Her Bodyguard (Raunchy Royals Book 2)

by Paige, Sabrina

  When I spread her ass cheeks, a finger pressing tightly against her puckered hole, she comes. She comes with a loud cry, my tongue lodged firmly inside her. Her hips jerk, and I think I might hear her call my name – Max, not James – but I can't be sure because I also think I might have lost my damn mind.

  With one hand, I reach between my legs, stroking my length frantically as she orgasms. I've lost all control, suddenly a horny teenager, and it takes moments before I'm coming again, spilling all over the ground between us.

  When I catch my breath, I look up at her from where I kneel between her legs with my pants undone. She's still trussed up, her hair falling in large pieces from the messy bun that was piled on top of her head but is now sliding to the side. Her chest rises and falls and she's panting as she tries to catch her breath. A sheen of sweat glistens on her arms, chest, and abdomen, and the air between us smells of sex and dirt and hay and summer.

  I breathe it in. I breathe her in.

  She's the sexiest thing I've ever seen.

  When I loosen the ties on her wrists, my fingers trace the light red marks on her skin. "I didn't think I tied them that tight," I say, suddenly feeling terrible for tying her up. I don't know what's gotten into me.

  "It didn't hurt," she says softly.

  I bring my lips down to hers. This time the kiss is so tender that it surprises even me. Sarcastic, abrasive, bitchy Princess Alexandra practically melts against me, and my arms encircle her, pulling her into me tightly.

  My heart races and more than anything, I want to pick her up and take her back to the summer house and get her straight into my bedroom. I want her in my bed and I don't want to let her leave. "I think I heard my name when you came," I tell her.

  She pulls back, her fingers tucking her hair behind her ear self-consciously. "I think you might be hearing things, James. You might want to get that checked out. I'd be happy to have the royal physician pay you a visit."

  "I know what I heard, sweetheart."

  She looks away, suddenly intent on finding her clothes. "I – we – shouldn't be out here like this," she says, her voice trembling. "Naked. Someone's going to come in any second."

  Just like that, she's running again.

  26

  Alexandra

  I've never been much of a runner. I mean, not literally anyway. Metaphorically, I guess I've always been one. Well, maybe even literally if you count the times I've run away from my bodyguards, which have been numerous. Those incidents mostly involve sprinting.

  The past couple of days, though, I don't know what's gotten into me. I've been waking up early in the morning and dashing out of my room to run before Max comes onto his shift. With one of the other bodyguards lumbering silently a respectable distance behind me, I've gone running for an hour every morning around the outskirts of the large property.

  I don't know why I've been running. I just know that ever since what happened in the stable, I've had all of this nervous pent-up energy I can't get rid of. The orgasm should have relieved that feeling – at least that's what I would have expected – but that's not what happened.

  It's a million times worse now.

  I find myself wanting him more and more. Hooking up with him wasn't what I thought it would be – a one-off that scratched an itch and made me want him less afterward.

  Instead, I keep thinking about him. I keep fantasizing about being with him again. Worse, I keep thinking about how much I want him to take control, to render me helpless and to take me completely.

  That's freaking terrifying.

  So, I've been keeping Max at a respectable distance, trying to ignore the way he looks at me and how he smells when he stands close to me. I've been trying to forget how he tasted, and how his mouth felt between my legs.

  It's not working.

  So, I call Charlotte to distract myself. What I need is to talk to my friends. I haven't talked to any of them since we got to the summer house. I need to remind myself of who I really am, the Princess Alexandra who parties and flirts with boys and is completely carefree.

  The Princess Alexandra who doesn't think about one man all the time, who doesn't crave the touch of one man.

  The princess who doesn't surrender control to one man.

  "Earth to Alex." Charlotte's voice cuts through my thoughts. She holds up her phone in front of her face, lying in her bed chatting to me through the video app. She sighs, snapping her gum loudly as she twists a long strand of hair around and around her finger. "I can't believe your father is keeping you all cooped up like this for the entire summer. It’s a tragedy, you know."

