Albie laughs. "Who pissed in your coffee? You weren't out late partying, since we're at the summer house now and there's literally nothing to do here all summer long. So I assume it's not that. Are you still mad about having to come out here?"
"I was never mad about having to come to the summer house," I huff. "I used to like it out here."
"That was before you became a regular on the club scene."
No, that was before Mom died.
I stick out my tongue at him. "Don't you have someplace else to be? Like humping your stepsister?"
Albie's face goes white. "There's no humping going on." He grabs my hand and drags me into the nearest room, like we're kids again trying to keep secrets from our parents. "Seriously, what gave you that idea?"
I cock my head and look at my brother like he's an idiot, because really he's a complete idiot. "Are you joking?"
"No," he says. "There's nothing going on."
"Okay, um, first of all, I have eyes."
"Really."
"I'm not blind. I can see what's happening. I don't know why you don't just come out with it, already. At least to me. I am your sister, after all."
"You're seeing things."
"Yep, totally. Like the vibrator that rolled along the floor in the pool house."
Albie narrows his eyes. "You knew what that was," he realizes.
I put my hand on his shoulder. "I understand you want to treat me like your kid sister, but you do realize that I'm old enough to have seen a vibrator before. And that little egg that fell on the floor? Definitely a vibrator. I'm guessing it was one of those remote-controlled things, and you shoved it up Belle's twat –"
"I'm not listening," Albie says, putting his fingers in his ears. "This is me, not listening to my freaking sister talk about twats."
"Fine." I sigh loudly. "Vagina."
"Still not listening!"
"Okay, if you're not going to admit to it, then I'll just ask Belle if you stuck a vibrator in her."
"Stop talking about that."
"Vaginas? Do they make you uncomfortable?"
"To hear my sister talking about Belle's, yes."
"Then stop accusing me of being cranky," I huff.
"Clearly, I struck a nerve," he says. "Someone needs to get laid."
"Says the guy who was uncomfortable hearing his sister use the word 'vagina' two seconds ago."
"I don't need to hear my kid sister talking about anyone's vagina."
Noah bursts into the room, shaking his head. "You guys are so weird." He pauses. "No offense."
"Saved by the bodyguard," I tell Albie. "I'm sure you're very relieved."
"I apologize for interrupting, but your father wants to speak with you, sir."
"Don't worry," I call to Albie. "We'll continue this conversation another time."
Albie turns to look at me and rolls his eyes. "Stay out of it, little sis."
"You're my brother, and we're at the summer house with nothing to do, so I don't think that's humanly possible," I shout back.
He and Noah leave, but Max walks through the door. "Nothing to do?" he asks, a sly smile spreading on his lips that makes me go weak in the knees.
"That's right," I say imperiously. "The summer house is all about rest and relaxation and no obligations, which is just the way I like things."
"With no obligations," Max repeats.
"No strings," I tell him. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a no-strings kind of a girl." I blurt it out, but I'm not sure why I do.
I want him to know that he shouldn't get attached because I'm not the kind of girl to get attached to.
He steps forward, close to me, and when he looks down at me, the intensity in his eyes makes me immediately wet. "No strings, huh?"
"That's right."
He whispers against my ear. "What about ropes, then? Would ropes do?" he asks. The sensation of his lips brushing my skin underneath my earlobe is so intense that I think I lose the ability to breathe for a moment. When his lips go lower, down the side of my neck, I think I might pass out.
"Ropes?" I ask innocently, as if I don't know exactly what he'd want to do with me and ropes.
"Ropes," he whispers. "Encircling your wrists, like before, pulling your arms above your head... maybe I'd tie you to the bedposts and decide exactly what I want to do with you."
I swallow hard. Did the temperature in the room suddenly go up by a thousand degrees? I'm flushed warm, from my head to my toes. "The bedposts?" I whisper. I can't come up with anything better than that as a response because I'm rendered stupid and witless at the mere mention of him tying me to the bed.
