“I can let you borrow it if you’d like to wear it,” I say. “I mean, if that’s what you’re into.”
“Nah,” he says. “You know what I want."
"Oh?"
"I want you on your knees. I want to see that bright red lipstick on my cock.”
We’ve almost reached my parents, and I pause for a moment, leaning close to him to whisper. “I’m not wearing any panties,” I say, and I don’t wait for his response before walking ahead of him.
My mother directs me to the side of the photo, and then I’m lost in the dizzying array of instructions, directions to turn my body slightly or adjust my chin, the photographer and his assistants styling and re-arranging us a thousand different ways in the span of thirty minutes.
During the shoot, King Leopold makes jokes, the corny kind I thought were the type of thing that dads do, except he’s a king and not a regular dad, which somehow has the effect of making the lame jokes actually funny. The eighth one – something about an armadillo – has Alex, Albie, and I finally giggling, and earns a stern “Leopold,” from my mother.
“Do you remember the time we got in trouble for coming in here when we were kids and jumping on the sofa?” Alex asks Albie.
“Dad was going to blow a gasket,” Albie says, as a flashbulb goes off mid-sentence, bright white light practically blinding for a split second.
“Dad was?” Alex says, laughing. “Mom took away your dessert for a week.”
The mention of their mother changes the mood in the room almost immediately, and Leo smiles wistfully. “Yes, she did,” he says quietly, pausing as if he’s remembering her, and then speaks to the photographer : “I trust we have enough photographs at this juncture.”
The photographer immediately lowers his camera. “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” he says. “More than adequate.”
“Thank God,” Alex says, kicking off her shoes before she even gets a few feet away. “I’m out of here.”
My mother puts her hand on Leo’s arm. “Shall we?” she asks.
Albie and I trail behind everyone else, lingering, putting distance between us and them. When we leave, Albie walks behind me, his steps purposeful. I half-expect him to grab my wrist as we walk, to yank me back and pull my body flush into his, bringing his mouth down on mine. Maybe I half-hope that will happen.
"You really should stop playing games, luv," he says.
I look down the side of the hall, checking to see if any housekeeping staff have noticed us.
But no one's there. The hallway is quiet and deserted, as if fate itself is giving us permission to flirt, to engage, to continue walking this lust-fueled tightrope.
If I had any sense at all, I'd turn around and head for my suite. I’d call Raine and tell her that I'm going to buy a plane ticket, that I will meet her and Phoenix in Amsterdam and pretend none of this ever happened.
I'll forget I'm a soon-to-be princess.
I'll forget that I'm Albie's soon-to-be-stepsister.
I'll forget that I'm his wife.
If I had any sense, that's what I'd do.
But I don't.
Albie grabs my wrist, right in the hallway, and pulls me into the nearest room. It's a game room filled with antique furniture like every other room in the palace. Except this room has old chess sets and a gilded billiard table. In the center of the room sits a circular gaming table topped with cream and gold marble, surrounded by gilded antique chairs.
Albie pulls me into the room, walking briskly around the area without a word before going to the door and securing the lock. He turns to me, his back against the door. "You and I need to stop this back-and-forth," he says. "We both know you’re dying to have me.”
I back up until my back is flush against the marble topped table, taking Albie in. He's wearing a dark suit, tailor-made for him, that sets off his blue eyes and dark hair perfectly, as if he stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. But what I see in those eyes is nothing like what I'd see in a magazine. It's intense, feral. Filled with lust.
"I know you want me," I say. Heat courses through my body, the marble top of the table cool against the small of my back. "Based on the state you returned my panties in."
"But today, there are no panties," he says, crossing the room with long, purposeful strides until he reaches me. He stands in front of me, too close for comfort, and I suck in a deep breath of air as my heart races a million beats a second.
He looks down at me, using his knee to spread my legs. "Just say you want my fingers there, stroking your clit. You want me to put my mouth between your legs, suck your clit until you're breathless…"
“No,” I say.
I reach between my legs, pushing aside the breezy fabric of my skirt to slide my fingers down the front of my mound to touch my throbbing clit. I bite my lip at the shock of arousal that courses through me, watching the expression on Albie's face change from one of unabashed lust to surprise.
He didn't think I would touch myself in front of him.
Hell, I didn't think I would do something like this. Lust is making me insane. Temporary insanity, I think. I've never been left so unsatisfied before, and yet the only thing I can think about, the only think I care about right now, is pushing him to the brink. Making him be the one who begs for it.
"All you have to do is say please, Belle," Albie says, his eyes on mine. He stands there unmoving, unwavering, his leg pressed against the bottom of my pussy. I know I'm wet, and the thought of my wetness soaking the fabric of his suit -- the thought of leaving my mark -- makes me insane.
"After you," I say, my voice breathy. "It's such a small word. Just a request, really."
"Ladies first."
But I'm not going to say please. I'm not going to beg him, the way every other girl in the world has begged him.
