“Fundraising isn’t really my thing, mother,” I say, but she’s looking at her phone, her brow furrowed. And you're assuming I'm going to stay until Fall.
“I have to run, I’m afraid,” she says. “There’s a crisis with the event tonight.”
“What event?” I ask, as she draws me in, kissing my cheek.
“Read the packet, darling,” she says. “I’m late.” I roll my eyes as she starts to walk away. Then she pauses, turning back to me. “Oh, I almost forgot to ask. How are you adjusting to everything?”
“Fine,” I lie. Thinking about returning home is what I deliberately leave out. Except the problem is that I’ve been living overseas the past two years, so I'm not exactly sure where home is anymore.
“Protrovia will grow on you,” she says. “Albert is taking care of you?”
My face flushes and I cover my reaction with a fake cough.
Albie is not taking care of me, I think. I’ve been taking care of myself. Every night. While thinking about how I’d like Albie to take care of me.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, my voice faltering.
She walks toward me, and speaks, her voice quiet. “Alexandra has…problems,” she says. “Albert can show you around. He was in Afghanistan, you know. He’s more serious now. Responsible.”
I choke back a laugh as my mother whirls around without waiting for a response from me. She walks down the hallway, every step of hers purposeful.
When I reach my bedroom, I pull open the door and toss the packet of paperwork on the desk. I know my mother wants me to be part of a foundation, to take some kind of administrative or public relations role -- whatever it is that a princess does.
But that’s just not me.
I’m hands-on, which is why I went to Africa in the first place. She totally doesn’t understand that.
I’ll read the paperwork later.
I turn, my eyes resting on the box in the middle of the bed – bright pink paper embossed with a subtle floral pattern and tied with an ornate gold fabric ribbon. There’s no card attached to the outside, so I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the ribbon to open the box lid.
It’s probably a gift from my mother, a bribe to follow the not-so-subtle order to get involved with the foundation. The thought makes me immediately annoyed. If my mother thinks I can be bribed with some stupid gift, she’s mistaken.
I pull off the lid of the box, expecting to see a purse or new pair of shoes, something my mother thinks someone my age would like.
It’s definitely not a new purse or a pair of shoes.
I stare at the inside of the box, blinking several times to make sure I’m actually seeing what I’m seeing.
That prick did not do this.
I look at the contents of the box, unsure whether to be appalled or amused. A notecard is perched on top of a small pile of sex toys, and I set it on the bed beside the box. It’s no mystery who left me this ridiculously inappropriate gift.
I reach inside the box, pulling out the first thing I touch.
It’s a fucking gold dildo. Or gold-plated or something. It’s so shiny it’s nearly blinding, the end opposite the tip crusted in jewels, red and blue and green. I run my hand down the shaft, my fingertips sliding easily over the smooth cool surface. I should be appalled, I think. Instead, heat pools between my legs as I touch the toy.
The golden cock comes to life in my hands, vibrating when I accidentally trigger something on it, and I yelp, dropping it onto the bed, where it bounces around in a circle on the mattress. Scrambling to shut it off, a giggle builds up in my throat, escaping my lips despite my best efforts to not be amused by Albie’s antics.
He sent me a golden cock.
I peek into the box again, stifling my laughter as I take out the contents one by one and lay them on the bed:
Another vibrator of some kind, egg-shaped with a remote control
A glass dildo that looks more like a piece of art than a dick, purple and blue swirls of color through it.
And…
I pull out the last piece, unsure what the hell it is, turning it over in my hand for a moment, a long pink piece of hair attached to a glass object that looks like a small dildo.
Then I realize what it is.
Oh my God.
It’s a butt plug. With a fake, bright pink horse’s tail attached.
I toss it on the bed like it's radioactive, shaking my head as I open the card that came with this way-too-far-over-the-line inappropriate set of gifts.
Thought you might need a little help with your obvious frustration. If you’d only just ask, you could get more personal assistance.
I slide open the screen on my cell phone and text the royal bastard who thinks he’s so funny.
Got your gifts. Using them now. How did you know pink is my color?
I’m barely finished sending the text when he responds.
Pictures or it didn’t happen.
That text is followed immediately by another message:
Unless you want to show me in person. Just ask me to come down and help.
I think for a moment, before replying.
You’re a smart prince. Use your imagination.
I lay back against the bed for a second, before sending another message to him.
What’s with the horse tail? Does the Prince of Protrovia secretly have a pony fetish? Are you a Brony?
It’s a few minutes before he texts back.
Sorry, I was…busy. Using my imagination, you know. Thought you might like it. Weren't you a big equestrian when you were in high school? I read that somewhere.