I'm not that girl. I'm not the submissive type. So why is the suggestion of being rendered completely submissive to him making me so incredibly dizzy?
"The bedposts, a beam on the ceiling… The sky's the limit, princess," he whispers. The heat of his breath makes me flush even hotter.
"I don't recall saying I wanted to be tied up."
He steps back from me, straightens his suit jacket, and winks. "You didn't say it, but you can tell me if I'm wrong. Am I wrong, princess?"
I clear my throat. My face feels like it's on fire. "I think you're wrong about lots of things," I say dismissively.
"I'm not wrong about that." He gives me a long look, and I feel like he can see through me. It's infuriating.
He's right, of course, but he's not going to get the upper hand.
Clearing my throat again, I stand up straight and wipe my palms down my dress. "You're right," I say softly, walking past him. "And if I were wearing panties, they'd be wet right now."
The way his cheeks turn red gives me a sense of smug satisfaction as I sashay my little ass right on out of the room, knowing full and well he's watching me as I go, imagining me bare underneath this dress.
21
Max
As I buzz the intercom to Princess Alexandra's bedroom suite, I look over her agenda for the day. The printed handout, in calligraphy on royal stationary, is like a relic from a bygone era. I don't know quite why the palace hasn't caught up to the twenty-first century yet by making everything digital. If her schedule showed up directly on her phone, Princess Alexandra might actually read it once in a while. "Who is it?" she calls, the sound muffled.
"It's Max," I reply. "I have your schedule for today –"
The princess doesn't answer. Instead, the door lock clicks, interrupting me. Pushing the bedroom door open, I stand just inside the sitting room, clearing my throat to let her know I'm in her room. "Princess, your agenda is –"
I stop mid-sentence as Princess Alexandra walks out of her closet wearing the tiniest white bikini I've ever seen in my life, paired with white sandals and a matching white floppy-brimmed hat. Giant sunglasses cover half her face, and she's carrying a tote bag that's almost bigger than she is.
She pauses with her legs apart and her hand on her hip. "Ta-da. Presenting … my summer swimsuit."
Her over-the-top confidence would be funny if she weren't so damned hot.
As she turns around, she wriggles her ass just enough to be incredibly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable for me, that is, because my cock hardens immediately and strains against my pants.
I clear my throat again, attempting to wrangle some semblance of professional behavior when really all I'm focusing on doing is making sure I blink so my eyes don't look like they're bugging out of my head. I'm also trying to stay cool, because I know exactly what she's up to right now.
The girl is trying to provoke me, just the way she did yesterday with the whole "I'm not wearing any panties under my skirt" bit. That was definitely a provocation, one that I had to respond to later by jerking off as I imagined her slipping out of that dress she was wearing, the one with no panties underneath.
But she's not going to provoke me today. No, sir.
I keep my eyes locked on hers.
Do not look lower. Do not look at her breasts, or her ass, or her legs, or that fucking swimsuit.
Holdi
ng out the agenda, I pretend like she's wearing a winter coat and I'm not standing here with a boner. "Your agenda, princess," I say. "You'll see that you're rather busy this afternoon, unfortunately."
She sashays slowly across the room, her curvy hips swaying back and forth as she balances on her sandals. When she reaches me, she slides the sunglasses to the tip of her nose, looking over them at me with her big eyes. "Screw the agenda."
From anyone else, a statement like that would sound normal. Angry even. But from Princess Alexandra, it sounds like dirty talk, innuendo rolling off her tongue.
I clear my throat and focus on her face. Don't look down, I remind myself. Don't look down. I repeat it like a mantra in my head. "You're scheduled for lunch with your family."
She sighs. "Those lunches always go so well, don't they, James?"
I don't comment. "There's an interview with a magazine after lunch."
"Well, then. I suppose the reporter can do the interview outside just as easily as inside the house, right?"
I exhale loudly. "As you wish, princess."
"I don't think I've ever heard you use that phrase, James," she says, her voice lilting. "You're not suddenly becoming agreeable and compliant, are you?"