He watches me, unable to disguise his arousal, the bulge in his pants more than enough evidence that he's turned on.
The knock on the door startles me and I jump, pulling my skirt down and straightening up immediately, my heart racing. "Oh my God. Is the door locked?" I whisper.
Albie raises his eyebrows and winks at me. "Live a little, luv," he says, chuckling as I push him away.
72
Albie
Live a little.
That’s what I told her, hours ago in the game room, when we were interrupted by a member the household staff who needed to prepare the room for an afternoon event.
Live a little. Detour to the observatory.
That’s the text she sent me ten minutes ago, as I was making my way toward the petite ballroom, to an event for some cause or another, something utterly forgettable.
Of course I’m going to detour to the observatory. My cock is rock hard, thinking about what just happened in the game room earlier today. Thinking about Belle, with her dress hitched up around her thighs, giving me a view of her bare pussy under that conservative dress of hers.
The thought of bending her over in that conservative dress with the flirty skirt makes me want to come right now. I won’t pretend I don’t want to slide my cock inside her tight pussy, push her up against a wall and fuck the living hell out of her, because I obviously do. I want to do that, more than anything.
Almost anything.
I like the game we’re playing, the back-and-forth between her and I, the way she ups the ante each time I do something inappropriate. I like pushing Belle’s boundaries. I like the idea that I can make someone like her – so proud, stubborn, unyielding – even consider begging me to fuck her.
I want her to beg me.
The idea is thrilling.
The observatory is empty, completely deserted, and I wonder if she’s about to up the ante in the ultimate way – if she’s called me here because she’s giving in. Reaching into the pocket of my pants, I finger the condom I brought with me.
But it’s deserted, even of Belle.
I wander the expanse of the room, the moonlight from the glass ceiling bathing the room in an eerie glow. It’s the only room in the
palace that’s more modern, the furniture reflecting the fact that this was an addition to the palace in my father’s time. It’s the only room he’s added onto the palace. Everything else dates back to the fifteen hundreds. In this room, the furniture is sleek, modern, navy and cream colors that are elegant but fitting for an observatory.
This used to be one of my favorite places to be in the palace when I was a kid. My father would bring me up here to look at the stars with the telescope.
I haven’t been up here in years, since before I left for the Army.
The phone vibrates in my pocket, and I open a text from Belle.
Look down.
She’s not in the room. I know immediately where she is. I walk across the observatory, where a set of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooks the music room.
And there is Belle.
She’s sitting on top of the fucking piano.
She's sitting on top of the piano, wearing a red strapless gown, her breasts practically spilling out of the top. Her legs crossed, the slit in the side of the skirt falls open, revealing the expanse of her creamy thigh.
The dress is scandalous. It will be scandalous, if she shows up to the event in that. I’m sure it looked less scandalous on the rack, or on the runway, but on her is looks like sex. She looks like sex.
And she’s sitting there, her legs crossed, looking up at me.
Should we finish what we started?
I send the text, waiting for her to beckon me down and beg me to take her up against the piano. Or on top of the piano.
I want to lay her back across the lacquered surface of the grand piano, spread her legs, and devour her.
Depends. Are you asking nicely? Are you saying please?
The text makes me laugh. Even now, she’s refusing to bend. It’s such a small thing.
I shake my head, knowing that she can see the gesture from where she sits. When I call her, she answers, her voice breathy. “Ask me to come down and join you,” I say.
She just laughs. “No.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t be?” she asks.
“I think you want me to touch you,” I say. “I think that you want me to spread your legs, spread you out right there on the piano, and lick you until you come.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her breath catch in her throat and then she exhales heavily. From the window, I watch as she moves, just slightly, her legs parting so that the red material falls down between her thighs. She’s a tease, obscuring what she knows I want to see.
“Are you wearing panties tonight?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. She looks to the side, glancing toward the door like she’s afraid of someone walking in, even though most of the staff and guests are far away on the other side of the palace right now.
Then she shows me she’s wearing nothing underneath that dress of hers. She pushes the fabric to the side, spreading her legs for me on the piano bench, and she’s completely bare.
Completely and totally bare.
And the expression on her face, the sly smile, says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me right now.
As if my raging hard-on wouldn’t be obvious from a mile away.
“I want you to touch yourself,” I say. There’s nothing in my voice that leaves room for discussion.
She doesn’t argue, doesn’t say a word, but I can hear her breath get shorter on the phone, and she listens.
For once.
I watch as she slides her fingers slowly between her legs, then pauses. “Don’t stop,” I tell her.
“I’ve never done this in front of someone,” she says, her voice a whisper, so low I can barely hear it.
The fact that she’s on display, right in the music room, with her legs spread open, is enough to make me hard as a fucking rock. But the fact that she’s never touched herself in front of anyone before is enough to make me insane.
“You’re going to make yourself come in front of me,” I say, my voice gruff. “Right here.”
“I’m not sure I can,” she protests.
