“No fucking,” she whispers.

“No fucking,” I repeat, not a statement but a question, rolling my fingers over her clit and watching her lids fall to half-mast, then widen.  She catches that lower lip of hers between her teeth again, and I swear that all I can think about is kissing the fuck out of that mouth of hers.

I can think of a hell of a lot of things I’d like to do to that mouth.

“There’s not going to be any fucking,” she says.  But the last word – fucking – comes out of her mouth in a moan, and the sound is so wanton, so desperate, that I almost lose my shit right here.

I want to tear her fucking clothes off, right here in this alley.  I want to rip her shirt off.  I want to fuck her hard against the wall, with her legs wrapped around me, her tits in my face.

I want Little Miss Do-Gooder, Miss Does Everything Right, to be mine in the filthiest way possible.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Belle

“There might not be any fucking right now, luv,” he says.  “But there will be.  I can promise you that much.”

I watch his mouth move – those lips of his that are so lush it's criminal – but for the life of me, I can’t hear what he’s saying.  He touches me, lightly, his fingers rolling over my clit, sending waves of heat pulsing through my body, billowing over me so quickly I can’t think of anything except that I want him to touch me more.

I want him his hands all over my body.

I want him inside me.

I hear myself moan – a sound that's very nearly feral, embarrassing in its intensity – and I think he groans.

Growls is more like it.

Then he brings his mouth down on mine.  It’s so hard, so fierce, that I nearly lose my breath, as his tongue seeks out and finds mine immediately.  Without a second’s hesitation, he thrusts his fingers inside me.

Pleasure washes over me, the feeling so intense it’s agonizing.  It’s been so long since I was touched.

And never like this, not the way Albie does, his fingers inside me, finding the most sensitive spot, pressing against it like he knows exactly what I want.

What I need.

Everything about this is wrong.  In my head, I know that.  Nothing good can come of this.  Nothing good can come of my jeans hitched over my hips, of being pressed against the side of a building in a filthy alley, with my soon-to-be stepbrother’s fingers inside me.

My manwhore stepbrother.

The Crown Prince of Protrovia.

Nothing about this is right.  All it would take is one person to walk by, to glance down the alley and recognize him.  All it would take is one photograph, and he would be ruined.  I would be ruined.  My mother would be destroyed.

The thoughts flood my head, swimming around and momentarily distracting me from Albie's touch.

Albie seems to sense the internal shift in me, and he pulls away to look at me, his fingers continuing to dance inside me, his movements sending pulse after pulse of pleasure through my body.

"No words anymore, Belle?" he asks, his voice low.  Guttural.

"Words," I say stupidly.  What were we talking about, before he slid his fingers inside me?

Albie chuckles.  "I like the speechless version of you," he says, his eyes trained on mine as he reaches underneath my t-shirt and cups my breast, the warmth of his hand enveloping me.  He doesn't take off my bra, doesn't slide his hand under the fabric the way I desperately want him to do.

My skin aches to feel his skin against mine, and I hate myself for wanting him the way that I want him right now.  I curse my body for its obviously appalling taste in men.

"Not…speechless," I say, the words coming out in gasps, despite my attempt to produce a coherent sentence.  Albie makes a 'come hither' gesture with his fingers, applying more pressure to the perfect place inside me, and I clutch his muscular biceps tightly, my fingers digging into his skin as increasingly powerful sensations wash over me.

"You're so fucking wet for me," he says, squeezing my breast just a little too hard, sending a twinge of pain through my body that somehow has the effect of heightening the pleasure.

Is this what I like – pleasure mixed with pain?  Fucking someone I'm not sure I even remotely like?

"There's going to be no fucking."  I blurt out the words again, my voice breathy.  I'm not sure if I'm trying to reassure him or myself.

I can't think clearly.  I'm so close, so on the edge.  All I know is that I want to crash over.  I want him to send me over the edge.

But he just smiles.

He slides his fingers slowly – excruciatingly slowly – from my wet pussy, and I think I hear myself whine, but that can't be true, because I don't whine.  I definitely don't whimper, brought to the brink of orgasm by a man and then denied.  He presses his fingers against my clit, but doesn't move.  He just pauses there, his fingers pushed against me, the heat from him radiating into me.

I hear myself begin to whimper again and I bite my lip to stop.  I won't do it.

"I already told you, Belle," he says, squeezing my breast.  His thumb grazes the skin above the fabric of my bra, and I can’t help myself.  I arch my back, pressing against him.  His fingers are so close to just slipping inside the cup of my bra that covers my nipple.

“Told me what?” I ask, my voice breathless.  I tell myself to ignore the throbbing between my legs.  I tell myself that I should take this momentary pause as an opportunity to shut down what's happening between us.

But my body seems to have a mind of its own when it comes to Albie.

“I told you,” he whispers, bringing his lips close to my ear.  I close my eyes lightly, savoring every sensation as his warm breath caresses my ear and my neck.  He strokes me with the tip of his finger, gentle now, a feather-like touch.  “I’m going to fuck you.  That wasn’t an idle promise, Belle.  You’re going to beg me to fuck you, luv.”

“I…don’t…beg.” I somehow manage to whisper the words, barely able to form a coherent sentence with Albie’s breath against my skin, teasing, promising more.  My body feels on edge, every nerve ending more sensitive than they’ve ever been, brought to the precipice by him.

But hell, I have my dignity.

Even if I’m standing in a back alley with my jeans pulled down over my hips while a man with a fake seventies pornstache has his hand inside my panties.

“I’ll remember you said that,” he says, slipping his hand out from between my legs.  I look at him with a mixture of confusion and disbelief as he takes away his fingers – his glorious, magical fingers – from where they were a second ago, pressed against my clit.

“Wha –“ I start, my words trailing off as I watch him bring his fingers to his mouth.  He makes a show of slowly licking them, his eyes closing as he makes a satisfied sound.

“All you have to do is ask, luv,” he says, his voice low.  The corners of his mouth turn up, a smile that has to be the smuggest, most arrogant expression I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face.  Or maybe it’s just compounded by the fact that I’m the most sexually frustrated I’ve ever been in my life.

“You’re such a…jerk,” I say, unable to think of a word more clever than that.  I’m pretty sure that all of my brain cells have evaporated, or have been turned to mush because of this man.

I yank my jeans back up, fumbling with the button, my hands shaky and my heart pounding wildly in my chest as adrenaline pumps through my veins.  Smoothing my hair, as if by that simple gesture I can calm my rebellious body, I look at him through narrowed eyes.

And the pompous ass just grins.  He’s thoroughly pleased with himself.  The fact that he’s so damn smug, as if he’s planned this the whole time, sends a surge of irritation through me.