  I can't hide a snort of laughter. "Yes, it's practically criminal the way he's forced me to spend two months in this mansion in the countryside with a pool and tennis courts and stables and lakes and household staff and chefs."

  "Are you defending your father?" Charlotte asks, surprised. "And yes, it should be criminal. He's basically killed you, you know."

  "Come again?"

  She rolls her eyes. "Socially, I mean. He's basically killed your social standing. You're going to be a pariah by the time you get back. You've become a leper."

  "I'm a princess. I'm not going to become a pariah. Don't you think that's a touch dramatic?"

  "Is it, really?? You haven't posted anywhere online in weeks, Alex. That's basically the social equivalent of years. You've pulled a Kardashian and disappeared completely. People are asking if you're okay, you know." She points to her temple. "In the head, I mean."

  "Who's asking if I'm okay? And Kim Kardashian disappeared after men broke into her apartment in Paris. I retreated to the country like we do every single summer for vacation. It's hardly the same thing."

  "Reporters are asking," Charlotte insists. "They're asking your friends for quotes about your mental stability. Eva and I were out last night and they asked us about you."

  Now I giggle. "Well, I'll count on you to let them know that I'm just as mentally unstable as I've always been."

  "I can't tell them that because suddenly you'll be the boring princess who's holed up with her nuclear, soon-to-be two-parent family and her new stepsister enjoying family time."

  "Well, maybe I am enjoying family time."

  Charlotte wrinkles her nose. "Honestly, Alex," she sighs. "Did your father arrange for you to have a frontal lobotomy? Because you sound like a Stepford child." She pauses, her eyes going wide. "Ohhh."

  I laugh. "Oh, what?"

  "Oh, you're taking something. That's it. You've found some kind of new drug that makes you into a homebody. Well, whatever that drug is, it's dangerous and you need to stop taking it."

  "I'm not a homebody," I protest. "And I'm not taking anything."

  Actually, that part is most definitely true.

  When's the last time I did any recreational drugs? Or even had a drink? Oh my God, it was at the engagement party. Has it been that long?

  I hadn't noticed. I've been so consumed by, well… other things.

  Like fucking around in a stable with my bodyguard.

  You're changing. You'd better be careful or before you know it, everything about you will be different and you won't even recognize yourself anymore.

  "Last summer, you were busy escaping back to the city basically all season long," she argues. "You've become a complete homebody. You're a recluse. A hermit. Are you even showering?"

  "Oh, my God. Yes, I'm showering. And I'm not a recluse."

  Her eyes narrow. "What are you wearing? Are you wearing a sports bra?" I think I see her shudder.

  "I went for a run," I reply, my voice defensive.

  "You went for a run?"

  "I've been running in the mornings," I tell her. "A little bit. Just for the past few days."

  "You've gone on a health kick?" Charlotte asks, skeptical. "The girl whose idea of healthy is downing a bottle of champagne because it's made of grapes?"

  "Grapes are healthy," I say, bristling at her implication that I'm suddenly becoming someone else.

&n
bsp; I'm most definitely not. And even if I've developed a couple of healthier habits, those have nothing whatsoever to do with Max. I could use some healthier habits. It's not like mine have been the healthiest, anyway. Since my mother died when I was in high school, it's been a blur. I haven't stopped to slow down even to take a breath.

  "When's the last time you went out?" Charlotte demands to know.

  I try to think. "I don't know. Recently?"

  "Please tell me you've gone clubbing with other friends. Do not tell me that it was the last time you were out with me."

  "I'm sure it wasn't," I reply, racking my brain. Was that the last time I was out?

  "If you say it was, I'm going to have to call you pathetic. Oh, and don't forget that you're going to be at my club opening at the end of the summer."