“You’re the one who set this up, luv,” I say. “You had me meet you here. Now, stop being coy. Spread your legs so I can see you.”
She looks up at me in the window, the phone to her ear. For a second, I think she’s going to close her legs, stand up, and walk out of the room.
But she doesn’t. She spreads her legs wider. When the fabric of her dress falls between her legs, momentarily covering her, she pulls it up farther on her thighs, suddenly less timid.
“Slide your fingers over your clit,” I tell her, my voice low, watching as she obeys. Her eyelids fall closed, the phone still at her ear, as she touches herself.
She’s like a fucking piece of art, spread out on the piano the way she is, in that red dress that’s practically obscene, her legs open.
Touching herself for me.
“Are you wet?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Her breath comes in short pants, and I repeat myself. “Tell me, Belle.”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m wet.”
“Is this how you touch yourself when you’re alone?”
“No,” she whispers, her voice breathy.
I will my hand to remain where it is on the cell phone, my other hand on the window, my fingers pressed lightly up against the glass. I will my hands to remain where they are, no matter how much I want to unbutton my pants, draw out my cock, and run my hand down the length of it while she touches herself.
I’ll remain in control.
“Show me what you do when you’re alone, Belle,” I say. “Touch yourself the way you do when you’re alone. When you’re thinking about me.”
“I don’t –“ she starts to say, but stops.
“I know you think about me, Belle,” I say. “You think about me sliding my fingers inside your wet pussy, the way I did that afternoon, don’t you?”
She doesn’t answer, but I watch as she draws her hand away from her clit, spreading her legs open wider as she slides her fingers inside herself until her palm is pressed flat against her mound.
Fuck, this girl is going to give me a heart attack. I can already picture the headlines:
Prince Drops Dead in Royal Observatory, Pants Around His Ankles, Cock in Hand.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about, Belle,” I say, as her eyes close. Her mouth falls open, tongue running along her lower lip, and all I can think about is what I’d like to put in that smart little mouth of hers.
“You,” she whispers. “I’m thinking about you.”
“Tell me, Belle,” I say. “Are you thinking about my fingers sliding in and out of your slick pussy?”
“Yes,” she says. Her hips buck against her palm as she fucks herself with her hand, tossing her hair back as she closes her eyes, no longer caring if I’m here or not. I watch her as she loses her inhibitions more, giving herself over to pleasure, her chest heaving as her hand moves faster.
“But you don’t really want that, do you, luv?” I ask. “You want more, don’t you? You want my cock inside you, filling you up.”
“I want…” her voice trails off as she bites the side of her lip.
“Say it,” I order. “Say you want my cock inside you. Tell me how much you want me to bend you over that piano, to pull that dress of yours up around your waist and fuck you until you come around me. You want to feel my bare cock inside you, pressed against you until you can’t hold out, until you come and you’re milking me of everything I have.”
She drops the phone, and it clatters on the marble floor, spinning in circles. But she doesn’t seem to notice.
My eyes stay fixed on her face as she brings herself to the edge. I’m transfixed, watching her expression. Her breasts heave as her breath comes shorter and shorter. Then, at the last moment, she opens her eyes, and looks straight into mine.
And she comes.
Her lips, painted red to match her dress, form a perfect “O
”. Her head back, hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyes wide open and meeting my gaze, she comes. I can hear her on the phone, the small moan she allows herself, still in control at the very last.
I want to rip that control from her.
I want to make her scream. I want my name on her lips. I want it to be my name she moans when she comes.
I want that more than anything.
When she's finally finished, she slides off the piano and picks up the phone. Putting it against her ear, she doesn't speak. I hear her breath, short gasps as she comes down from her orgasm. “You never said it,” I tell her.
“Said what?”
"Please."
“I already told you,” she says. “I’m not going to beg.”
73
Belle
It’s the big night – the night of my mother and King Leopold’s engagement party. Next week, we’ll head north to the summer estate, where we’ll be shielded from much of the media flurry that will inevitably follow the official engagement announcement.
We’ll go to the summerhouse.
Suddenly, I’m including myself in the future royal plans, as if I'm staying for the summer.
Who am I kidding? Last night, I fingered myself in the music room while Albie watched. Even from where he stood, through a window and an entire floor higher, I could see he was hard as a rock watching me, a very large bulge in his pants.
Of course I'm going to stay for the summer.
I'm not thinking clearly right now, obviously. My rational mind is clouded by unruly desire, my ability to think clearly diminished by my lust for my stepbrother. I'm not rational at all, not anymore.
But that doesn't mean I want to give in to his demand – to beg him to fuck me.
Even though every part of me is begging for it, lusting for it.
"You look…well, good enough to eat."
The voice is deep, sultry, soft – so soft that I'm the only one who can hear. At least, I hope so, anyway. I whirl around, or try to, but Albie’s hand is on my waist, guiding me around the corner, and down a service hallway of outside the main ballroom where the engagement party is being held.
Her Bodyguard (Raunchy Royals Book 2) Page 42