Capture Me (Royals Saga: Smith and Belle Book 3)

by Geneva Lee

  It smoldered into me, forcing me to forget that it was cold. There was only him and the silent magic of the snowy landscape around us. His hands braced my face, tilting it to that perfect angle, and when his mouth captured mine, the kiss heated more than my lips. My body responded as it had been conditioned to. It wanted pleasure, every bit of me ached for it, and that kiss promised it. Smith had taught my body what to expect when he claimed me, and now I needed for him to do so.

  When we broke apart, breathless and wild-eyed, I stayed pressed to him.

  “If we do it right here, what are the chances we get frostbite?” he asked.

  “The stable’s pretty warm,” I suggested, tugging my lower lip into my teeth. Just the thought of him taking me there made me wet. If we didn’t make a decision soon though, my trousers weren’t going to be soaked, they were going to be frozen.

  Smith pulled my lip free from my teeth, shaking his head. “If you’re going to finally let me off bedrest, I want to take my time. I’m not sure a literal roll in the hay will do the trick.”

  “Then take me to bed, Mr. Price,” I said silkily.

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Price.”

  As he took my hand, the giddiness I’d felt overtook me and I started to run. He followed and by some miracle, we narrowly missed collapsing in a snow bank. I was dragging him toward the steps, when he stopped.

  “Whose car is that?”

  I shook my head, not recognizing the black Land Rover. “Everyone has one out here. It's a law, I think.”

  I gestured around us to the falling snow, but I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. The spell was broken, even I felt the palpable terror in the air. It was unlike my mother to receive visitors during the winter months.

  There’s an explanation, I reasoned silently. Despite my protests, she’d continued to discuss contracts with the BBC. It seemed it didn’t matter that I’d flatly refused to sign on the dotted line. “I wouldn’t put it past her to call the television executives out here.”

  “Those are local plates,” Smith said in a low voice.

  Trust the lawyer to pick up on the most minute detail. But local plates meant local people. If it wasn’t an executive down from London then it wasn’t a hitman down from there either.

  Smith gripped my hand firmly and led me inside. Neither of us spoke again until we reached the door, although I noted how his eyes darted cautiously around us.

  He paused as he reached for the handle, then brushed a loose strand of hair from my face. “I love you, beautiful.”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” I whispered. “This isn’t goodbye.”

  “Does anyone know when it is?”

  I rolled my eyes, trying to appear nonchalant even as my heart began to beat rapidly. “Don’t be philosophical either. We’re going to go in there and discover my mom’s hosting a bridge party—and then you’re going to make good on your promise to take me to bed.”

  “As long as we don’t get stuck playing bridge.”

  I didn’t tell him that my mother had never played a card game in her life. As far as I knew, her social life consisted of trying to hack my social media accounts.

  Belinda met us at the door, which I took to be a good sign.

  “I was wondering if you’d ever bother to come in. Can’t keep your hands off each other. I understand that, but try not to catch your death while you’re snogging.” She collected our wet coats and nodded toward the sitting room. “Mr. Jacobson stopped by.”

  “Jacobson?” Smith repeated casually.

  “Our neighbor to the west. Great friend of your mother’s. She plays bridge with his wife.”

  I should have already known hell had frozen over. I’d been watching snow blanket this house for the last few hours. At least the matter bore no further investigation.

  Turning to say something to Smith, I caught him heading for the sitting room.

  “Where are you going?” I whispered when I caught up to him.

  “It’s always wise to know your neighbors,” he said in a meaningful tone.

  My mother was pouring tea as we entered, and it was clear from the caustic glare she gave me that I was an unwanted addition to afternoon tea. The man across from her rose, smiling kindly, as he strode over to shake my hands.

  “You must be Mary’s daughter.”

  I held back a wince at his firm grip. “Annabelle. This is my husband, Smith Price.”

  Beside me Smith went rigid. I’d given our real names, but how was I supposed to lie in front of my mother? He’d been the one who’d insisted on checking things out.

