Текст книги "Prince Albert"

Автор книги: Sabrina Paige

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Belle

 

I stand there in my designer dress, in front of the throne of Protrovia, as Prince Albert unwraps a condom and rolls it onto his length.  I'm mesmerized by his cock.  My mouth aches for him, mimicking the throbbing between my legs that is so incredibly insistent.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“You can wear a condom over the piercing?”

“Are you disappointed?” he asks, drawing me to him.  His hardness presses up against my belly, and I instantly regret the fact that I’m still wearing my dress.  I want to rip it off.  I want to feel his nakedness against mine, his skin against my skin.  "I'll take it off, if you'd like."

I want him inside me, bare.

I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.  I want to feel his piercing inside me, pressing up against me.

But I don’t want to tell him that.

I can’t tell him that.

“No,” I say, my voice wavering.  “I just…didn’t know you could.”

He doesn’t answer.  He just brings his mouth down hard on mine, his kiss punishing in its intensity.  My heart beats furiously in my chest as his tongue finds mine, and he kisses me until I feel like I'm drowning.  I lose myself in his kiss, until there’s nothing left, no thoughts about anything except the two of us in this room.

“Don’t lie to me,” he whispers.  “You were thinking about fucking me without one, weren’t you?”

Yes.

“I was wondering how the piercing would feel,” I admit.  “That’s all.”

Liar.

Albie grins.  “Don’t worry, luv,” he says.  “You’ll still feel it.”

A fresh wave of anxiety courses through me as he looks down at me with those periwinkle-colored eyes.  I’m suddenly nervous, despite the fact that this should be the least awkward part of the evening, considering the fact that my soon-to-be-stepsister thought the remote control to my vibrator was a bomb detonator.

Albie senses my hesitation.  “Worried?” he asks.

“Never,” I lie.

He pulls at the fabric on the sides of my dress, lifting it up until it bunches around my waist, and slips his fingers between my legs.  “Your body definitely isn’t nervous.”

As his fingers slide over my wetness, a whimper escapes my lips, needy and unbidden.  “No,” I whisper.

“Even now, you're still saying no?” he asks, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

“No, I’m not nervous,” I lie again.  I run my hands over this muscular chest, flinching as his muscles twitch underneath my palms, then down his well-defined abs.

Touching him like this, how could I not be a little nervous?

“I haven’t stopped thinking about your pussy since I met you,” he says.  “Tasting you, touching you, being inside you…it’s consuming me.”

“I want you inside me,” I whisper.

“Do you?” he asks, sliding his hands under my ass to pick me up.  He carries me toward the throne.  “Because I seem to recall you saying the words, I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last prince on earth.”

“I don’t remember saying that,” I tease.

I remember exactly what I said.

Don’t make me remember that I said that.

“No?” he asks, setting me down in front of the throne.  He spins me around and yanks the fabric of my skirt up before pulling me against him.  His hardness presses against my ass and the only thing I can think of is how badly I want to feel him inside me.

“Maybe you misheard me,” I say, my breath hitching in my throat as his hands wander over my ass, his fingers spreading me.

“Yes, I’m sure that's what happened,” he says.  His warm breath plays along my neck, and when he sweeps my hair off the nape of my neck, goose bumps sprinkle my arms.  “So tell me now, how badly do you want me?”

“Please,” I say, closing my eyes and surrendering to his touch.  He plants kisses along the back of my neck that make me whimper.

I could go.  I could tell him no, and turn around and walk away.

I could do the appropriate thing.

But I don't.  Instead, I say it again.  "Please."

He growls, like an animal, a long low sound in his throat.  “Get up,” he says.  “Kneel, on the throne.”

I don’t even ask why.  I don’t object, and I don’t question.

I just do what he tells me to do.

I kneel on the throne, facing away from him, every inch of my body screaming for his touch and my pussy throbbing for sweet release.

“I’m going to take my time with you, Belle,” he says, and I cringe at the thought.

I don’t want him to take his time with me.

I want to be fucked.

“But not today,” he says, kneeling behind me on the throne, as if he can read my mind.  “Now, I’m going to fuck you, the way I think you want to be fucked – hard and fast and filthy.”

“Yes.”  I barely choke out the word before he’s pressing against my entrance.  "Oh God, yes."

Gripping the sides of the throne, I brace myself as he slides inside me without hesitation or mercy.  His thick hard cock fills me up fully and completely.  My hands find their place on the back of the throne as Albie’s slide over my hips, gripping me tightly.

"Oh hell," he says.  “It’s like you were made to fit me.”

I murmur something, suddenly rendered incoherent.  I can barely register what he's saying, let alone think rationally, not when he's doing what he's doing with his cock.

He fucks me, his initial thrusts slow and short, but only for a moment before I beg him to fuck me harder.

