fence.
From there, I have to climb. I hop up and grab the roof overhang, hook my feet on the porch railing, and push up. On all fours, I crawl to my window, raise the sash, and swing my feet inside. My bedroom is on the third floor. The servants and bodyguards are on the second floor.
Once inside, I strip. It is not until then that I realize I'm still wearing Jason Powell's sweatshirt. Turning it in my hands, I look it over. It is old and worn and threadbare, and I suspect it has not been washed.
Tentatively, I bring it up to my face and sniff. I blink a few times and sniff again. It smells like him. I look around, as if I expect someone to be hiding in the closet watching me, and sniff it again.
I can't stop thinking about him. I can feel his muscular body under my hands, and the way his hands roamed over mine when we danced. The hardness of his cock pushing into my back, his breath on my neck. Laying his sweatshirt on my bed, I take off my pants—also his, actually—and roll onto the bed.
Modesty demands I wear more clothes than I would like. It is a crisp October day, which to me is quite warm. Sprawled on the bed and clad only in my underthings, I let the cool air wash over my skin. Then I roll onto my stomach and let the cool air wash over my back.
My hands tuck under my body, almost moving on their own. After the fight in the bar, most of last night is a jumble, but I remember very clearly when Jason picked me up in his arms, as a newlywed might carry a bride, and bore me up to his bedroom. Thinking about it sends a thrill down my body.
His powerful muscles flexing under my knees and against my back, his chest expanding against my side as he breathed, gripping the front of his shirt in my hand as he carried me up the stairs. The scent of him; sweat and beer and something earthy, like clay and leather.
I tug my underwear down a little and slip my hands between my legs, thinking about the way his stubble scratched my cheek, and the way he looked at me with hunger in his eyes and hardness between his legs. I made him hard sitting with him on the couch playing the board game. I could feel the way he tensed when I kissed his cheek. His scratchy, short whiskers brushed my lips, and when when I kissed his later, they were so soft and warm, pulling me into them.
There are things I want to feel, experience, and I imagine them all as I explore my body, sliding my fingers inside myself, rubbing. Why not him? He has a rock- hard body, solid muscle head to toe, and I could feel his hard cock, so impressive in its size. He radiated hunger, and he wanted to put that inside me.
My frustrations drive my pleasure higher. My rear end lifts off the bed, and I imagine him taking hold of me and taking me, pumping with my fingers where I want him to be as I drive myself into a frenzy. My legs and muscles clench and I fall on my side.
I bury my face in his hoodie as I come, shaking and squirming on the bed, clamping on my hands between my thighs. It hits me so hard I can only lie there and whimper, thinking about Jason locking his massive arms around my body. I want him inside me.
My attempt to stand up is less than successful. I end up sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed with my legs outstretched. After perhaps half an hour I can get my feet under me and stand up.
I pace the room a bit before I step out of the last of my clothes and toss them down the laundry chute, then slip into the shower.
Leaning against the cold tiles, I let the scalding water run down my back. I love the cold, but I love a hot shower just as much. I let it warm up the kinks in my back and soak into my hair before I turn around and let it run down the front of my body and between my legs.
Taking a seat on a bamboo stool, I thoroughly wet my hair, turn the water off, and begin working shampoo into it. Washing it is quite an affair, but I find it soothing. It takes fifteen minutes of work to get it thoroughly lathered before I turn the water back on and begin the long rinse.
An hour later after applying conditioner and drying it, I bind my hair into a bun that sits on the back of my neck and trudge across the hall to my study room. I belly up to the desk and turn my math textbook to the appropriate page, and whisk through it. Mathematics has always been easy to me, and my studies at home are far ahead of what I must do here.
History and English literature are a different matter.
I press the history book open with both hands and struggle through the long, overly complex sentences, constantly tripping over the differences in grammar between English and my mother tongue. I have only a basic grip on the material because of the struggle of reading the words.
Who cares about the Teapot Dome Scandal, in any event?
The professor, for one thing. My last returned assignment sits on the desk, the D- scratched in red ink glaring at me like a scarlet letter. I keep it there as a reminder that I must focus on this subject, no matter how much I hate the helpless feeling.
After two hours of grappling with the book in a post-hangover fuzz, I have fully half the assigned reading to go. Or rather, last week's assigned reading. I'm far behind, and with no end in sight. When I look up, it's already late afternoon, and I still have to catch up on my reading of The Great Gatsby, which sounds about as desirable as stuffing an eel up my nose.
First, a dinner break.
I stride down to the kitchen and ring the bell on the counter. Mavra, the cook, appears moments later, uselessly wiping her hands on her immaculate, white apron. She curtsies in a smooth, practiced motion despite her ponderous size.
"What would Her Grace prefer for supper?"
Just once I'd like her to tell me what's for supper, so I don't have to choose. After all that liquor last night, thinking makes my head hurt.
"Chicken," I say, choosing at random.
"Her Grace will be eating at her desk tonight?"
The question is redundant; I always eat at my desk. I've used the oversized dining table perhaps once in the time I've lived here.
I nod and walk back upstairs. My head is throbbing. My mouth starts to water. Mavra finally brings my dinner on a silver platter and sets it on my desk next to my hand as I struggle over the book. I eat slowly as I work and sip my milk. It cools my stomach but doesn't stop the throbbing in my head.
When I am two-thirds through the assigned readings, the last scraps of my dinner have gone cold and my head feels like it is full of wood pulp. I stick
a marker in the book, slam it closed with too much force, and grab my battered, used copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald's book.
Flopping on the bed, I start to open it, when I notice a missed call blinking at me from the lock screen of my phone. I set the book aside and check the missed calls.
Mother.
Oh, wonderful.
I trudge back to the study and stop so Mavra can head back to the kitchen with my scraps.
"Will there be anything further, Your Grace?"
"No," I sigh.
I plop into the chair and wake the computer, and open the video-call program. It rings five times, and then the screen blinks and Mother appears.
Queen Karen IV stares me down as if I have committed a great crime, anger twisting her pursed rosebud lips. She folds her arms over her chest and glares at me.
"Anastasia," she says.
"Mother," I reply, primly.
She picks something up from her desk and holds it to the camera. It's a tabloid newspaper, The Royal Exposé. The cover story is about Prince Liam's marriage.
"Yes?" I say, confused.
Mother lets out an exasperated sigh, edging into a growl. "Upper right corner."
I look closer.
The Princess's Lesbian Lover? it reads.
My mouth falls open. The picture is blurry and taken from a distance, but it's clearly myself and Dee; I'd recognize her elaborately braided, purple-and-blue hair anywhere. The picture is innocuous enough, showing the two of us sitting on a park bench in front of an ice cream stand.
"What is the meaning of this?" Mother demands.
"I wanted to have some ice cream."
"You wanted to have some ice cream," she says in a cold, singsong voice. "Without your guards."
"Mother—"
"Your guards are to keep these slime away from you and stop them taking these disgusting pictures. This slander against the dignity of your royal house is intolerable."
"I did not write that article, Mother."
"There would be no article if you would stay where you belong and stop sneaking out."
I sit up and glare at her.
"You sent me here to learn about America. How am I to learn about America if you keep me locked in a cage?"
Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance) Page 5