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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
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.
"Albie, what are you doing?" I hiss, pushing against him, but he holds my arm, his lips near my ears.
"We only have a second," he whispers from behind me. The service entrance is empty, but anyone could walk through at any moment. I should be terrified of that – terrified of the possible repercussions, of the potential public embarrassment.
Instead, a surge of adrenaline rushes through me, a secret thrill at Albie's hands on me. The heat from his body radiates onto mine, and every cell in my body is on high-alert, acutely sensitive to him, aware of his every breath.
"We need to go to the engagement party, Your Highness," I say.
"Spread your legs."
"Excuse me?" I must be hallucinating, driven mad with lust. He did not just tell me to spread my legs right here in the hallway within twenty yards of the ballroom where our parents -- the King and Future Queen of Protrovia – together with everyone who's everyone in this country, are celebrating their upcoming nuptials. Because that would be insane.
"You heard me, luv," he whispers. "Don't think. Just do it."
But Heaven help me, that's exactly what I do.
I stand here, in my ridiculously expensive designer cocktail dress, with my stepbrother's arm around my chest, pulling me tightly back against him, and I spread my legs.
"And?" I ask, provoking him. My heart pounds loudly against his arm, and he fumbles with something.
"I have a present for you," he says, slipping his hand between my legs from where he stands behind me. A sensation of something cold makes me jump.
"What the hell, Albie?" I yelp.
"This is your present," he whispers. "I sent it to you in your box. I borrowed it back."
The box he sent me with the sex toys.
"You are not touching me right here, right now, with one of those things," I hiss.
“It’s unfortunate you say that,” he says. “I guess I’ll have to take it back.” I feel a light vibration flick on, sending a tingle through my core, and then it stops as quickly as it starts.
He’s teasing me. Taunting me.
He knows I’m wet, just as soon as he touches me.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t take it back.”
“Is that a yes?” he asks.
“I can’t believe I’m considering this,” I whisper.
"Make your choice, luv. One of the caterers or the staff is going to walk out of that entrance any second now," he whispers, his breath hot on my ear. "You don't want them to see you with your stepbrother's hand up your skirt, do you?"
I shake my head. "No."
He flicks the vibrator on again, and the sensation sends arousal rushing through me. "Then spread your legs, Princess," he says. "Because I'm not playing around anymore. Say yes."
"You're going to send me out there with that inside me?" I ask.
“Most definitely,” he says. “Say the word, luv. The word is yes.”
“Hurry,” I whisper. “Do it now.”
I don’t say yes. Just hurry. It’s the principle of the thing.
He chuckles, his breath warm on my ear, and I stand motionless with my body pressed against his as he slides the vibrator inside me, aided easily by my wetness. When he finishes, he takes a step back and puts a business-like amount of space between us. It’s just in time, too, as two servers carrying trays bound around the corner and stop sharply in their tracks. "Your Highness," one of the servers says, carefully balancing a tray of champagne flutes while bowing his head.
"Please," Albie says, waving them past us. "I apologize for being in the way."
Once they've walked past us, Albie holds up a small remote. "I like to watch you come," he says, slipping the remote into his tuxedo jacket pocket. "And I want to watch you come in a room filled with every important person in this kingdom."
"You're crazy," I say, except what's crazy is the fact that this is turning me on. "Someone will hear it."
He smiles, reaching inside his pocket, and I feel the vibration inside me. But I hear nothing. "What were you saying?" he asks. "This was especially-made for me. It's not exactly available on the open market. And yes, it's totally silent. So don't worry -- people will have no idea why you're coming all night. Shall we?"
He doesn't wait for a response. He walks ahead of me, out the hallway and toward the ballroom, and I'm left to catch up. I take my steps slowly, carefully, and measured, conscious of the vibrator inside me.
I feel a weird mixture of nervousness and confidence as I walk toward the ballroom, several steps behind Albie. And arousal.
I definitely feel aroused, even with the vibrator turned off.
It’s a delicious secret Albie and I share. One among several secrets.
I push that thought out of my head, squeezing my muscles around the vibrator, assuring myself that it’s not going to slip out and clatter to the floor in the middle of this event.
Now, that would be a scandal.