Her hair smells like coconut and she has clear shiny lip gloss on that makes her lower lip look puffy and lush and kissable. It smells like cherry, the kind that girls wear in high school. I want to put my lips on hers and find out whether they taste like they smell.
But I don't. She's purposely trying to rile me up, to get me to bend. It's a power struggle and she's not going to win.
The girl is going to say my name. She's going to moan it. That's all there is to it. Besides, I can make power plays of my own.
I take my finger and trail the tip down the front of her neck and between her breasts, catching the little string that holds the two postage-sized pieces of fabric together. "You haven't been a bad girl, have you?"
"I don't know what you mean," she says haughtily. I can't read her expression behind those damn sunglasses, which I'm guessing is exactly why she chose this particular pair with the dark lenses. But hiding her eyes doesn't do a damn thing to conceal the way her lips fall open to make a little "O" shape as she inhales sharply.
Those responses tell me that calling her a bad girl has exactly the effect I hoped it would have on her.
"Oh, I don't think that's true. I think you know exactly what I mean," I whisper, my finger moving slowly down her abdomen, lower and lower, until it reaches the top of her tiny bikini bottoms.
"I'm afraid I don't." Her mouth curls up at the edges. "I'm afraid you'll have to spell it out for me exactly."
I run my fingertip along the edge of her bikini. I could slip my finger underneath the fabric and right down the front of that swimsuit so easily.
She must realize the same thing, because her breath gets very short very quickly.
I know she's wet by the way she's breathing. That can't be faked.
Her chest rises and falls sharply the closer I get to touching her there, so I push my luck farther, just to see how much she'll let me get away with. "Let me guess," I say softly. "You were lying in bed last night trying to go to sleep, but the throbbing between your legs wouldn't allow you to rest. You were so tired, and it was just too much for you, and you had to do something to help yourself."
"You're always telling ridiculous stories," she whispers but she doesn't move away as I slide my fingertip just underneath the edge of her bikini bottoms.
"You had to get off," I continue. "You had to slide your fingers inside that soaking wet pussy and you had to make yourself come. Does that sound about right?"
"That's completely –"
"Are you really going to deny it? Should I turn you over my knee and punish you for being a naughty girl?"
She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, and when she finally answers, her voice cracks. "You're wrong," she whispers.
"You didn't touch yourself?" I ask in disbelief. "Not even once?"
She clears her throat. "That is none of your business, James."
Voices echo loudly through the hallway. Stepping calmly away from the princess, I cover my very obvious boner with the paper copy of the agenda just as Prince Albert bursts into the room.
"What's with this magazine article, Alex?" he demands. "Wait. Are you seriously ditching out on the family interview to go to the pool?"
I can't see her eyes behind the glasses, but I swear I can feel them roll anyway. "You can send the reporter out to the pool to interview me when he's done with all of you," she huffs. "Although I'm sure that the Ice Queen would be perfectly happy to leave me out of any interviews with the family."
"That's a terrible idea. It's all of us, so you're supposed to be there. Are you going to talk any sense into my sister, Max?"
I laugh. "I'm a bodyguard, not a miracle worker, sir." I move toward the door. "If you'll excuse me..."
Alexandra calls after me. "Make sure you change into swim trunks, James."
Prince Albert laughs. "You're going to force Max to guard you at the pool?"
"You say that as if I'm tormenting him," Alexandra replies haughtily. "He's the one who insists on following me around all the time, even to the places I don't need a bodyguard."
Yeah, places like the library. And underneath her skirt.
"Unfortunately, sir, the king wouldn't approve my request to implant a tracking device in the back of your sister's neck, so I've been forced to keep tabs on her the old-fashioned way."
Prince Albert laughs. "It's your own fault for escaping from the palace so many times, Alex," he says. "Besides, something tells me you don't mind the attention so much."
