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  pushing the plug deeper inside her ass. “Yes.”

  “Do you want me?” I ask, pressing further inside her before stopping.

  “Yes,” she whispers, arching her hips up again. “I was so close.”

  "Tell me how close," I say, not moving. “I want to hear how close you were.”

  “I was going to come,” she whispers.

  “When?” I ask. “Tell me.”

  She moans. “When you put the plug in my ass,” she says. “When your tongue was inside me.”

  I thrust all the way into her in one movement, finding her hands and pinning them over her head for leverage. Fucking her with deep thrusts, I watch the expression change on her face as she experiences the sensation of having the plug inside her. “Tell me how good it feels to be completely filled up,” I say.

  “So good.” She lets out a little grunt that I know means she’s hurtling toward the same place again. She’s so tight, so wet, that I struggle to maintain coherence. “So, so good.”

  “You’re so close now,” I say as I thrust inside her. “But I don’t want you to come. Not yet.”

  Not even if the thought of you opening yourself to me makes me want to come inside you right now.

  My cock swells, and I want to release everything I have in her. But I can't resist making her wait. I can’t help but enjoy telling her when to come. I can't help but enjoy making her release control to me. Even if I can barely hold out.

  "Oh God," she moans. "Please?"

  "Please what?"

  "Please let me come," she whispers, and I feel her pussy muscles flutter around me. She's losing control.

  "Not yet," I tell her, thrusting inside her until I'm on the verge of explosion. "You know that I’m going to take you completely. I’m going to claim your ass.”

  “Oh my God,” she whispers.

  “Tell me how much you want to feel me inside you,” I say. “All of you. Tell me how much you want me to fuck that tight little virgin asshole.”

  “Oh fuck, Albie.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I want you to be yours,” she says. “Completely.”

  It’s enough.

  “Come for me, luv,” I groan, barely able to get out the words before I let go inside her, blinding white-hot light as I fill her up. Her muscles clamp down around me, and she starts to cry out, but I keep her from doing it, kissing her as she moans into me.

  It feels like forever until she milks every last drop from me.

  Afterward, she looks up at me, her chest still rising and falling, and her breath short. "Oh my God, Albie."

  "I told you I'd make you beg."

  30

  Belle

  "I want to fuck you."

  I whirl around to see Albie standing there, the wall behind him open to the secret passageway leading from my room. “Oh my God. You nearly just gave me a heart attack,” I say, picking up a pillow from the bed and throwing it at him. "Besides, what if someone had been in here?”

  "You were in your own little world over there," he says, crossing the room to reach me. He slides his hands around my waist. "I knocked and I tried to call you, but you didn't hear me."

  "You need to go," I whisper, pushing him back. "My bodyguard will probably be knocking on the door any minute now."

  "Simon," he says.

  "You know his name?" I ask. My attention is split between Albie and the outfits I'm supposed to choose between that are lying on the bed. "Did you check him out?"

  "Of course I did," Albie says. "I can't have just anyone looking after you. Noah assures me he's solid."

  "How protective and also slightly misogynistic of you."

  "Careful with the big words, luv," he says. "Me caveman. No understand big words."

  I stick out my tongue at him before looking back at my outfit choices. "I'm going to be late," I say.

  "So you don't want me to help you get dressed, then," he says, pulling me against his hardness. Heat pools between my legs, but I push him away.

  "Your version of getting dressed involves fewer articles of clothing than mine does," I say, laughing even as he reaches for the hem of my t-shirt and yanks it over my head.

  "You should be in fewer articles of clothing," he says. His hands run up my back to unhook my bra but I wriggle away.

  "I need my bra, thanks," I say.

  "But you don't need those pants." He reaches for the button on my jeans and I smack his hands.

  "Out," I tell him. "I'm going to be late."

  "Fine, fine," he says, raising his hands in mock surrender as he walks backward. "Where are you going?"

  "Why, are you keeping tabs on me?" I tease. I yank off my jeans and shimmy into a royal blue skirt that matches a suit jacket on the bed.

  A knock on the door interrupts us before I can answer, and I glare at Albie, as I point toward the secret passageway. "Just a second!" I yell.

  Albie rolls his eyes and sighs before disappearing behind the wall. Luckily, it's only the stylist, checking to see what help I need with my outfit. She eyes me critically, her gaze focused on the length of my body. "Look," I say. "It seems a bit ridiculous to get dressed up like this to go do charity work."

  Belle looks at me, her lips pursed like she just ate a lemon. "You're not doing charity work," she says. "You're representing the royal family. This isn't a formalized PR event, but there will likely be photographers there, media presence. You must look like you're one of the royals. Classy. Subdued. Appropriate. Oh, just a second. I have just the thing."

  She disappears into the closet, leaving me standing there with my heart in my throat. When my mother said she'd set up some charity work for me, that I could go to visit a children's hospital in town or a refugee organization, I didn't consider the fact that it would involve the media. That is exactly the opposite of what I'm interested in.

  The stylist returns with a pearl necklace in her hand. "This will do," she says. "Would you like me to help you with it?"

  I nod mutely as she slips it around my neck, then steps back and nods her approval. "One other thing," she says, reaching for her handbag. She pulls out a file and hands it to me. "Your mother asked that I pass along the itinerary information to you. Your security detail will accompany you, but unfortunately, she will not. Something came up. She requested that I pass along her regrets."

  "What?" I squeak. My mother sent the stylist to drop the bombshell that there will likely be photographers at the children’s hospital and that – oh, by the way, no big deal – I’ll be attending by myself?

  I clench my hands, digging my fingernails into my palm. Damn it.

  "Is there anything else, Miss Kensington?" the stylist asks. She's already on the move, headed toward the door with her large tote bag over her shoulder.

  I clear my throat. "No. Thank you."

  I wait until she's gone to groan my frustration, as I grab my clutch purse, momentarily considering faking sick to get out of this afternoon. But only for a split second – I’m going to a children’s hospital, after all.

  I’ll be able to get through a little bit of media time, I mentally reassure myself. The palace public relations team has read me the riot act, already preparing me for what to say and what not to say when it comes to the media. If I can simply remember to breathe and smile and wave, everything will be okay. I’ll just pretend not to hear any questions that reporters ask.

  It’ll work, I tell myself.

  Totally.

  I feel like I’m going to vomit.

  Outside, I walk with Simon to the car. Simon seems to be made entirely of stone, his face expressionless. He makes no attempt at chitchat or small talk as we walk, something that at least the other bodyguards try to do.

  Being accompanied by Simon only makes my anxiety worse.

  I’m filled with dread. The only times I've been outside the palace or summerhouse have been accompanied, and now I'm walking into a potential media situation.

  I tell myself not to panic as Simon opens the car d