“Darling.” My mother greets me like I’m the prodigal daughter, arms outstretched, her face beaming. She never calls me darling, but I can’t help but smile anyway. She looks happy. Really happy, like I haven’t seen her in years, and despite our differences, that makes me feel good.
“Mother,” I say, as she draws me in close, giving me two air-kisses. “You look really stunning.”
She’s breathtaking in a cream-colored chiffon evening gown that trails to the floor, a huge diamond statement necklace lying carefully over the scooped neckline of the dress. Her hair is piled on her head, and she wears a small tiara – not the royal crown, which she’ll wear during the wedding, but gorgeous nonetheless.
“Thank you, darling,” she says, smiling. As she pulls me close, she whispers softly. “I know you hate these big social things, but please try your best and I promise I'll make it up to you."
I smile politely, the moment interrupted when King Leopold takes my hand. “Isabella,” he says, his voice warm. “Have I told you how delighted I am that you’ve decided to stay for the summer?”
“I’m honored to be a guest in your home," I say.
Leopold laughs, a deep sound that comes from his belly. “My dear, you’re family,” he says. “Please don’t ever call yourself a guest again.”
“I’ll try to remember that, Your Royal Highness,” I say, bowing my head.
“Albie tells me he showed you around Senijk,” Leopold says, referencing the town where their summer estate is. My mind immediately flashes to exactly what Albie showed me in the village that day – his skill with his fingers.
“I showed her the most important parts of Senijk,” Albie says, beside me, and I avoid looking at him as the vibrator flicks on inside me, low and slow, but the movement surprises me and I yelp.
“Are you okay?” Leopold asks, and I just know my face must be bright red.
“Uh…yes,” I say, coughing to hide my embarrassment. “I just turned my ankle in these heels. I’m afraid I haven’t gotten used to wearing high heels again.”
“I imagine this entire thing is a bit of a shock for you,” Leopold says, as Albie increases the intensity on the vibrator. I look over at him and shoot him the most murderous glare I can muster under the circumstances.
The vibrator is one thing, but turning it on when I’m trying to carry on a conversation with his father is another thing entirely.
A very bad, very warped thing.
“It’s…yes…a shock, I would say.”
“It’s probably difficult to leave someplace that intense,” Albie says, his voice the epitome of professional and measured. Except for the fact that he looks me right in the eye, his expression filled with mischief, and lingers just a little too long on the word intense, turning up the intensity of the vibrator as he speaks.
“Uh-hum,” I say. What the hell were we talking about again? I can’t think clearly when all I can focus on is what’s happening between my legs.
It’s a good thing that there is a ballroom of people waiting for an audience with my mother and the king, because I there’s no way I can muster a coherent sentence. My entire body feels warm, heated to the point of discomfort by the arousal surging through my veins.
Albie leans close to me as we walk away. “Do I hear a faint buzzing sound?” he asks.
“Shut up,” I reply, through gritted teeth. Oh God, if he keeps this going, I’m going to have to walk out of here right now.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “Totally silent. Although, judging from the expression on your face, it’s obviously working.”
“I don’t know why I let you put it in me,” I hiss, barely able to choke out the words. Another surge of the vibrator, and I stumble, putting my hand on Albie’s arm for support.
“Oh, trust me, luv,” he whispers, smiling politely at someone from across the room, someone important who’s undoubtedly walking toward us to say hello. I can’t tell who it is because I’m practically seeing double already. “I’m going to be putting more than that in you.”
“Miss Kensington,” a voice says, and the vibration stops abruptly. Thank God, because I was about to cause a scene. I look up to see an older gentleman, and Albie introduces us – he's a politician of some kind. Or was it an earl? I've already forgotten.
Then Albie and I are split up. For the next half hour, one of the royal family's handlers, a public relations expert named Christine who dictates my every move, escorting me from guest to guest. There is a whole team of public relations handlers on staff, all dressed in identical black suits on non-event days and gowns and tuxedos on nights like tonight.
Christine is stiff and rigid, all business and no pleasure, her jet-black hair pulled up in a high ponytail that only serves to make her face look even thinner than it is. She introduces me to guests in a clipped tone, with just a hint of a smile, an expression that must serve her well in this capacity. Everything about her screams ‘don’t fuck with me.’