  I jump onto the new conversation topic, happy to distract her from her interrogation and her shaming me about my new non-clubbing habits. "I haven't forgotten about it, because it's all you've been talking about," I tease. "How's the club coming, anyway?"

  "You know, builders and contractors and blah, blah, et cetera, et cetera…" Her voice drifts off and she rolls over onto her stomach, setting the phone on her bed. "Boring stuff. My father is taking care of it all anyway. It's his thing, not mine, even if he says it's my club."

  Charlotte's father is the largest real estate developer in Protrovia and probably even Europe. He's shady as hell with ties to the Russian mob and the Italian mafia and who knows who else. But he's a self-made millionaire who suddenly decided a few months ago that Charlotte's existence as a socialite was nowhere near good enough for his daughter and that she needed to follow in his footsteps. The nightclub is his attempt to get Charlotte involved in the family business. The only trouble is that his daughter is more interested in partying and drinking and boys than in business.

  Our entire friendship is based on partying and having fun and blowing off responsibility, which seems a little sad in the light of day, now that I think about it. "Don't you want to have input on any of it? You're going to be running it when it's built, aren't you?"

  She waves dismissively. "Ugh," she groans again, her favorite word. "We both know what's going to happen, Alex. We'll bring in our friends and party, make it the place to be, and Daddy will wind up just paying me for making appearances. It's not like I'm going to run anything myself. He'll want to pay you for appearances, too, you know."

  "I can't accept your money, Charlotte," I tell her. "You know that."

  "I know, I know. All of the royal rules about conflicts of interest. He'll donate it to charity or whatever," she says, blasé. She sits up on the bed. "I know. Let's go down to the coast for the weekend. Surely your family can let you go for one weekend to see your friends. Come on! We'll party all night and pass out and sleep half the day away on the beach."

  That's basically what I did all summer last year. My father would yell about how I needed to stay in the countryside, that it was an important tradition, and then I'd storm out and run off to the coast in France or Italy with my friends. Then he'd threaten to take away my bank account and my crown, and I'd come back for a week before doing it all over again.

  Lather, rinse, repeat.

  After all, my father might be a king, but he's still only my father. I'm not actually trapped here.

  Still, I find myself not wanting to run away. "I don't know," I say, hesitating.

  "What on earth do you have that's keeping you in the countryside of Protrovia?" Charlotte asks, exasperated.

  What do I have keeping me here?

  Max, tying my wrists together in the stable.

  Max, spreading my legs and burying his face in my pussy.

  Max, telling me to kneel in front of him, my knees bruising on the hard floor. Max fucking my mouth with his cock, using me the way he wants to.

  Max's tongue inside me, my hands bound, rendering me unable to do anything to resist as he gave me the most intense orgasm I've ever had.

  The throbbing between my legs reminds me of exactly how much is keeping me at the summer house.

  "Ohhh." Charlotte stares at me over the video chat. "Oh. My. God. You're getting laid."

  "What?" I squeal. "I am not!"

  "That's what it is. You don't want to come out with us because you're getting laid. Who is it? Is Finn coming up there to visit you?"

  "What?! No, of course not." I grimace at the mention of Finn. "Gross."

  "Your cheeks are flushed."

  "Because I went running."

  "You're acting really weird. Are you sure you're not getting laid?"

  "I think I would know if I was getting laid," I tell her.

  "Okay, then let's go clubbing and get you laid. I'll invite some boys."

  "Yeah, I mean, you know, my family is doing a lot of stuff here and my dad is being really strict this summer, threatening my trust fund and everything, who knows why," I babble lamely. "Oh, shit. I think I hear someone at the door. I think it might be my brother. I'll have to call you back."

  "I didn't hear a knock," she says.

  "I'll talk to you later." I hang up before she can protest again, even though I know good and well that Charlotte has a point. I've been holed up at the summer house for too long already.

  I'm not one of those girls who becomes a different person once a boy starts giving her orgasms.

  One orgasm. He gave me one orgasm.

