She leans over and pulls a pillow off the bed, tossing it in my direction. It bounces off my leg. I laugh as I open the door. "Don't forget your dress code, princess," I say, my voice professional for the benefit of anyone who might hear me from down the hallway.
Another pillow hits my back before I leave.
Fifteen minutes later, Alexandra comes out of the bedroom wearing a little blue sundress, the skirt billowing around her legs as she walks. It's perfectly appropriate, yet I can't look at her without wanting to bend her over and flip the skirt up so I can grab a handful of her ass.
As we're walking to the helicopter, the wind flips it up for me. Before she can hold all of the material down around her thighs, it gives me a perfect view of her white panties underneath.
I help her into the helicopter, standing far too close to her to be appropriate in any way, but it's just us and the pilots out here. She pauses with her back to me, and I breathe in the light floral smell of her hair. "I saw what you're wearing," I tell her. "I think I was clear about what not to wear."
She half-turns toward me with a sly grin on her face. "Oh? I think I was just as clear that I do whatever I want, James."
I hide a smile as we get into the helicopter.
I wouldn't expect anything less from her.
34
Alexandra
I slide my finger over the phone screen and sigh. "I have, like, a hundred text messages," I groan.
"Those fucking photos of you in that fucking dress," Max grumbles. His hatred of the dress shouldn't make me as secretly thrilled as much as it does, and doubly so after what happened last night all because of that dress.
My fingers go instinctively to my lips, still swollen from his kisses. The dull ache between my legs is a more acute physical reminder of what happened between us and how good it was.
"A bunch of them are from my father," I note, groaning.
"I know," Max says tersely. "I'm under orders to deliver you to him first."
My heart races at the thought that I might be going straight to my father because someone might have seen us outside at the palace or noticed that Max didn't leave my bedroom until this morning. Despite the lack of cameras in the residence wings of the palace and the greatly reduced summer staff, it's still possible someone could have seen us and relayed that to my father.
Max pauses at the door near my father's office, his jaw clenched because he's obviously thinking the same thing.
"It's about the dress," I reassure him despite not being entirely certain about that myself.
"The dress," Max repeats. "Yeah."
Of course, it does end up being all about the dress. My father stands behind his large desk with Sofia at his side. In the middle of the desk is the morning paper, displayed with the headline facing my direction. When I enter the room, Sofia looks at me disapprovingly while my father is just plain angry.
"This is what I woke up to this morning," he bellows, gesturing to the newspaper. The headline blares across the front page:
Princess Alexandra Out Of Control!
"Good morning to you, too." I roll my eyes at the newspaper article. "That's not even true. I wasn't drinking or doing drugs or anything remotely –"
The Ice Queen cuts me off, holding up an tablet that displays a photo of me in the transparent dress. In the color version of the photo online, the dress is really, really transparent. The sequined areas seem to cover even less than I thought they did when I put on the garment, just barely covering my nipples and between my legs. The website headline reads:
Princess Alexandra Bares All For The Cameras!
I shrug. "It's not entirely inaccurate. That is me baring everything, I guess. Well, almost everything. I mean, you can't see absolutely everything. That's what the sequins are for."
Wordlessly, Sofia scrolls to another website where I'm in a photo posing with Charlotte, my hands on her shoulder as I vamp and look over my own – with my very-nearly-bare ass on display for the cameras.
"Okay, that photo is slightly worse," I admit.
"What were you thinking?!" my father demands to know. "You're twenty-one, not a child, Alexandra! You're a princess, a representative of the royal family, and you're –" He pauses, shaking his head. "Naked all over the internet."
"It's couture," I argue.
"You need to grow up," my father says sharply. "There will be no more clubbing. There will be no more public displays like this. There will be no leaving the summer house to hang out with your friends and party all over Europe. Do you understand?"
"Yes." I stand there with my hands folded in front of me, not objecting to his demands at all.
Sofia blinks several times in quick succession before opening her mouth and closing it again like a fish. She was clearly about to chime in to support my father, but my response seems to have taken the wind right out of her sails.
It's apparently done the same thing to my father as well, because he's staring at me like he's not comprehending what I just said. "You said yes?"
"Yes," I reiterate. "I understand your concern. I'll be here for the rest of the summer until the wedding. No clubbing, no running off to Monaco or Ibiza with my friends, and no going back to the palace or to the capital. They're all reasonable expectations and I'll comply with them."
Is it bad that I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at Sofia's reaction? The Ice Queen looks like she's about to faint from shock. Apparently, both of them came to this little meeting prepared for a fight. I'm not sure what they planned to do, exactly, since I'm not a minor, but they clearly anticipated arguing with me at the very least.
Sofia looks at my father, her eyes large. "Well, that's … unexpected," she says. "I mean, it's delightful, of course. Delightful and unexpected."
What she doesn't realize is that my reaction is just as unexpected to me as it is to them. I'm so used to arguing, so familiar with rebelling, that actually agreeing to do something is foreign to me. But the idea of staying here for the rest of the summer with Max actually feels okay.