And he does.  Gripping my waist, he fucks me with deep, forceful thrusts, his piercing pressing up against the most sensitive spot inside me.

“That’s how you like it, isn’t it, luv?”

“Yes.”

I can’t speak any other words but that one.  Yes.

My head is yanked back as he grips a handful of hair and wraps the length of it around his hand, sending a shock of pain through my body.  And instead of being a turn-off, the way that I think it would be, it’s the exact opposite.  It intensifies everything.

He fucks me, his grip on my hair, pulling on it like a leash.

I can’t think about anything except his cock.

My whole world right now is his cock.

I accidentally blurt out the word “cock,” because of course I do.  And I immediately flush with embarrassment when he laughs, the vibration ricocheting through my body.  “What, luv?” he asks.  “You were praising my cock?”

God, he’s such an arrogant prick.

I think those words, but they don’t come out of my mouth because I can’t articulate anything except yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Over and over.

I’m reduced to an incoherent, babbling idiot who can only say yes.

He grasps my breasts – not gently or tenderly.  He pinches my nipples between his thumb and forefingers as he fucks me.  And he talks to me, low in my ear, telling me all the dirty things he wants to do to me.  “I’m going to keep fucking you because you’re mine, Belle."

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

I let go, savoring every sensation that washes over me as he brings me closer and closer to the edge – his hands on my breasts as he pulls me back against him, the warmth of his breath against my ear, his tongue flicking over the edge of my earlobe.

And that cock.

“Tell me how much you love me fucking you, Belle,” he says, his voice strained.  “I want to hear you say it.”

“Oh God,” I breathe.  “Yes, please.”

“Say it.”

“Fuck me.”

He slaps my ass cheek, the crack loud in the stillness of the room.  “Say it, Belle.”

“Yes.”

He delivers a second slap hard against my rear.  “Fuck, Belle,” he says.  “Say it.  Say you want me to come inside you.”

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

“Oh God, yes.”  It’s all I can say, pleasure rolling over me like a tidal wave, coursing through me from my head to my toes.

He yanks my hair and a shock of pain surges through me.  “I want…to hear…the words,” he says, his voice gruff.

Then he pauses.  He pauses, completely still inside me.  I’m on the verge of coming, and I can’t remember what he wants me to say.  My pussy throbs around him, my body pleading with him to thrust inside me again.

So I just say please.

“Please,” I whimper.  “Make me come.”

“Fuck.”  He lets out a loud groan.  “Touch yourself, Belle.  Now.”

He thrusts inside me, his movements swift, purposeful.  Deep.  And with a sense of urgency.  The tip of his cock – his piercing – presses against me, sending pulse after pulse of pleasure soaring through me that only intensifies as I move my finger over my clit, faster and faster.

Everything about this is primal.  This is not romantic sex, slow and languid and loving.

It’s fucking.

And it's the best thing on this fucking earth.

“Belle,” he says, his voice strained.  “Come for me, Belle.  Now.”

And I do.

I let go, a loud moan escaping my lips before his hand clamps down over my mouth to mute me.  When he thrusts inside me, saying my name as he brings me over the edge, I come, harder than I've ever come before.  Harder than I could ever imagine coming.  I crash over the edge, blinding white-hot pleasure that obliterates my awareness of everything else.

Afterward, I’m trembling in his arms, my heart racing so fast I think it might explode.  Albie slides his arms around my chest, hugging me to him.  “You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I don’t know why,” I say.

Probably because I just had the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life.

He squeezes me tighter against his chest, and puts his lips to the side of my neck.  "Because I blew your fucking mind, luv."

"No one's mind was blown," I lie.

Totally mind-blowing.

What's not mind-blowing is the awkward silence that follows, as my lust-addled brain begins to clear, and the realization of where we are and what we've just done sets in.

He shrugs back into his tuxedo, and I fix my dress, arrange my hair back into something vaguely resembling the updo that I came in here with, and steel myself to do the walk of shame right out of this room.

It's my first time doing a walk of shame, and I'm doing one out of the throne room in a freaking palace, after screwing my soon-to-be stepbrother.

Classy, Isabella.

I can picture my mother saying the words, her mouth turned down into a scowl.  Actually, no.  Scratch that.  I can't even begin to imagine how she's react, especially given the fact that she was "devastated" by my broken engagement.

Fucking Prince Albert on his father's throne really would just be the cherry on the sundae.

Albie's phone buzzes and he picks it up, mouthing the word "Noah" at me, while I silently panic at the thought of one of the royal security team looking for us.

How could you be so reckless, Isabella?

I swallow hard to quell the growing feeling of nausea in my belly.

Then Albie turns around and looks at me.  "That was Noah," he says.  "Apparently my sister did talk to one of the security team about the remote.  They're doing a sweep of the palace now."