  Nothing has changed. I'm still the same old Princess Alexandra I was before Max showed up here.

  Absolutely nothing is different. If things were different, that would mean I might have a crush on Max, and that's not possible.

  Train wreck princesses do not get crushes on their bodyguards. In fact, they don't get crushes at all.

  27

  Max

  "Your princess hasn't been in the news lately, Maxwell," my mother notes. Her tone sounds almost like she's scolding me because Princess Alexandra has been behaving and staying out of the public eye.

  "She's not my princess," I snap. That's definitely the truth. Ever since what happened in the stable, the princess has made that more than abundantly clear. She's been snubbing me for days, avoiding eye contact and avoiding me as much as possible.

  She thinks I don't know that she's been getting up early in the morning to go running. She also thinks I don't know exactly why she's been avoiding me. That much is my fault – clearly, I went too far, tying her up like that in the stable.

  "Don't give me attitude, Maxwell Donnelley," my mother chides. "I don't care if you are a grown adult or not. Besides, you know that you've obviously left your mark on the princess."

  "What do you mean?" I ask as I cough, nearly choking. Images fill my head, one right after the other:

  Cuffing Alexandra's hands behind her back before pulling up her skirt and coming all over her ass in the library.

  Coming all over her open mouth and breasts in the lounger by the pool.

  Coming into her mouth in the stable.

  Yeah, I've obviously left my mark or two on her.

  "She paid for our house!" my mother exclaims.

  "You don't know that it was her," I lie, my protest lame.

  "Of course it was," she insists. "Who else would have done that? It came from Protrovia. The bank was very clear on that."

  "It was a bonus, Mom."

  "Some bonus," she says, clucking. "When are you going to let me talk to her?"

  "You can't just insist on talking to the princess, Mom," I tell her. "That's not how these things work."

  Besides that, I'm not sure Alexandra is talking to me right now either. And my mom definitely doesn't need to know why.

  "I'm aware that she's a princess, Max, but she's also a princess who paid for our house. You tell her that she's welcome in Kentucky anytime."

  I hold back a snort because my mom's invitation isn't the least bit joking. She's absolutely serious. If nothing else, my mother is one of the most welcoming and hospitable people anywhere in the world. She truly m
eans that Princess Alexandra should come to visit South Hollow.

  If Princess Alexandra visited South Hollow, my hometown wouldn't know what hit them. And vice versa.

  "I will tell her that," I lie.

  "Oh, you will not," my mother chides. "Your father and I might just have to come out and visit you and thank her ourselves."

  "You do that, Mom," I tell her. I know full and well that neither of them are getting anywhere near a plane. My mother is deathly afraid of airplanes and my father insists that he has everything he needs within thirty miles of South Hollow.

  "I might just confront my fear of airplanes if it means meeting the girl who's got my son all discombobulated," my mother threatens.

  "Nothing has me discombobulated," I protest. "I'm perfectly calm. And there's no girl."

  "So there's nothing going on between you and the princess?"

  "Maybe old age is making you senile," I tease.

  "Don’t be a rude little shit or I'll tell your father that you lost all your manners when you moved to Europe," my mother replies.

  I laugh. "Then I'd have to call Pastor Randall and tell him that his best Sunday school teacher just called her son a rude little shit."

  "He'd probably agree with me," she says, chuckling.

  "That might be true."

  "I haven't seen a single photograph of the princess in the tabloids." My not-very-subtle mother returns right back to the topic at hand, undeterred. I groan. She's like a dog with a bone when she gets started, and her favorite topic is my dating life, or lack thereof. "Which means that she's not out running around the way she used to."

  "I can't talk about this with you, Mom," I tell her, cutting her off. "It's part of my job, which makes everything about her confidential."

  "Of course, honey," she says. "I haven't forgotten that you signed all that legal paperwork. I'm just pointing out facts."

  "You're sounding a little bit crazy now. There's nothing going on."