  “Oliver Jacobson,” he continued. “I bought the house up the way.”

  Despite his smile, there was something rehearsed about his friendliness. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it rubbed me the wrong way. “Lovely. What do you do, Mr. Jacobson? Or are you renting your house to the BBC as well?”

  I couldn’t hold back the dig at my mother’s get-rich-quick scheme.

  “Nothing that thrilling, I’m sorry to say. I’m actually a member of the House of Commons.”

  So he was a politician. That explained a lot.

  “It was nice to meet you,” Smith interjected, “but I’m afraid my wife has been out in the elements too long. I really need to get these clothes off of her.”

  I bit back a moan at the thought.

  “Of course! We must talk another time. I don’t suppose you’re a hunting man?”

  “Not for many years,” Smith said with a small smile.

  “Then we must get you back in the field.” Jacobson clapped his hand on Smith’s shoulder. “I look forward to it.”

  “Hunting?” I repeated when we were out of earshot.

  “The only trophy I’m interesting in bagging is your panties,” he promised me.

  “I’m not wearing any,” I purred.

  Smith stopped and grabbed my coat, pulling my body to his. “You went riding without knickers?”

  I nodded, nuzzling against his jaw.

  “You must be very, very cold.”

  I nodded again.

  “Don’t worry, beautiful. My palm is itching to warm your ass up.”

  We were interrupted by a soft cough. Spinning around, I discovered Belinda studying the floor.

  “Yes?” Smith prompted, his voice strained.

  “I’m so sorry, but Ms. Annabelle’s delivery came from the village. She asked me to come find her when it arrived.”

  “Thank you, Belinda,” I said, feeling the heat I’d felt at Smith’s touch fade.

  She shot me an apologetic smile before she disappeared down the corridor.

  “As I was saying,” Smith began, “we should really get you warmed up.”

  “You are still on bedrest. We need to behave,” I reminded him. Denying him didn’t come easily to me.

  “I’ll sit down while I spank you,” he said dryly.

  “Not tonight.” I wriggled free from him. I had to be the strong one. There were too many complications now, and my mind was on the order waiting in my bedroom. Just knowing it was waiting for me was driving me crazy, and I couldn’t risk him opening it.

  Smith didn’t stop me as I left him. Later he’d climb into bed beside me and soothe the savage ache building in my chest, even if he couldn’t sate the need I had for his body. I had to believe we had more time in front of us.

  I chose to.

  Chapter 9

  There was a certain meditative quality to cleaning a rifle. My father had taught me years ago that the most important part of hunting was to know your weapon. He had been the one to show me how to disassemble each piece and thoroughly clean it. Each year he would take me to a private estate to shoot, which meant each year I had to take apart a new rifle, clean it, and reassemble. After his death, Hammond had continued the tradition until I left for preparatory school. As my education progressed to university, I lost interest in the annual hunting ritual.

  But I hadn’t forgotten the point of it.

  Even after al
l these years, I went through the motions with the smooth precision that had been impressed upon me as a kid. Remove the stock and the scope. Disassemble the bolt. It was obvious that cleaning the rifle was completely unnecessary as I took it apart. Gunther took good care of the weapons that he housed on the premises. Not doubt a profession he took pride in having been passed down, but I’d seen the understanding look in his eyes when I asked him for a bolt action rifle and the oil and rags necessary to clean it. He’d produced them all, handing me a tub of lanolin to weatherproof the casing.

  “We adhere to tradition at Stuart Hall,” he had explained. “I oil these rifles once a week, and never had one rust.”

  I accepted his traditional wax and a modern rifle. Another time I might have found the masculine ritual old-fashioned, but now I truly comprehended the point. A weapon was nothing to be taken lightly. Caring for it, knowing it—those were all aspects of earning the right to use it.

  I’d handled other guns since university. Ones I hadn’t bothered to sit down and respect. It was hard to consider that this was what my dad had been trying to teach me. Responsibility when granted great power.

