The Princess Trap

by Talia Hibbert

  She scoffed. “That doesn’t make any sense. The money’s for me, and I want to spend my money on—“

  “I’ll talk to Demetria about it. And she’ll talk to you. Okay?”

  There was a pause. He could almost hear her mind ticking over, considering the offer from all angles. Because she probably didn’t trust him, or his motivations.

  He slid his hand from her waist.

  But then she said, “Okay. You’re right. You do owe me.”

  He exhaled, relieved. “Good. I’ll sort it out tomorrow.” Then a thought hit him. “Your dad’s going to hate me even more, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Great.” He huffed out a laugh. “I suppose fathers never like their son-in-laws.” He froze as he realised what he’d said. “I mean—not that we’re—obviously we’re not really—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “We’re not really getting married. Don’t worry. I’m not likely to forget that.” Her voice was strained, slightly distant, and even though they were close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her, the gap between them widened.

  Because, of course, she had no idea what a mess his mind was in. How easy it would be for him to forget. How much he wanted her, even though he shouldn’t.

  “Cherry,” he said, and then his breath caught in his chest as his mind fumbled for the words. The moment stretched until he had to speak, but he knew his words would be inadequate. “If I say things like that,” he explained, “it’s not because of you. It’s not for your benefit. It’s for me. Okay? It’s just for me.”

  She sighed. “What does that mean?”

  “Just that… I like you. If I hadn’t fucked things up so badly, I’d have tried to… I don’t know. See you again, definitely. The day we met, I felt like I’d been hit over the head.” He was relieved to hear her laugh at that. “I shouldn’t have done any of the things I did that day. I made a shit ton of mistakes. But taking you out wasn’t one of them.” Because it was important that she know that. Very, very important.

  She reached out and fumbled around for his hand. He let her struggle for a second, her fingers brushing against his bare chest, along his arm, before he captured her hand with his. But, to his surprise, she didn’t hold it like a mother offering comfort. No; she put it back on her waist, as if it belonged there. As if she wanted it there.

  The last vestiges of awkwardness disappeared as Ruben’s desire flared to life. He pulled the blankets away; if she was going to give him this, whatever it was, he’d take advantage while it lasted. The covers dealt with, he explored the deep curve of her waist, the swell of her hip. With her breath loud in the silence and her warmth searing right through him, he tugged up the soft, worn cotton of her T-shirt until his palm met bare skin, her hips edged by the lace of her underwear.

  But he wouldn’t spend too long thinking about her underwear. If he did, the ache of his cock would sharpen into something really unbearable.

  So he focused on her waist. On the little hills and rolls of her flesh, and the silken texture of her skin. “You’re so fucking soft,” he whispered. “I want to touch you everywhere. I can’t even fucking tell you.”

  She stretched out like a cat, a little sigh floating into the darkness between them. She said, “You owe me, Ruben.” There was something in her voice, a desperate edge, a touch of amusement, that captured his attention and tightened his balls. When she spoke like this, he thought she might be everything he’d ever wanted.

  “What do I owe you, sweetheart?”

  “Anything I want.” She pressed her hand against his chest, her fingers playing lightly with the hairs there. “But I don’t know if you can handle what I want.”

  He wrapped a hand around her wrist, his grip hard, and she gasped. It was the sweetest little sound, barely a breath, and still it went straight to his cock.

  “I know what you want,” he said. “And you know I can give it to you. Don’t you?”

  He expected her to argue. To fight back. To give him that fucking attitude, the one he loved so fucking much even when she used it to push him away.

  But she didn’t. She just said, “Yes. I know.”

  And his control snapped. With a growl, he rolled on top of her and captured her mouth with his.

  Chapter 16

  Cherry buried her hands in the silky strands of Ruben’s hair and wrapped her legs around his waist and tried not to lose her head. It wasn’t easy.

