“He didn’t want you running around with the commoners?” she asks.
“No,” I say, laughing. “It was more of an issue with security risk than anything else. He’s perpetually convinced I’m going to be assassinated.”
Belle raises her eyebrows. “Given who you are, that’s probably a legitimate concern.”
I shrug. “He’s too protective,” I say.
She glances at me from the corner of her eye. “Says the guy who went to Afghanistan?”
“I flew helicopters,” I say. “And, thanks to my father, I wasn’t able to get close to any real action.”
“There’s something to be said for staying alive – playing it safe,” Belle says, turning to look at me finally. The corners of her mouth turn up on the edges, just slightly, but the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. Even so, the way she looks at me, her chestnut-colored eyes wide, taking the corner of her lower lip between her teeth uncertainly, sends an almost irresistible desire to kiss her ricocheting through me.
Fuck. I want to do a hell of a lot more than just kiss this girl.
“Playing it safe is boring,” I say, not wanting to take my eyes away from hers. I watch transfixed, as she takes a deep breath, her breasts rising under the thin fabric of her t-shirt, and I swear to God, that single breath makes my cock rigid.
Hell if a girl has ever been able to make my cock hard as a rock with one look, with a single inhale of breath.
Then Noah clears his throat noisily, reminding me that Belle and I aren’t the only ones in the car. “We’re here, sir,” he says. “Miss Kensington.”
Beside me, Belle laughs, the sound light. I think it might be the best sound I’ve ever heard. “I’m not Miss Kensington,” she says. “That’s my mother. Everyone calls me Belle.”
Noah nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, ma’am is totally worse. Please never ever call me that again. I'm not that old,” she says, before turning to me. “Where are we going?”
“It's the start of the summer festival,” I say. “This is the real Protrovia.”
Noah tails us from a respectable distance as we meander through the festival, among the throngs of families and tourists playing carnival games, listening to music, and eating traditional Protrovian food.
Belle is mostly silent, contemplative, but I watch her take everything in as she walks, pausing occasionally to talk to a vendor or run her fingers along a handmade craft being sold on one of the tables. “This version of Protrovia is a ton better than the palace one,” she says, turning toward me.
Behind her, someone squeezes past, pushing her into me. Her body presses up against mine, and she doesn't jump away, not immediately. Instead, she lingers a fraction of a moment too long, and when I reach for her elbows to steady her, my hands land on her waist instead. It’s completely inappropriate, touching her like this out here, in the middle of everything, even for a moment.
She looks up at me, eyes framed by dark lashes, and I know she can feel how hard I am, my body’s immediate response to her pressed against me. Rock hard seems to be my default response to anything this girl does. But in that moment, I know she wants me just as much as I want her.
Then Belle steps away, looking down at the ground and tucking her hair behind her ear self-consciously. Her cheeks are flushed, pink lightly dusting her cheekbones, and she tries to put distance between us, but the thickness of the crowd causes her to slow down. Then I'm behind her, my lips close to her ear. “I know you could feel how hard I am for you,” I say, my voice low.
The flush she gets when she’s embarrassed, the one that is usually relegated to her face, spreads all the way to her ears. I can see it from where I stand behind her, and the sight makes me inexplicably harder.
I’ve slept with models, actresses, socialites. Women throw themselves at me. They offer threesomes and foursomes. They offer me anything I want.
And some American girl wearing jeans and sneakers and a t-shirt makes me harder than I’ve been in my damn life, with a mere blush.
Belle doesn’t respond. She clears her throat and makes the same self-conscious move again, tucking her hair behind her ear as she walks forward through the crowd. When I catch up to her, I put my hand on the small of her back.
“What are you doing?” she asks, glancing behind her. “There are a million people here watching us.”
I let my fingers slide just underneath the bottom of her t-shirt, grazing her skin, hot to my touch, just for a moment, before I draw back my hand.
Propriety, I remind myself.
I should give a shit about propriety. I should give a shit about the fact that Belle Kensington is my soon-to-be stepsister. She’s part of the royal family. I should keep my dick in my pants and my hands to myself.