I swear my heart stops beating.  "What are you talking about?  A sweep of the palace?" I ask.  My voice is high-pitched, more like a squeak.  "They're looking for the remote that goes with that…oh, holy shit."

"The remote to the vibrator?" he asks, chuckling.

The bastard is laughing.  He thinks this is funny.

"What's wrong with you?" I hiss.  "They're going to bomb sweep the palace, and that's hilarious to you?  They're going to catch us in here.  Everything is a joke to you."

"Relax, Belle," he says.  He's calm.  Too damn calm.  How the hell is he so composed when they're looking for the remote control to the vibrator that he used to make me come at dinner tonight…in front of the entire royal family?

This is not a time for being calm.  This is time for freaking the fuck out.

The fact that he tells me to relax makes me do exactly the opposite of relax.  I can feel myself spinning up, my anxiety spiraling out of control.  I'm about to be publicly humiliated.  We're about to be publicly humiliated.

"Don't tell me to relax," I say, positively seething with anger and panic.  "Do you just love being the butt of jokes in the headlines?"

An odd expression crosses his face, and I think I might have hurt him.  "Calm down, luv," he says, his voice clipped.  "This will stay our filthy little secret.  No one's going to know you fucked Prince Albert."

"Albie, I didn't mean –" I start, but he interrupts me, putting his hand up.

"You need to get out of here," he says.  "Obviously we don't need to be seen leaving this room together."

"What if they search you?"

Albie laughs now, not even bothering to try to be quiet.  I'm going to smack him.  So help me, I'm about to smack the Crown Prince of Protrovia.

Then the door opens.  I stand there like a deer in the headlights.

Shit.

"Oh.  Prince Albert.  Miss Kensington," Noah says.

"I've been taking Miss Kensington on a tour of the palace," Albie says, suddenly business-like, a paragon of sophistication.  "Can you believe she hasn't seen all of the important rooms?"

"Yes," I say.  "A tour."

I don't look at Noah.  I avoid making eye contact, because surely it's written all over my face.  Hell, it's probably hanging in the air in the throne room – the smell of sex.  And I have no idea what he did with the condom.

Don't panic.  Don't panic.

Breathe.

Noah speaks into a microphone on his wrist.  "Throne room is clear.  I've accounted for the Prince and Miss Kensington."

Out in the hallway, Albie speaks to Noah.  "About that remote…"

My heart sinks.  Surely Albie isn't this reckless.  I think I might faint.

"I know it was your sister who reported the remote, sir," he says.  "But we still need to follow protocol.  Of course we're keeping everything quiet, under the circumstances, since it's your father's engagement party."

I swallow hard.  "Do my mother and the King know about the…bomb scare?"

"Of course," Noah says.  "They've been apprised of the situation.  If we think the threat is legitimate, we'll initiate the Chess Protocol."

"I'm afraid to ask what that means."

"Protect the King," Albie says.  "In the event of an emergency."

Of course.  They'll initiate the Chess Protocol.

To protect the royal family from the security risk associated with my renegade vibrator.

It would almost be funny, if this scenario didn't involve my imminent public humiliation.

"About that remote…" Albie says.

Don't vomit, I tell myself.

Noah sighs.  "If you're about to tell me this was you, Albie…"

Albie shrugs.  "I'd rather not say, with her here."

"What?" I squeak.  "What aren't you going to say in front of me?"

"It's personal," Albie says, raising his eyebrows and giving me a look.  "And my personal life really isn't any of your business, don't you think?"

"I see," I say, not seeing at all.  I wouldn't put it past Albie to brag to Noah about hooking up with me.  Who knows how close the two of them really are?  Maybe Albie brags about all of his exploits.  The thought makes me dizzy.  "Am I free to go, then?"

"Of course," Noah says.  "But stay in the wing near the ballroom, please.  We haven't swept the residences yet."

I dart into the closest bathroom I can find to clean myself up, certain that my indiscretion is written all over my face.  But instead, when I look in the mirror I see a slight hint of pink on my cheeks.  The flush makes me look well rested, which is better than looking well fucked, I supposed.

And I was fucked well, wasn't I?

My fingers linger on my lips, the sensation of his bruising kisses still there even now.  I can still feel him throbbing between my legs, sense his hands on my breasts.

I need to get out of here before my mind lingers too long on things it shouldn't.

I open the door and walk straight into her.

Albie's ex-girlfriend.

"Well, now," she says, her perfectly pouty lips curling up into a snide smile.  "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of being introduced."

"Isabella Kensington."

"Erika Matheson," she says with a sniff, her eyes traveling up the length of my body as she clearly judges me.  "So you're the new stepsister."

If I didn't hate her before, I hate her now, as she looks at me with disdain.

"Yes," I say.  "Forgive me.  How do you know the royal family?"  I blink innocently, pretending to have no idea who she is.

She smiles, the expression cold.  "Albert and I will be having one of these parties in the not-too-distant future," she says.