  His lips were insistent, devouring her with every inch of the passion she’d seen simmering beneath his surface. The single-minded intensity he displayed with every look, every touch, every word, was channeled through his kiss. She’d hoped for this all day and all night, lay here thinking about it while she waited for him to come, and now it was really fucking happening.

  His hands roamed her body like they owned it. He grabbed at her thighs, her hips, fingers digging into flesh for a heartbeat before skating away, sliding up her waist, along her ribcage, perilously close to her breasts—and then, once more, they disappeared. He was a fucking tease. But he was panting against her lips, pressing his hard cock into the ache between her legs, and his tongue caressed hers as if the opportunity was a gift. He wanted her. He wanted her in a way that made her shiver, made her belly tighten and her clit swell and her nipples tingle. And he was taking her.

  He pressed her into the mattress with the sheer size of his body, and his bare torso felt like heaven against her skin. For the first time she wished that they weren’t in the dark. She wanted to see him.

  But no; it was better like this. Because if they’d tried it in the light she’d never be able to say…

  “You like control.”

  He laughed darkly. “I’m glad you noticed. Have you been watching me the way that I’ve been watching you?”

  She bit her lip. “You’ve been watching me?”

  “All I can fucking do is watch you. You’re magnetic. But you know that, don’t you sweetheart?” He captured her chin with his fingers, turning her head to the side. His teeth closed around her earlobe and his tongue snaked out to trace the contours of her ear. “Tell me.”

  She wet her lips, tried to ignore the thundering of her heart and the throbbing between her legs and the desperate need to blurt out her every secret. “Stop trying to make me say things. I can’t say things.”

  “You say whatever you want,” he whispered. “We already know that. Are you asking me to stop?”

  She took a breath. “No.”

  “Good. Roll over.”

  She didn’t disobey, because the iron voice with which he issued his commands got her fucking wet.

  She rolled over beneath him, and he didn’t make it easy. Every inch of her hips, of her arse, of her thighs came into contact with the thick ridge of his cock. He ground into her, and when she finally ended up face down on the pillow, he placed a hand on the back of her neck to hold her still and said, “Good girl.” She bit down a whimper at the sound of that deep voice, the feel of his hand. Controlling, demanding, protecting.

  He settled his cock in the cleft of her arse and thrust back and forth, rolling his hips, showing her in no uncertain terms that he knew what he was doing. His weight pushed her hips into the mattress, created a sweet pressure against her swelling, aching clit.

  He leant over her and whispered, “I can hear you whimpering. Did you know that?”

  She gritted her teeth. “I’m not.”

  “You are.” His hand slid under her scarf, dislodging it slightly, to grasp at her hair. He jerked her head up off the pillow and said, his voice firm, “I’m in charge now. Don’t bullshit me. Stop fucking around and take what you need.”

  She swallowed. “What do I need?” As if someone else had to say it for it to be real.

  But his words weren’t exactly what she’d expected. To obey. To submit. To yield to me. He said, “You need to know I’ve got you. And I do. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. Her voice was a w
hisper. It felt like a shout. Right here, right now, in this bed, she knew without a doubt that he absolutely had her.

  “I could pull out my cock,” he said, “and push your underwear aside, and fill you up right now. And you’d let me. You’d take it beautifully, I already know. Your pretty cunt would swallow up my cock, and you wouldn’t even flinch.” He ground into her, as if to prove the point, and that little movement almost drowned her in desire.

  The insistent pressure of his hardness moved from her arse to her pussy, pressing at the cotton of her underwear. His arms were still braced around her and the hard length of his body pressed into her, suffocating her until all that was left was sensation. Sensation, and the feeling of being protected. Protected and owned.

  He reached a hand beneath her, lifting her hips and snaking between her legs until the heel of his palm pressed into her clit. She moaned, ragged and desperate, and he laughed low in her ear. “There we go, sweetheart. That’s what you want. Be a good girl and ride my hand.”

