Prince Albert(32)

The problem is, I don’t hate any of it. I don’t hate it at all.

I fucking love it.

I love the fact that her lower lip is still swollen from my mouth on hers, even hours after I kissed her.

I love that she’s on edge.

And I love the fact that I know why she’s so irritable, so on edge.

I love that it’s because of me.

I'm doing my last-minute pre-flight checklist, when Noah interrupts. "Max has your sister, sir," he says. "We'll need to wait a few minutes."

Max brought my sister back from her jaunt off to wherever with Finn Asher? Okay, so the thought makes me laugh. I can't help myself. Alex is going to be pissed as hell when she comes back. I can't imagine the earful the bodyguard is getting right about now.

When the dark-colored SUV pulls up in the driveway, Max gets out, opening the back door and obviously arguing with my sister for a minute, before throwing her over his shoulder and walking toward us. Alex unleashes a litany of expletives as she punches him on the back.

"Your bodyguards have an interesting method of doing their jobs," Belle says, half-under her breath, into the headset.

"If we came back without Alexandra, my father would fire him," I tell her.

Max deposits Alex firmly on the seat beside Belle, and Alexandra gives him the dirtiest of dirty looks. "When we get back to the palace, I'm getting a new bodyguard," she say, her voice getting louder as she speaks. "One who isn't a fucking caveman!"

"Be my guest, Princess," Max says, sliding into his seat. He ignores her when she calls him a "cocksucker," and looks up at me. "Ready when you are, sir."

Alexandra looks over at Belle. "Maybe you should go back to America," she says. "It's better than being kept prisoner in your own house!" She sighs dramatically for effect, sinking into her seat with her arms crossed over her chest.

***

"What's with you lately?" Price asks, slapping me on the back. We're sitting in the upstairs VIP room of a club we frequent. The walls are made entirely of glass, and overlook the crowd below. Well, a club we used to frequent. It's been weeks since I've been out, which in royal terms is practically a lifetime. "You haven't been out since you came back from the States."

"Nothing's up with me." I sip a glass of scotch from a bottle that costs over a grand, sitting on a cushioned sofa in one of the most exclusive clubs in the capital of Protrovia. I should be happy with this.

Instead, Belle has me wrapped around the axle, so blinded by lust I can't see straight. Now I'm two glasses of scotch in, trying to clear my head.

"You just turned down the Lara twins," Price says, nodding toward the two women walking away. Noah stands by the door to the room, nodding at us to see if we want him to let another set of women inside to replace the girls who just left. Price holds his hand up to motion the girls inside, but I stop him.

"What the hell?" he asks. "When did you become a monk?"

I shrug, attempting to exude a nonchalance I don't feel. "Sorry if I don't want to stick my dick where a thousand other guys have been."

"Twins, Albie," he says, rolling his eyes as he leans back against the upholstered sofa. He swallows several fingers of vodka in a single gulp. "Since when have you ever given a shit about who you put your dick in?"

"Shut up." I can't think of a single time, other than the crazy ex, when I'd even bothered to get a girl's name. Well, maybe a few times, when I screwed women I already knew socially – countesses, duchesses, people like that. But they were forgettable.

They've all been forgettable.

Until now. Until Belle. And I'm not even screwing her.

Apparently, now I can't get her out of my mind, even when I try.

***

"You're ignoring me." Standing behind her in the tearoom, I whisper the words into her ear. I speak softly, mindful of the room full of people, an event for whatever the hell we're hosting today that my presence is mandated for. At this point, the events are a blur, and I just show up wherever my presence is requested, like a dutiful robot prince.

Belle doesn't turn around. She doesn't move or turn or acknowledge that she heard me, standing motionless with her teacup and saucer in her hand. From where I am behind her, I catch a whiff of the perfume she wears, something light with just a hint of something floral – jasmine maybe, or gardenia. She smells like summer.

Her dark hair is down, tumbling over her shoulders in waves to the middle of her back, over the pale blue tailored suit jacket she wears that matches her fitted pencil skirt. The outfit is made for a forty-year-old woman. It's conservative, respectful, and appropriate.

And I don't even need to look at the front of it to know that it's the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen. The way the skirt skims over her curves, caressing her ass like it was made for her, makes me crazy.