“You’re a playboy,” she says.

“Boring,” I whisper, pulling on her zipper, my other hand on the top of the fabric, guiding the zipper up, up, up her back.  “You already knew that.”

My fingertips graze her back on the way, and she shivers visibly at my touch, her head lolling to the side.  I pull the zipper farther, my lips close to her ear.

I blow lightly on her neck, scattering a few errant hairs that have come astray from her updo.  She squirms at the sensation.  “What sordid secrets of mine did you learn from your research?”

“Do you have sordid secrets?” she says softly.

“You tell me, luv.”  I trace my finger lightly across the back of her neck.  “I could.  I have one with you, in fact.  That one’s not as sordid as I’d like it to be, unfortunately.”

“You should stop…doing…that,” she says, when I trace my finger up to the baseline of her hair.  I’m two seconds away from taking the decorative pin out of her hair, this silver piece with antiqued edges that must be some relic from the palace she was told to wear, and letting the whole thing tumble down in waves.  I’m this close to unraveling her completely.

“What should I stop doing, luv?” I whisper, watching the way she moves when my breath wafts along her skin.  “Should I stop making you wet?”

“You’re not making me w—” Her voice drifts off.  She doesn’t say the word.

“I know you can’t stop thinking about me,” I say.  “Did you think about me last night?”

“God, no,” she says, her voice catching.  Then, more firmly.  “No.  No.  Absolutely not.”

She’s lying and we both know it.

The knock on the door startles us both, and she jumps away, looking at me in horror.  “Shit,” she whispers.  Then, louder: “I’m just…getting dressed.  Who is it?”

But secret passageways are made for times like this, aren’t they?  I press on the electronic panel on the wall beside the fireplace, and wink at her before I leave.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Belle

I am so wet.

He asked me if he was making me wet, and I lied.  If he had reached between my legs a moment ago, he would have known I was lying through my teeth.  Every part of my body is on edge, like I’m charged with static electricity or something.

No one has ever made me wet by whispering into my ear.  He’s barely touched me, and I’m practically melting.

I’m going to be late for dinner, something that’s surely frowned upon in a palace.  I’m not certain about palace etiquette, but that’s probably right up there with a real offense.

Like marrying your future stepbrother in Vegas.

I tell myself I’ll just be a minute.  I tell myself that I can’t possibly go to dinner like this.  I can’t sit at the same table as Albie in my current state.

That’s what I tell myself as I lock the door to the bedroom.

That’s what I tell myself to justify the fact that I’m going to be late for a dinner with the king and soon-to-be-queen of a damn country, for goodness’ sake.

I’m not the kind of girl who lets her libido get the best of her.  My ex-fiancé never left me feeling like this – not once.

No one has ever left me feeling like this.

Running my fingers up the sides of my thighs, I pull the fabric of the black dress – the very proper, very appropriate, very subdued black dress chosen by whatever stylist my mother hired to fill this closet in the room – up around my waist.

I glance at the secret panel on the wall where Albie disappeared.  Just for a second, I almost wish he would reappear right now.

But I push thoughts of him out of my mind.  I don’t need to think about Albie, with that smug, self-satisfied grin of his, the one I imagine drives women wild.

The throbbing between my legs is incessant, demanding, refusing to be ignored, and I tell myself that has nothing to do with thoughts of Albie.  And it certainly has nothing to do with what he just did.  It has nothing to do with his breath on my neck, his fingertips running softly across my skin.

My skirt ruched up around my waist, I slip my fingers between my thighs, finding my clit, and press my fingertips against it, sighing louder than I’d like at the relief that immediately floods my body.

I sink onto the bed, lying here in this room touching myself while, at this very moment, everyone in my brand-spanking-new family is on the other side of the palace in the dining room.

Including Albie.

Deliciously sexy Albie.

Dark-haired, blue-but-more-periwinkle eyed Albie, who has a reputation for bedding every model and actress in the western hemisphere.

Albie, the epitome of a shallow, arrogant, entitled man.

He’s everything I should find repulsive.

Except, right now, as my fingertips slide over and over my clit, moving in circles until arousal courses through my body, he’s the person I picture.

I imagine him with his lips near my ear, his warm breath against my neck, asking me if I’m wet for him.  Goosebumps dot my skin, a chill traveling down my spine as I think of him.

My eyes closed, my fingers dancing over my clit – over and over until my heart races in my chest, until my breath comes so short that I’m nearly breathless – I think of him.  I imagine him with his head buried between my thighs, my dress pulled up around my waist, his tongue tasting me.

I think of his tongue, hot between my legs, flicking over my clit until I can’t do anything except call his name.

I imagine my fingers threaded through his hair, my legs wrapped around his shoulders.

I can almost feel him sliding his fingers inside me, fucking me until I pant his name.

I’m so far gone, brought so close to the edge by just the thought of his mouth between my legs, that I can barely keep myself from crying out when I crash over.

And Albie’s name is on my lips.

***

“I’m so pleased that you decided to join us, Isabella.”  My mother raises her glass of wine to her lips.  Her chilly tune conveys the exact opposite of her words, and the look she gives me is just as frosty as her voice.

She’s pissed off that I’m late for dinner.

I’m afraid the reason I’m late is written all over my face, that my guilt is immediately evident.  Even as I slide into my seat at the table, I can’t get the thought of Albie as I imagined him – naked, throbbing, irresistible – out of my head.

That fact sends heat to my face, and I know I’m blushing.

I glance at Albie, and immediately regret it.  Evidently, he finds my current state amusing.

“Yes,” Albie says, “I was afraid you’d gotten lost, that we’d have to send a search and rescue party after you.”

“I had to finish up something,” I say, trying to keep my voice composed, settled.  Nonchalant.

I might be failing terribly at the nonchalant part of things.

“Well, I hope you know that I’m always willing to help with whatever needs attending to,” Albie says, looking at me meaningfully.  Arousal washes over me like a wave, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat, crossing one leg over the other.

“I’m sure,” Alexandra snorts, rolling her eyes.  She flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder and looks at me across the table.  And winks.

I might actually die of embarrassment right now, if my mother didn’t interrupt to present me to the other guests at the table.  She rattles off the names and positions of the grandmother, two aunts, an uncle, and three cousins.  I nod, feigning interest in the social pleasantries but mostly just distracting myself from the incessant throbbing between my legs.

“Oh Albert, you are always such a gentleman.”  Albie’s grandmother beams at Albie, adoration written all over her face.  She’s regal, poised from head to toe, dressed in a cream-colored suit with a single strand of pearls, her grey hair pulled up into a loose bun.