  She obeyed, forgetting to feign hesitancy. Any embarrassment or nerves or awkwardness she might have felt were no longer an issue, because he was the one in control. Cherry rolled her hips against the pressure of his hand with nothing in her head but the pursuit of pleasure. He kissed her neck as she rubbed her aching clit against him, the movement bringing the head of his cock against her cotton-covered pussy again and again, until she felt almost delirious with sensation.

  “You feel so fucking good,” he growled. “So good. I can feel how wet you are. Soaking through your fucking underwear.” He twisted his hips, his hardness parting her folds even through the cotton, and she moaned helplessly.

  Beneath her, his hand began to move, as if he couldn’t help himself. He rubbed her clit roughly through her underwear, fast and hard, and she gasped, arching against him, urging him on without words because she could barely catch her breath and every nerve-ending lit up like a white-hot fucking flame until she—

  Her orgasm was fast and hard and disorientating. The only constant as she was hit by wave after wave of ruthless pleasure was Ruben, covering her body with his, soothing her fevered skin with his kisses, whispering adoration into her ear.

  “Cherry,” he murmured. “We’re going to do this again, you know. In the daylight.”

  “Ummm…” She tried to protest, but her mind had turned to mush. Tiredness dragged at the edges of her sense.

  He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “We are. Now go to sleep.”

  She’d never been good at following instructions, but clearly she did fine with commands. Because she obeyed immediately and without effort, surrounded by him, and satisfied.

  Chapter 17

  Cherry perched on a stool at the kitchen island and ate her cereal. She kept her eyes glued to the little TV on the counter, and her spine straight—well, slightly arched—and her ankles crossed. She was wearing jeans, turned up a few times at her calves. A silk camisole beneath a buttoned-up little cardigan. Her hair was piled on top of her head in the kind of style that looked casual and effortless but actually took an industrial-strength hair tie, fifty hair grips and half a tub of gel.

  We’re going to do this again. In the daylight.

  Oh, it had seemed so simple. In the dark.

  But now she felt caged, waiting to bump into him in his ridiculously normal house. She would, sooner rather than later. Why couldn’t he have a damned mansion, for Christ’s sake?

  She caught herself. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that, now she wasn’t avoiding him or sticking to her room, they’d almost certainly be on top of each other. It didn’t matter that he could come in here at any minute, or that she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d say to him if he did. It would be fine. It would be—

  “Morning, Cherry Pie.”

  She clamped her teeth together, but that didn’t stop a strangled yelp emerging from her mouth. It also didn’t stop her dropping her spoon into her cereal, sending the milk flying.

  In an instant, Ruben was beside her, a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?” He frowned down at her, taking in the milk splatters on the table and—oh, dear. On her cardigan. So much for the perfect sartorial armour.

  “Fine,” she managed. God, she could do better than that. She forced her smile into place, forced her voice to become light and airy. “I’m fine. You surprised me. Whoops!” A soft little laugh floated from her lips, and she let her fingers drift up to her cheek. Then she waited for him to look enchanted.

  He did not look enchanted.

  He continued to frown, looking at her as if he could see right through her. No, not through her; into her. Behind the carefully put-together version of herself she’d chosen to wield, right to the real, actual person. She waited for him to call her out. He didn’t.

  Instead he said, “I’m sorry. Agathe always says I need bells.” And then he smiled. It was lovely and charming and devastating. A gift.

  “You do. Someone so big shouldn’t be so quiet.” She gave him a smile of her own, a real one, and he reached out and slid his hand over the back of her neck. Cherry tried not to arch into him, but she rather thought she’d failed.

  For a moment they stayed that way, connected by the warmth of his skin against hers, by secrets whispered into the darkness and looks shared in the daylight. But then he pulled away, shaking himself slightly, and strode across the kitchen.

  “Here,” he said, grabbing a cloth from beside the sink. But he didn’t give it to her; he wiped up the mess she’d made of the table. Then he lifted the cloth towards her, hesitated, lowered his hand again. All at once, Cherry registered the cold wetness spreading through her clothes. Oops. Annoyed at herself—really, she was staring like a widgeon while milk soaked into cashmere—she hurriedly unbuttoned the cardigan and tugged it off.