  Of course, if that had been the point, why in the hell had Hammond continued the charade for all those years? It certainly wasn’t a sentiment that he shared.

  A copper bullet remained in the chamber and I removed it, placing it on the table next to the rags. Turning back to my work, I caught the hint of my reflection in the reddish metal. The sight locked me into place—my own face distorted, barely recognizable, in the smooth casing.

  The bullet was where the whole philosophy of power fell apart. I could know the gun, understand how it was put together, care for it. But at the end of the day, each bullet was new and unique in its own way. Each bullet was a decision. The rifle was my responsibility but the bullets were my choices.

  Even as I thrust my bore brush into the barrel, I knew that no amount of cleaning could change what just one bullet could do. I’d shot more than a few fowl as a child. There had been no heaviness that accompanied those actions. I hadn’t grappled with guilt as I cleaned my weapon after those hunts. It had been a simple matter of my place on the food chain.

  But I wasn’t preparing to track game now, which made the once-soothing action weigh on me. And the thing that burdened me the most was that there was no question in my mind if I would reassemble that rifle and load it.

  I’d killed men before. In self-defense. Out of necessity. This would be the first time I did it in cold blood.

  Jacobson’s arrival had solidified my decision. Not that he was a threat. It was the ease with which he’d gotten into the house. Belle’s mother had no reason to distrust a person who appeared at her door. A kindly neighbor was one thing, but I’d still been caught off-guard. I couldn’t risk Hammond finding his way here. Striking first was the only way to ensure he wouldn’t.

  As I pieced together the rifle, I pieced together a plan. There would be no amnesty if I was caught. Not even Alexander could grant me reprieve from prosecution, but I’d happily rot in prison if it meant Belle would be safe. When I locked the last part in place, I stared at the bullet. There were boxes more for my use, and certainly I would need to practice using such a large weapon. My trigger finger had to be rusty.

  So I didn’t load it into the chamber. That was the one. I was saving it for Hammond. I’d looked at that single bullet and made a decision, but as I reached for it, a quiet cough startled me from my thoughts.

  “I thought you would come to bed,” she said softly.

  It had disappointed her. How could I explain that I didn’t know how to navigate this situation? I tried to show her, but she’d closed a door to me. It was in her eyes. She’d shut me out of some part of herself and I didn’t want to force her to open up. At least, not yet. I could be a patient man when it suited my interest, and for the moment, I respected her right to feel confused. I wouldn’t be able to respect it forever.

  I shrugged my shoulders casually. There was no need to tell her the truth. She would only try to talk me out of it. “Jacobson mentioned hunting.”

  “I had no idea you were so fond of deer stalking,” she commented in a wry voice, tiptoeing over to inspect my weapon.

  “I used to hunt with my father.”

  She nodded, trailing a finger along the rifle’s barrel. “Is it loaded?”

  I picked up the bullet and shook my head. “I’ll load it when I’m ready to use it.”

  She didn’t need to know more than that. It was as close to the truth as I could offer her.

  “There were always guns here growing up,” she commented, her voice far away and lost in memory. “My father made it a point to tell me how dangerous they were.”

  “Do they scare you now?” I asked in a low voice.

  She nodded and I felt my dick harden. It was an uncontrollable, if primitive, response. When she was in genuine danger, her safety was my only concern. But when I was in control and she showed fear, it was an entirely different story. She was secure. She could leave anytime. She could ask me to stop. Instead, when we were together, she confronted her fear and then she embraced it. I’d seen her tremble at the end of a whip, and it was a goddamn beautiful sight.

  Right now there was no one in this world who could touch her, except for me. Maybe that was why I wanted to fuck her so badly.

  I lifted the unloaded rifle, sliding my hand along its barrel. “And when I hold it? What do you feel then?”

  “Scared,” she murmured, her tongue darting over her lower lip, “and turned on.”

  “Have you held one before?”

  She nodded, her eyes traveling in a continuous circuit from my face to the rifle.