Princess Alexandra's cheeks turn visibly pink. "I don't know what you're talking about in the least," she insists primly. "And you did not actually ask my father to put a tracking device in me, did you?"
"It's actually an excellent idea," Prince Albert jokes. "I'm sure the royal veterinarian would be happy to microchip you, you know. I'll have to ask our Father to reconsider it."
Alexandra slaps Prince Albert hard on the arm and he stumbles away laughing. "You're an ass, Albie," she calls. "At least people want to microchip me so they don't lose me!"
"You're being micro chipped?" Isabella's voice comes from outside of Alexandra's room, and when she enters, her brow is furrowed. "I mean, I know that there are lots of wealthy people who get chipped in case of kidnappings, but that's not really what royals do, is it? That's pretty freaking creepy, if you ask me."
Alexandra is suddenly mock serious. She walks up to Isabella and puts her hands on Isabella's arms. "No one told you?" she asks quietly. "James, tell her about the chipping. How do you think James is able to find me all the time?"
"Why are you calling him James?" Belle asks, confused.
"Because she's a terrible person," I answer, and Alexandra sticks her tongue out at me. "But I find her because of my mad bodyguard skills. Of course, the chip in her neck does make it a lot easier. It's not even painful. Well, not horribly painful, that is. On a scale of one to ten, most people say it's around a seven, but that's not terrible, is it? You wouldn't think that inserting a chip the size of a thumb into the back of the neck would cause that much pain, but it's surprisingly – oh no, you're looking a little green, ma'am."
"Both of you are terrible people," Prince Albert says, laughing. "We don't get chipped, Belle. Protrovia isn't some kind of dystopian police state."
Alexandra hoots. "The look on your face, though, was priceless!"
"I'm not sure you should be making fun of her, sis. You're the one who was concerned a second ago that dad had approved your being micro chipped like an animal."
"You have to admit, that's far more likely to happen than any of you having a tracking device inserted into them," Alexandra muses. "I could see our Father realistically approving something like that for me."
"Are you doing your magazine interview at the pool?" Isabella asks. "My agenda says
that I'm supposed to wear a pastel-colored suit. Are we wearing pastel-colored clothes?"
"Your agenda tells you what clothes to wear?" Alexandra asks, incredulous. "Give me that thing."
She practically rips it out of Isabella's hand, looking over the edge of her sunglasses at the piece of paper and laughing. "It says we're wearing matching pastel clothes. Like we're fucking Easter eggs?!? That sounds absolutely heinous. Albie, what the hell are you wearing? My agenda doesn't dictate my fashion choices, does it?"
I clear my throat. "Actually, it does, ma'am," I admit. "But you never read the agenda, so I just skip over that part when I tell you what's on the schedule."
"I can't believe that!" Alexandra exclaims. "When did that start happening? They didn't used to specify our clothing on the agenda."
Prince Albert shrugs. "It's been a while, I guess."
"You mean that it's been since she showed up," Alexandra says. She glances at Isabella. "Not you, I mean. I was referring to your mother. No offense."
"None taken."
"Well, I won't be wearing pastel anything. I'll be wearing this swimsuit, and the reporter can meet me by the pool." She looks at me. "James, are you changing?"
"He can't wear swim trunks to the pool to guard you, Alex." Prince Albert rolls his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. Where would he put his weapon?"
I bite back a smile as Alexandra's eyes meet mine.
"Where, indeed?" she asks, her gaze flicking downward to my cock.
* * *
The pool at the royal summer house is no ordinary pool, of course, because nothing the royals have is ordinary. I've seen it before from overhead as we passed over the summer house when Prince Albert was flying the helicopter, but even so, seeing it up close like this is a whole different story. It's massive, a winding labyrinth of smaller pools and grottoes and rivers, surrounded by tropical flowers and trees and manmade waterfalls. The whole thing is tiled in blue and white Moroccan patterns that reflect the sunlight and make the water sparkle and shimmer with the sun's reflection.
Her Bodyguard (Raunchy Royals Book 2) Page 13