  The milk wasn’t bad at all, she decided, examining the splatters. She could rinse it out. Setting the damp fabric aside, she turned back to Ruben, a thank you on her lips.

  The look on his face wiped her mind clean. And then made it filthy.

  He was staring down at her chest like he’d never seen tits before. Sure, her bra was kind of visible through the white silk, but it was hardly erotic.

  And yet… he looked down at her, his jaw set, his grey eyes thunderous. His nostrils flared slightly as he took deep, hungry breaths, his fists clenched at his sides. If she didn’t know him, she might think that he was angry.

  He wasn’t angry. He was focused. So, so focused.

  “What?” She said softly, arching a brow.

  He movements were fast and sharp, predatory. He bent over her, resting a hand against the island, his other hand grabbing a fistful of her piled-up hair.

  “You know what,” he rasped, his eyes boring into hers. Then they dropped. “No lipstick?”

  “It’s 9 a.m.,” she breathed. “Why would I—”

  “You always wear lipstick.”

  “I’m relaxing,” she drawled, as if he wasn’t filling her space and exposing her throat. “At home.”

  He smiled, the brightness of the expression cutting through his intensity, softening the harsh lines of his face. “Home, hm? Interesting.”

  “Oh, don’t be smug.” She rolled her eyes.

  “So sorry,” he murmured mockingly. His hand shifted, dragging her head back. She swallowed, painfully aware of the vulnerability of her position, of the control he had over her movements. Aware and… aroused. Fuck. Was it really that easy? Surely it shouldn’t be that easy.

  But it was. He bent over her, his lips hovering an inch from hers, his gaze inescapable, filling her vision like a stormy sky. “I didn’t mean to do this,” he whispered. “I’m trying to go slow.”

  “Go slow?”

  He smiled. Her eyes were closed now, but she felt it—felt his lips skate against hers as the corners tipped up. “Yeah. Slow. We get to know each other, and you trust me, and then I kiss you under some mistletoe—”

  “Mistletoe?”

  “I thought t
he trust might take a while. I was aiming for Christmas at the latest.”

  She could tell he was trying to make her laugh. Instead, her stomach sank like a stone. Because Christmas was almost a year away. By the time it came, there’d be 30 days left of their sham relationship.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “Stop thinking about things.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “You can. I could make you. Should I make you, Cherry?”

  “Try,” she whispered back, the words disappearing like smoke against his lips.

  He kissed her. That’s what it was called, one person’s lips against another: a kiss. He had one hand in her hair, and the other floated across her cheek, and his mouth slanted over hers, and that was a kiss.

  But it felt like something more than that. It felt like he was pouring himself into her, and she didn’t want him to stop.

  The hand on her cheek disappeared, returned at her waist. He hauled her off the stool and pulled her against him, holding her tight. His body was hard against hers, his erection harder. He reached down and grabbed her arse, his big hand clutching as much firm flesh as it could manage, squeezing and kneading through the stretchy denim of her jeans, staking his claim.

  He dragged his lips away from hers, his hot mouth tracing her jawline, leaving brightness in its wake like the tail of a shooting star. “I like the hair,” he growled.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Liar. I like the way your lips taste, too. Never wear lipstick again.”

  She sighed as his tongue flicked out to slide along the line of her throat. “Are you sure about that?”

  He paused for a moment, as if thinking. She tried not to whimper and demand more of his mouth. “No,” he said finally. “I leave all lipstick decisions to you. Clearly, you know what you’re doing.” And then, blessedly, he sank his teeth into the softest part of her shoulder.

  She let out a cry, and he froze. Then he released her hair, grabbed her waist, turned her around and lifted her onto the island. His hands went to her knees, forced them apart. He stepped into the space between them before she’d even fully registered the fact that they’d moved.