  “Have you fired one?”

  She nodded again.

  “Tell me the truth, beautiful. It scared you, but how did it make you feel when you shot it?”

  “I like it,” she breathed.

  “Do you want to touch it now?” I held my hands out, moving the weapon closer to her.

  Her hands lingered over the metal, and then slowly she guided the barrel to her chest. Seeing her with the gun pointed at her heart, even knowing it was unloaded, set off an internal alarm. But when I went to move it away, she held it firmly.

  “I’m so wet right now.” Her voice was barely a whimper. “You don’t just control my pleasure, Smith. Right now it’s all yours—my body, my life. I want it. I want you to control it.”

  I swallowed hard as she lowered herself to the floor and knelt before me.

  “What do you want?” she begged. “Because I want to please you. I want to be your every fantasy.”

  God, she fucking was. I stared down at her wide eyes and full lips, her face tilted innocently up to mine. Lifting the muzzle, I trailed it along her chin. I didn’t need a gun to get her to do anything I wanted. She’d already given me that gift. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy allowing my own darkness to take charge now.

  “Suck my cock,” I ordered her, not bothering to move the end of the rifle. Her fingers fumbled as she found my belt. “Slow down.”

  “Yes, Sir.” She was always so eager to please, always eager to have me in her mouth. It made watching her lips wrap around it that much better. I felt my dick spring free as she tugged down my boxers.

  I moved to set the rifle on the desk, but she shook her head. “Don’t.”

  She was enjoying our little power play as much as I was. I rested the muzzle on her shoulder, freeing a hand, and grabbed her hair. Yanking her roughly to my groin, I pushed her mouth to my balls. She took them in her mouth for a minute before dragging her lips up my shaft.

  “Is that what you need, beautiful?” I groaned as her tongue swirled over the tip. “You want me to force you, don’t you? You don’t want me to fuck your mouth. You want me to take it.”

  She moaned hungrily, nodding.

  “Then suck it,” I demanded.

  Her eyes widened, but her mouth immediately closed over the crown. She moved l
ower, swallowing me to the root. Her delicate cheekbones were even more pronounced as she hollowed her cheeks as she sucked furiously. I’d unleashed a succubus, and I had no doubt she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d drained every last drop from me.

  But then I wouldn’t be satisfied.

  “Get up.” The command was thick on my tongue. Even though I wanted more than her mouth, it was never easy for a man to stop a blowjob in progress.

  Belle pulled away, licking her lips.

  “Pants off.” This time my voice was hoarse. I needed to be inside her and I needed it now.

  She scrambled to her feet and wiggled them off. In our time away from London and her waxer, fine blonde hair had begun to grow. It curled softly over her cunt. I made a mental note to demand she keep it that way.

  I prodded her with the muzzle, motioning for her to bend over the desk. As she folded her perfect body, sticking her ass out to me in invitation, I moved the end of the rifle along her spine, sweeping it in a teasing stroke along her crack.

  “You’ve been waiting for me to claim this,” I said, “and now I’m going to, beautiful. I’m going to fuck your tight little ass. Ask me.”

  “Please fuck my ass. Please, Sir.” Her voice was trembling as she begged. Her arms stretched out, grabbing the lip of the desk until her knuckles blanched white.

  I was suddenly thankful for Stuart Hall tradition. Placing the rifle parallel with her, so that she was staring at it, I wiped my hands off on my pants and grabbed the jar of lanolin. Scooping some onto my index finger, I smeared it over my cock.

  “This is going to hurt, but you asked for it,” I warned her, rubbing the waxy cream over her tight pucker. “And once I start, I’m not going to stop.”

  “Please fuck me, Sir,” she begged, dispelling any doubt I might have had at her interest.

  I pushed my index finger inside her, moving it in and out until her ass was slick and welcoming. I wanted to fuck her hard—ride her ass until she was torn between screaming and fainting. Because I knew it would be the most intense orgasm of her life. But I didn’t want to injure her.