She's positively terrifying.
And the entire time, the vibrator flicks on and off inside me, at random intervals that Albie determines from wherever he is in the ballroom.
I smile and nod and exchange pleasantries with people until I’m dizzy, unable to think of anything except the throbbing between my legs. All-business-Christine introduces me to important people, reminding me between introductions of the importance of learning royal customs and maintaining royal bearing. And the whole time, Albie is sending random pulses of vibration through me that nearly leave me breathless.
I’ve been reduced to a weak-kneed, quivering bundle of desire, controlled by my pussy – and by my stepbrother.
Thirty minutes into this fiasco, and I’m worthless. All of my brain cells are now devoted to maintaining my composure while Albie turns on the vibrator again.
I will not have an orgasm here in the middle of this, I tell myself. It would be deeply humiliating.
Nevertheless, I can feel it building in my core.
“Are you okay?” Christine asks. “You look flushed. Should I send for a doctor?”
“No!” I snap, then quickly lower my voice, clearing my throat as I look over her shoulder. I'm desperately trying to find Albie in the sea of people, to telegraph the message that he has to stop what he's doing. “Um. I need…some water. Or some air, maybe. Champagne.” I’m babbling, making no sense. She must think I’m on drugs or something.
“Ten minutes,” she says, curtly, whirling around and walking briskly in the other direction, her hand on her earpiece.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the vibrating ceases, even though it does little to stop the pulsing between my legs. I mentally calculate how far it is to the ladies room and whether I can get through the crowd without being seen by anyone.
“Oh my God.” Alexandra takes my arm. “You got stuck with Christine. She’s the worst of the PR robots. Do you want to make an escape?”
I giggle, the absurdity of all of this suddenly hitting me. “She’s awful,” I whisper.
“You have to medicate to get through it,” Alex says, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I totally like you, Belle. Have I told you that? You’re not terrible. I expected you to be terrible, like one of those really smug bitches, the kind who think they’re God’s gift to the earth just because they go around saving people and stuff.”
“You’re obviously well-medicated,” I say, laughing.
“I took some X,” she says. “Wow. Has anyone ever told you that your hair is really brown? Like, not poop brown, either. It’s pretty brown. Do you want some X? I have some, right in my clutch.”
“I’ll pass,” I say. As if I need to take anything that would increase the sensitivity of my body in any way, shape, or form.
“Quick,” she says. “Two o’clock. Sir Richard Benton. He’s hot, right? We should talk to him.”
"What? Who?" I ask absently. I catch a glimpse of Albie across the room as the crowd parts. He's standing next to a blonde – tall, long-legged, thin, and gorgeous. She puts her hand on his forearm, the gesture at once possessive and familiar.
"Richard Benton," Alex says. "Come on. Please tell me you've heard of him, at least. He's been in movies in the States. He was knighted in England. I can't remember why. Probably for being hot as hell."
I can't think of Richard whoever-the-hell-he-is, not when I'm looking at Albie on the other side of the room, with some girl hanging all over him.
Alexandra follows my gaze. "Ugh," she says. "That bitch."
"What bitch?" I ask. I find it unreasonably difficult to pry my gaze away from the two of them. The girl laughs – I can't hear it, but I just know she has one of those perfect little musical laughs, a tinkling sound – and touches his forearm again.
"Erika. She's the worst," Alex whispers, though not quietly enough. It's more like a stage whisper, which is wholly inappropriate for this setting. If it weren't for the fact that I'm completely distracted by Albie on the other side of the room, the entire thing would be laughable. I have a princess hanging on my arm, high as a kite and airing her opinions too loudly, and a vibrator inside me, my royal stepbrother at the controls.
And all of it, at my mother's engagement party, surrounded by the crème de la crème of Protrovian society.
"Why is she the worst?" I ask absently. Al
bie pats the bitch on the arm, then looks up. I avert my eyes, but not quickly enough. He makes eye contact with me from across the room.
"She's terrible," Alex says. "Manipulative and shallow. They were together years ago. I don’t know what he ever saw in her. She cheated on him a lot. Albie won't ever say it, but I think he was in love with her. And she broke his heart."