Maybe the ex-girlfriend isn't so much an ex, after all.  The thought makes me feel queasy.  Did I just help Albie cheat on his fiancé?

"Oh."  I force out the word.  "Are you and the Prince engaged?"

"Not yet," she says, examining her perfectly manicured hand like she isn't sure whether or not she's wearing an engagement ring.  "But we will be.  It's a foregone conclusion."

"I see," I say.

I need to get out of here.

But my feet seem to be rooted in the ground, held there by an invisible force.  I scan the hallway, looking for someone to rescue me from this conversation I don't want to have.

My mother is the one who does the rescuing, accompanied by two ladies-in-waiting.  Those are their actual titles, too.  They're really personal assistants, but retain the ridiculous antiquated titles, for no other reason than that it's apparently what tradition dictates.

"Mother," I say brightly, breathing a sigh of relief.  "You know Erika Matheson."

"I do," she says.  "You're Prince Albert's girlfriend, aren't you?"

Girlfriend.  Not ex-girlfriend.

"Of course," Erika says, smiling warmly at my mother.

Now I really hate her.

And Albie.  Let's not forget about him.  I definitely hate Albie, who seems to have forgotten to mention that Erika is still under the impression they're dating.

I glare at Erika and she apparently takes the hint.  "It was lovely speaking with you, Isabella but I really should be going."

"Miss Matheson?" my mother asks.  "Please consider my invitation open-ended.  You're obviously important to the Prince."

"Thank you," she says, smiling smugly.  "I will certainly consider it."

"What invitation?" I hiss at my mother as soon as Erika is gone.

"Oh, I invited her to the summer home when we were talking earlier this evening," Sofia says, waving dismissively.  "After the incident tonight, I thought it better to keep her and the Prince under close watch, if there's something going on there.  Minimize the possibility of scandal before the wedding."

"What incident?" I ask.  My chest feels tight.  I swear that my lungs have suddenly decreased in capacity.  I can't seem to take in enough air.

My mother leans close, speaking softly.  "The bomb scare earlier this evening," she whispers.  "There was no bomb.  The remote was apparently a…ahem…device that was used by the Prince and a romantic paramour."

A romantic paramour.

That would be me.

"What does that have to do with Erika?" I ask stupidly.

My mother looks at me, her head cocked to the side.  "Don't be obtuse, Isabella," she says.  "Erika was obviously personally involved.  Now, I must get back to guests.  Go lie down.  You're looking a little peaked."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

Albie

 

"Come on, man," Price says.  "What the hell is your problem lately?"

"What?" I ask.  "Nothing.  No problem."

"Then you won't mind if I take home both of these girls."  He nods toward the women on the other side of the room, both of whom are perched on the edge of one of the sleek black modern sofas artfully arranged to create a sitting space.  The redhead waves back before crossing one long leg over the other, her foot tapping in rhythm with the bass in the club downstairs.

Redheads used to be my favorite.

Used to be.

What the fuck is wrong with me?  One screw – one filthy as hell night with Little Miss Do-Gooder – and I'm completely preoccupied with her.

There's something messed up with that.

What I should do is get her out of my system.  She's been avoiding me ever since the night of the engagement party, obviously regretting what happened in the throne room.

"Albie?" Price asks, irritation evident in his tome.  "This is exactly my point.  You're not even paying attention to me saying I'm going to screw both of these girls."

"It's fine."

"Really," he says flatly.  "Since when is Prince Albert just not feelin' it?"

"Go," I say, sliding my phone out of my pocket.  "Pick up all the girls you want.  With my blessing.  Have fun."

Price rolls his eyes.  But he turns around, holding his hands up in the air.  "Ladies, I'm all yours."

I open the screen on my cell phone and start typing a message.

Stop avoiding me.  You know you want me.

 

She doesn't respond, which only irritates me.  The music in the club downstairs is getting on my nerves, and I'm watching Price on the other side of the room as he sits back against the sofa, with his legs spread and girls on either side of him.  He looks like such a jackass.

That's how I used to be.

The fact that I'm thinking in the past tense doesn't escape me.

Belle doesn't respond to my text, until later, when I'm back at the palace.

Obviously I'm replying.  So, I'm not avoiding you.

 

And she's obviously pissy.

I type out my reply.

Good.  When you pack for the summerhouse, make sure to leave your panties behind, because you won't need them.

 

I pause for a second before hitting the send button.  Maybe I should just let it go.  Maybe I should just write off what happened with Belle as an unfortunate byproduct of our proximity to each other and nothing more.

It was just a convenience fuck.

Or crazy hormones.

Or the fact that she was simply hard up for sex.

Or all of the stress of our parents' engagement.

There are a million excuses for what happened.  All of them are stupid as hell.  I wanted Belle when I saw her, and I want her now.

I hit send.  She doesn't respond.