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  that day – his skill with his fingers.

  “I showed her the most important parts of Senijk,” Albie says, beside me, and I avoid looking at him as the vibrator flicks on inside me, low and slow, but the movement surprises me and I yelp.

  “Are you okay?” Leopold asks, and I just know my face must be bright red.

  “Uh…yes,” I say, coughing to hide my embarrassment. “I just turned my ankle in these heels. I’m afraid I haven’t gotten used to wearing high heels again.”

  “I imagine this entire thing is a bit of a shock for you,” Leopold says, as Albie increases the intensity on the vibrator. I look over at him and shoot him the most murderous glare I can muster under the circumstances.

  The vibrator is one thing, but turning it on when I’m trying to carry on a conversation with his father is another thing entirely.

  A very bad, very warped thing.

  “It’s…yes…a shock, I would say.”

  “It’s probably difficult to leave someplace that intense,” Albie says, his voice the epitome of professional and measured. Except for the fact that he looks me right in the eye, his expression filled with mischief, and lingers just a little too long on the word intense, turning up the intensity of the vibrator as he speaks.

  “Uh-hum,” I say. What the hell were we talking about again? I can’t think clearly when all I can focus on is what’s happening between my legs.

  It’s a good thing that there is a ballroom of people waiting for an audience with my mother and the king, because I there’s no way I can muster a coherent sentence. My entire body feels warm, heated to the point of discomfort by the arousal surging through my veins.

  Albie leans close to me as we walk away. “Do I hear a faint buzzing sound?” he asks.

  “Shut up,” I reply, through gritted teeth. Oh God, if he keeps this going, I’m going to have to walk out of here right now.

  “I’m kidding,” he says. “Totally silent. Although, judging from the expression on your face, it’s obviously working.”

  “I don’t know why I let you put it in me,” I hiss, barely able to choke out the words. Another surge of the vibrator, and I stumble, putting my hand on Albie’s arm for support.

  “Oh, trust me, luv,” he whispers, smiling politely at someone from across the room, someone important who’s undoubtedly walking toward us to say hello. I can’t tell who it is because I’m practically seeing double already. “I’m going to be putting more than that in you.”

  “Miss Kensington,” a voice says, and the vibration stops abruptly. Thank God, because I was about to cause a scene. I look up to see an older gentleman, and Albie introduces us – he's a politician of some kind. Or was it an earl? I've already forgotten.

  Then Albie and I are split up. For the next half hour, one of the royal family's handlers, a public relations expert named Christine who dictates my every move, escorting me from guest to guest. There is a whole team of public relations handlers on staff, all dressed in identical black suits on non-event days and gowns and tuxedos on nights like tonight.

  Christine is stiff and rigid, all business and no pleasure, her jet-black hair pulled up in a high ponytail that only serves to make her face look even thinner than it is. She introduces me to guests in a clipped tone, with just a hint of a smile, an expression that must serve her well in this capacity. Everything about her screams ‘don’t fuck with me.’

  She's positively terrifying.

  And the entire time, the vibrator flicks on and off inside me, at random intervals that Albie determines from wherever he is in the ballroom.

  I smile and nod and exchange pleasantries with people until I’m dizzy, unable to think of anything except the throbbing between my legs. All-business-Christine introduces me to important people, reminding me between introductions of the importance of learning royal customs and maintaining royal bearing. And the whole time, Albie is sending random pulses of vibration through me that nearly leave me breathless.

  I’ve been reduced to a weak-kneed, quivering bundle of desire, controlled by my pussy – and by my stepbrother.

  Thirty minutes into this fiasco, and I’m worthless. All of my brain cells are now devoted to maintaining my composure while Albie turns on the vibrator again.

  I will not have an orgasm here in the middle of this, I tell myself. It would be deeply humiliating.

  Nevertheless, I can feel it building in my core.

  “Are you okay?” Christine asks. “You look flushed. Should I send for a doctor?”

  “No!” I snap, then quickly lower my voice, clearing my throat as I look over her shoulder. I'm desperately trying to find Albie in the sea of people, to telegraph the message that he has to stop what he's doing. “Um. I need…some water. Or some air, maybe. Champagne.” I’m babbling, making no sense. She must think I’m on drugs or something.

  “Ten minutes,” she says, curtly, whirling around and walking briskly in the other direction, her hand on her earpiece.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when the vibrating ceases, even though it does little to stop the pulsing between my legs. I mentally calculate how far it is to the ladies room and whether I can get through the crowd without being seen by anyone.

  “Oh my God.” Alexandra takes my arm. “You got stuck with Christine. She’s the worst of the PR robots. Do you want to make an escape?”

  I giggle, the absurdity of all of this suddenly hitting me. “She’s awful,” I whisper.

  “You have to medicate to get through it,” Alex says, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I totally like you, Belle. Have I told you that? You’re not terrible. I expected you to be terrible, like one of those really smug bitches, the kind who think they’re God’s gift to the earth just because they go around saving people and stuff.”

  “You’re obviously well-medicated,” I say, laughing.

  “I took some X,” she says. “Wow. Has anyone ever told you that your hair is really brown? Like, not poop brown, either. It’s pretty brown. Do you want some X? I have some, right in my clutch.”

  “I’ll pass,” I say. As if I need to take anything that would increase the sensitivity of my body in any way, shape, or form.

  “Quick,” she says. “Two o’clock. Sir Richard Benton. He’s hot, right? We should talk to him.”

  "What? Who?" I ask absently. I catch a glimpse of Albie across the room as the crowd parts. He's standing next to a blonde – tall, long-legged, thin, and gorgeous. She puts her hand on his forearm, the gesture at once possessive and familiar.

  "Richard Benton," Alex says. "Come on. Please tell me you've heard of him, at least. He's been in movies in the States. He was knighted in England. I can't remember why. Probably for being hot as hell."

  I can't think of Richard whoever-the-hell-he-is, not when I'm looking at Albie on the other side of the room, with some girl hanging all over him.

  Alexandra follows my gaze. "Ugh," she says. "That bitch."

  "What bitch?" I ask. I find it unreasonably difficult to pry my gaze away from the two of them. The girl laughs – I can't hear it, but I just know she has one of those perfect little musical laughs, a tinkling sound – and touches his forearm again.

  "Erika. She's the worst," Alex whispers, though not quietly enough. It's more like a stage whisper, which is wholly inappropriate for this setting. If it weren't for the fact that I'm completely distracted by Albie on the other side of the room, the entire thing would be laughable. I have a princess hanging on my arm, high as a kite and airing her opinions too loudly, and a vibrator inside me, my royal stepbrother at the controls.

  And all of it, at my mother's engagement party, surrounded by the crème de la crème of Protrovian society.

  "Why is she the worst?" I ask absently. Albie pats the bitch on the arm, then looks up. I avert my eyes, but not quickly enough. He makes eye contact with me from across the room.

  "She's terrible," Alex says. "Manipulative and shallow. They were together years ago. I don’t know what he ever saw in her.