My father clears his throat. "Good. Great. Fantastic. I'm glad we're all clear."
"Crystal clear," I say.
"Obviously, there is damage control to be done," Sofia interjects, not content to just leave everything as it is. "The photos are everywhere, and they're not flattering to the royal family."
"Oh, I don't know about that," I argue. "I thought the angles were really flattering. I'd say that my running has been paying off, for sure." Sofia blushes and my father glowers at me. "Oh, is it too soon to make jokes about my scandalous photos?"
"Christine will put out a statement," Sofia goes on, referring to our main public relations person. I've kept her more than busy over the years. "You didn't realize the dress was transparent and … something about a wardrobe malfunction."
"No," I say firmly.
"No?"
I shrug. "It was a dress. It's not the end of the world. I wasn't drunk and I wasn't high and I'm not apologizing for wearing a scandalous dress that I wanted to wear, and I'm not pretending to be some kind of dumb girl who didn't realize the dress was sheer."
"Excuse me?" Sofia asks.
"You can put out a statement that clarifies I'm not out of control and I'm not on my way to rehab – and that I was totally aware of what I was doing. But I'm not apologizing for what was a fashion choice. I'm sorry if you think the dress was inappropriate, but I'm not sorry for wearing it."
Sofia bristles. "Well, that's just not going to –"
"Hold on," my father interrupts, putting up his hand and silencing her. "Alexandra, you've agreed to no more public stunts."
"Yes," I answer. Well, within reason. It's not like I'm agreeing to stop climbing out of the palace entirely. Let's not be ridiculous.
I don't say that out loud.
"You just agreed to no drugs, no clubbing, and no booze," he continues. "Did you say you were running – running with sneakers? Outside?"
"Yes. But I'm not changing my clothes,
and I'm not dying my hair an appropriate color, and I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not. This is who I am. I might not be the kind of princess the kingdom expects, and I'm sorry for that. But I'm not going to change all of that just to fit –"
Sofia interrupts again. "I would think that you'd want to –"
My father speaks quickly. "Agreed, Alexandra."
"Deal." I spin around before Sofia decides to interrupt again and add anything else about public relations and image managers and fixers. There's a little bounce in my step that wasn't there earlier as I leave the room.
That's the first time I've seen my father thrown for a loop in a long while. I think I even surprised myself a little bit.
Outside of the door, Max cocks an eyebrow. "You look happy."
I'm taken aback for a moment, and then I realize I might just be. "I think I am."
That's the most surprising thing of all.
35
Alexandra
I step out of the shower, wrapped in a towel and humming to myself. It's eight in the freaking morning, and I've just come back from a run and showered and already had coffee.
Max sneaked into my room last night and we had sex again – no tying me up or tearing off my clothes or any games.
Regular, boring sex.
And I'm still bouncing around the room, humming to myself.
I think the sex might be doing something to my brain, rewiring me into some kind of morning person – a morning person who bops around her room wearing a towel and singing to herself after going for a run.
Oh, God. What if the sex makes me all perky, a green-juice-guzzling, chirpy cheerleader type?
I would definitely have to go celibate.
In my closet, I reach into my drawer and pull out a lacy pink thong, singing to myself as I slip it over my hips – and realize there's something wrong with it as soon as the cool air hits my pussy.
That's weird.
I don't own any crotchless panties.
Yet that's exactly what these are. I reach into my underwear drawer and pull out another pair and it's the same – a long slice right up the middle of the fabric.
A giggle starts to build up in my chest, and I rummage through every pair of underwear in my drawer.
That asshole cut up every single pair of panties I own.
Well, two can play this game.
I dress, purposely choosing the short plaid pleated skirt that seemed to make Max crazy before. I pair it with a white oxford shirt, unbuttoning it down my breasts and tying it above my waist. Then I pleat my hair in two braids.
It's very Britney Spears, circa late nineties.
When I leave my room, one of the non-Max bodyguards gives me a bored look from his post at the end of the hallway. "Your Highness," he says, his voice clipped. "I've been instructed by the future queen to tell you that you and the future princess Isabella are to meet the future queen to be fitted for your dresses for the wedding."
I groan loudly, then sigh exaggeratedly and let my shoulders slump. "You really know how to ruin a girl's day, James," I say reflexively, pausing as soon as the word comes out of my mouth. James doesn't feel as appropriate a name for my bodyguards now that I've been calling Max that for so long. It somehow feels reserved for him. "What's your name, anyway?"
"I'm sorry – my name, Your Highness?"
"Yeah, you know, that thing people call you? What is it?"
"Bradley, Your Highness."
"Well, Bradley," I say, grabbing the agenda from him and looking at the location. "You're ruining my good mood. Did I tell you that already?"
"I apologize, Your Highness."
I let out a long exhale, ignoring the very small impulse inside of me to go run back to my room and drink copious amounts of booze to get through the horror of a dress fitting for my father's wedding to the Ice Queen. "Let's just go get this over with."
