Double Team: A Menage Romance Read online

  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.

  The problem is that I’ve never been very good at doing the things I “should” do, anyway.

  When the crowd surges ahead, I take Belle’s arm and pull her to the right sharply, ducking between a group of large men drinking beer before disappearing into another group of tourists. We veer to the side and down a narrow passageway between two brick-sided buildings. The alley is empty, and Belle pauses, backing up against the wall and looking at me with a mixture of apprehension and lust.

  “We lost Noah,” she says, her voice soft.

  “Are you worried about Noah?” I ask.

  “Shouldn’t you not be ditching your bodyguard?” Belle asks the question, her voice breathier than it was before, and I’m not sure that’s entirely the result of darting through the crowd.

  “There are a lot of things I shouldn’t do,” I say. I trail a finger down her chest, toward her cleavage, and she doesn’t stop me. Instead, she sucks in a deep breath, her chest rising under my touch.

  It’s the breath that undoes me. It’s the sound she makes when she inhales the way she does -- sharp, between her teeth -- that is going to be my unraveling, and I know it. It holds the promise of everything that’s inevitable between us – my tongue on her skin, the taste salty-sweet, the tangle of limbs, her slickness as I slip inside her.

  I can picture all of it – hell, I can practically taste her on my lips now, without even touching her – just by listening to that inhale. It’s the sound I imagine she’ll make when I’m plunging my cock into her, my lips near hers, as I watch the expression on her face.

  “This is definitely one of those ‘shouldn’ts’,” she says. But she doesn’t move. She stays where she is, paused with her back against the brick wall, her breasts arched up.

  Everything about her screams yes.

  “Prince fucks his royal stepsister,” I whisper, reaching down to flick open the button on her jeans. "It's a definite shouldn't."

  Belle’s lips fall open in a slight “O”. But she doesn’t protest. I almost expect her to slap me. I’m waiting for her to call me a pervert, a manwhore. I'm waiting for her to tell me to go screw myself, to get the hell away from her.

  “I’m not your stepsister,” she whispers. “Yet.”

  I unzip her jeans, pulling them down slightly around her hips, angling my back toward the entrance of the alley to shield her from any wandering eyes. “So you’re okay with the fucking part, then,” I say, as I slip my fingers inside the front of her panties, my eyes never leaving hers, even though I have the almost irrepressible impulse to see what her panties look like.

  This is high up there on the list of ‘shouldn’ts.’

  I’ve done a lot of bullshit – flashing the press, hooking up with random girls – but I’ve never screwed one in public. Always in private. I might drop my pants for the press, but I’ve never been caught with my pants around my ankles because of a woman. That’s because whatever kind of whoring around I do, I’ve always been able to contain myself.

  Belle has me going crazy. Pulling her into an alley, sliding my fingers down the front of her pants.

  This is not what I do.

  “My mistake,” I say. “Prince fucks his almost-stepsister. His wife.”

  “No fucking,” she whispers.

  “No fucking,” I repeat, not a statement but a question, rolling my fingers over her clit and watching her lids fall to half-mast, then widen. She catches that lower lip of hers between her teeth again, and I swear that all I can think about is kissing the fuck out of that mouth of hers.

  I can think of a hell of a lot of things I’d like to do to that mouth.

  “There’s not going to be any fucking,” she says. But the last word – fucking – comes out of her mouth in a moan, and the sound is so wanton, so desperate, that I almost lose my shit right here.

  I want to tear her fucking clothes off, right here in this alley. I want to rip her shirt off. I want to fuck her hard against the wall, with her legs wrapped around me, her tits in my face.

  I want Little Miss Do-Gooder, Miss Does Everything Right, to be mine in the filthiest way possible.

  14

  Belle

  “There might not be any fucking right now, luv,” he says. “But there will be. I can promise you that much.”

  I watch his mouth move – those lips of his that are so lush it's criminal – but for the life of me, I can’t hear what he’s saying. He touches me, lightly, his fingers rolling over my clit, sending waves of heat pulsing through my body, billowing over me so quickly I can’t think of anything except that I want him to touch me more.

  I want his hands all over my body.

  I want him inside me.

  I hear myself moan – a sound that's very nearly feral, embarrassing in its intensity – and I think he groans.

  Growls is more like it.

  Then he brings his mouth down on mine. It’s so hard, so fierce, that I nearly lose my breath, as his tongue seeks out and finds mine immediately. Without a second’s hesitation, he thrusts his fingers inside me.

  Pleasure washes over me, the feeling so intense it’s agonizing. It’s been so long since I was touched.

  And never like this, not the way Albie does, his fingers inside me, finding the most sensitive spot, pressing against it like he knows exactly what I want.

  What I need.

  Everything about this is wrong. In my head, I know that. Nothing good can come of this. Nothing good can come of my jeans hitched over my hips, of being pressed against the side of a building in a filthy alley, with my soon-to-be stepbrother’s fingers inside me.

  My manwhore stepbrother.

  The Crown Prince of Protrovia.

  Nothing about this is right. All it would take is one person to walk by, to glance down the alley and recognize him. All it would take is one photograph, and he would be ruined. I would be ruined. My mother would be destroyed.

  The thoughts flood my head, swimming around and momentarily distracting me from Albie's touch.

  Albie seems to sense the internal shift in me, and he pulls away to look at me, his fingers continuing to dance inside me, his movements sending pulse after pulse of pleasure through my body.

  "No words anymore, Belle?" he asks, his voice low. Guttural.

  "Words," I say stupidly. What were we talking about, before he slid his fingers inside me?

  Albie chuckles. "I like the speechless version of you," he says, his eyes trained on mine as he reaches underneath my t-shirt and cups my breast, the warmth of his hand enveloping me. He doesn't take off my bra, doesn't slide his hand under the fabric the way I desperately want him to do.

  My skin aches to feel his skin against mine, and I hate myself for wanting him the way that I want him right now. I curse my body for its obviousl