I look down at her hands. “Please do,” I say. “But use both hands. I’d like to see that dress on the floor.”
Belle blushes. “You have to leave.”
“Or what, luv?” I ask. “Are you that afraid of being in the same room alone with me? Relax. I’m harmless.”
She laughs. “Said the lion to the mouse.”
“Isn’t there a story about a lion and a mouse? One where they’re friends?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “It’s probably more like the fox in the henhouse,” she says. “I did some reading about you.”
“Mmm,” I murmur, not sure whether to be irritated or flattered that she’s reading about my exploits – tabloid sensationalism, no doubt. Quickly, before she can protest, I reach around her waist and spin her so that her back is to me. Her dress falls open, revealing an expanse of bare creamy skin.
Shit, she’s not even wearing a bra. I wonder what else she’s not wearing under that little black dress of hers. The thought sends a rush of blood to my cock, which tents the fabric of my pants.
Fuck. This girl is going to unravel me.
“And?” I ask, clearing my throat to cover the arousal I think must be evident in my tone. I reach for the zipper at the base of her dress, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back, the apex of the curve of her ass. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t step forward or protest the way I linger there.
Maybe she’s not aware that I’m contemplating flattening my palm, running it over the curve of her ass and down her thighs, yanking up that skirt of hers.
“What did you learn about me from all your research?” I ask.
“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.