I toss the toys back in the box and put the lid firmly on the top, as if by closing it up I can shut out the inappropriate thoughts I’m having about Prince Albert. It would be so easy to just say yes, to ask him to take the secret passageway between our rooms and show up here to finish what he started that day in the village.
That’s not going to happen, I tell myself.
On principle.
I’m not begging him for anything. The spoiled smug bastard is used to women throwing themselves at him, to people jumping just because he says jump. He thinks I'm going to be completely embarrassed by this little present, or that I'm going to giggle and blush at his inappropriateness. Well, two can play this game.
I text him back.
I’m sending you a gift.
70
Albie
I set down the phone, lying back against the bed. My cock is hard as a rock, rigid as hell thinking about Belle and the box of toys I sent her. I can picture her right now, her hands sliding over the sides of the box, pulling the lid from the top, and peering inside. She'd pause, not sure whether to be embarrassed or turned on.
Definitely turned on. I know she is.
Belle might act like Little Miss Perfect, but she’s wild. That afternoon in the alley taught me that. She was mine then, totally at my mercy, with her back against the wall, wetness nearly dripping down my hand when my fingers were inside her sweet pussy.
Fuck. The thought of her legs spread, sliding the dildo inside her, makes me so hard I think I might explode. Unzipping my pants, I pull out my cock and slide my hand up and down the length of it.
Before I can continue, there’s a knock on the door.
“Your Highness?” One of the staff asks.
Damn it. Talk about a boner killer. “I’m busy,” I call. “Could you come back later?”
“There’s an envelope from Miss Kensington,” the voice says. “Should I slide it under the door?”
“Please do,” I call.
I lay there for a second, cock in my hand, waiting for the staff member to walk away and wondering what the hell Little Miss Perfect’s gift is.
I lie there in bed, sliding my hand over the length of my cock, and close my eyes. Immediately, an image of Belle pops into my head – Belle on her knees in front of me, those plump glossy lips of hers hanging open, her eyes wide as she gazes up at me.
I’m not sure the
re's anything else in the world that would be hotter than that sight.
Damn it. Curiosity overwhelms my fantasy, makes me have to know what the hell that girl put in the envelope.
Yanking up my pants, I walk to the door to get it. Reaching inside, I pull out Belle’s gift.
Black lace panties.
Black lace panties that are still warm.
Black lace panties that are still warm and damp.
Bringing the panties to my face, I inhale deeply. My cock jumps in response. Sweet and light, I’d recognize Belle’s scent anywhere.
Well, hell. I was wrong. Maybe I can imagine something hotter than Belle on her knees in front of me. And that's Belle on her bed, her legs splayed open, sliding her fingers inside her pussy covered in these little black panties.
Thinking of me the whole time she does it.
Coming as she thinks of me fucking her.
I strip off my clothes, depositing them onto the floor forcefully, my thoughts completely consumed by her.
The girl is screwing with me, giving back as good as she gets. And that fact makes me harder than anything else.
I pick up her black panties again, their silky soft smoothness cool in my hand. I stroke the length of my cock, picturing what Belle just did in those panties.
Belle lies against the pillow in her room, wearing that light blue suit from tea -- that powder blue, so very appropriate suit -- except that the jacket is unbuttoned, and she's wearing nothing underneath it. The lapels of the jacket hang down, just barely covering her nipples, but the mounds of her breasts are exposed. She runs her hand down the middle of her chest, her fingers lightly trailing over her breasts until she reaches the side of her jacket and opens it, revealing her perfect tits. Her head lolling back against the pillow, she lightly closes her eyes as she runs her finger over her nipple, bringing it to attention immediately. Her lips fall open, and she lets out a quiet moan as she caresses her breasts, her fingers playing with her nipples until she's ready.
I stroke myself, my movements regular and rhythmic, as I think about Belle and her panties. My cock is rigid to the point of practically exploding at the mere thought of Belle in bed, touching herself as she thinks about me.
I wonder if she fantasized about me with my head between her legs, my tongue flicking over her clit until she's breathless.
Until she's wet.
Until she's at the point of no return.
Until I thrust my tongue inside her and she comes on me, her legs wrapped around my head, hands pulling at my hair as she cries out my name.
I stroke my cock as I picture her fantasizing about me, her hands sliding up the sides of her thighs, pulling that skirt up around her hips to reveal those lace panties. I bring them to my face again, inhaling deeply her scent, knowing that just a few minutes ago, she was wearing these.
She was touching herself in these, reaching down the front of her panties to roll her finger over her clit, with that appropriate skirt of hers bunched up around her waist. I imagine Belle sliding two fingers inside her pussy, her wetness soaking the fabric of her panties. She fucks herself with those fingers, stroking herself the way I did, imagining that it's me inside her.
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."
71
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.
Her Bodyguard (Raunchy Royals Book 2) Page 41