When I arrive, I see that ne of the sitting rooms has been converted into a dressing room with three separate dressing areas sectioned off by large wooden privacy screens. Two dressing areas flank each side of the room, semi-circles of ornate screens that go all the way up to the walls, and then there's a large circle of screens in the middle that has a huge array of full-length mirrors and a platform nearby.
Inside the room, a team of at least ten people bustle around busily, carrying fabrics and pins and tape measures, all with serious expressions like they're surgeons in the middle of a life-threatening operation. Someone in a tuxedo carries flutes of champagne on a tray, and a freaking pianist plays music on the grand piano in the corner.
It's completely ridiculous.
Belle walks up behind me. "This is crazy," she whispers. "I'm glad you're being forced to do it with me."
"Your mother sure knows how to make something out of nothing," I add. "Why couldn't we just try on the dresses in our rooms like normal people?"
Belle rolls her eyes. "Because my mother will want to control every part of this event." She giggles. "There's a piano player. Can you believe it?"
The Ice Queen is already inside the room and when she looks up to see us, she waves us away, pointing to the next door. "Go around to the next rooms and through the doors to get inside your dressing areas," she orders. "They've already been set up for you and the dresses are inside. I'll send in staff to help you."
"Um, no," I protest. "I'm pretty sure I can try on a dress myself without assistance from anyone else, thank you very much."
"Ditto for me, Mom," Belle says. She leans over and whispers, "Solidarity."
"Fine, fine," Sofia says dismissively, waving us off – and then glaring when we're still standing there. "On your way."
Belle gives me a look and rolls her eyes before heading toward the other room. I do the same, but when I open the door to the newly-created fitting area, it's not empty. There's a table inside with my accessories laid out neatly on it.
And Max.
Max is standing there beside the dress form where my dress hangs, a floor-length lavender silk number that's prim and proper and shows zero cleavage.
He puts a finger to his lips, as if I would announce to everyone that he was standing here. Even if he was talking out loud, I'm not sure anyone would hear him over the piano player and Sofia's tipsy directions to the people dressing her.
Even so, he shouldn't be here. There are a million people bustling around a few feet away from us. Not just people – my new stepfamily.
And staff.
And a pianist.
And this room isn't even a room; it's a screened-in area, easily accessible if someone wanted to barge in here.
"What do you think you're doing?" I hiss.
Max smiles and steps close to me, taking one of my braids in his hands and sliding his fingers down it. "I like the braids," he whispers. "I assume you found my gift?"
I snort, immediately covering my mouth with my hand. "Is that what you call cutting up all of my panties?" I whisper. "A gift?"
"Well, it's a gift for me," he murmurs. "Are you wearing them? Spread your legs and show me."
"Not here," I protest. "Everyone is right outside."
"I'm aware of that fact," he says softly, his lips near my ear. "And I still want you to spread your legs for me."
He knows I can't resist him. Heat floods my body as I do exactly what he requests. When I spread my legs, his fingers go immediately underneath my skirt and straight to my pussy. He lets out a low rumble near my ear. "You wore them," he observes. "Such a bad girl, wearing panties with a hole in them made for my cock."
"Unfortunately, all of my panties have holes in them now."
"Mmm." He reaches behind my back to my skirt, unzipping it, and it falls to the floor around my feet. "It's funny how that works. I guess that means I'll always be able to get what I need."
What he needs.
No one's ever needed me before.
He palms my ass cheeks, murmuring approvingly in my ear before untying my shirt and sliding it over my arms.
&nb
sp; "What do you think you're doing, exactly?" I whisper.
"I'm going to help you get dressed, since people are waiting for you."
As if on cue, Sofia calls loudly, "I hope you girls will let us know if you need any help!"
"I'm fine," I yell.
I'm almost disappointed when Max pulls the dress off the form and slips it over my head, pulling down the puffy layers of skirt around my hips before I can protest. "I thought you were helping me undress," I whisper. I slide my palm down the front of his pants where he's very, very hard. "You were obviously enjoying helping me take my clothes off, so why are you helping me put them on?"
"If you keep doing that with your hand, you won't have to worry about what you're dressed like, because I'll make you suck my cock right here in the middle of the fitting," he warns. "With everyone out there listening."
I bite my lip at the thought, the idea so filthy I can hardly stand it.
Max can read my expression immediately, and he grins. "Oh, you love that idea, don't you?"
"You should get out of here," I tell him. "I have to show them this dress."
"Or, I should bend you over and fuck you right here in your bridesmaid's dress."
My heart races. That's the dirtiest thing I've ever heard – and it makes me wet.
Max's hands go to his pants, and before I know it, they're down around his thighs and he's stroking his cock right here in front of me. Right here, in the middle of everything. He gives me a look that says he means business now. "I'm going to bend you over and fuck you right here behind these screens and you're going to come on my cock while everyone's waiting for you and that dress."
I have to bite my lip again to stifle the whimper that escapes my lips. Could I really do that, right here with everyone just outside? "That’s so wrong," I whisper.
He smirks. "Bend over and put your hands on the table, Alexandra," he orders. "I want to see just how wet your pussy is at the thought of doing something so wrong."
Her Bodyguard (Raunchy Royals Book 2) Page 23