Her Bodyguard Read online

  rack, or on the runway, but on her is looks like sex. She looks like sex.

  And she’s sitting there, her legs crossed, looking up at me.

  Should we finish what we started?

  I send the text, waiting for her to beckon me down and beg me to take her up against the piano. Or on top of the piano.

  I want to lay her back across the lacquered surface of the grand piano, spread her legs, and devour her.

  Depends. Are you asking nicely? Are you saying please?

  The text makes me laugh. Even now, she’s refusing to bend. It’s such a small thing.

  I shake my head, knowing that she can see the gesture from where she sits. When I call her, she answers, her voice breathy. “Ask me to come down and join you,” I say.

  She just laughs. “No.”

  “You’re stubborn.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t be?” she asks.

  “I think you want me to touch you,” I say. “I think that you want me to spread your legs, spread you out right there on the piano, and lick you until you come.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her breath catch in her throat and then she exhales heavily. From the window, I watch as she moves, just slightly, her legs parting so that the red material falls down between her thighs. She’s a tease, obscuring what she knows I want to see.

  “Are you wearing panties tonight?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer. She looks to the side, glancing toward the door like she’s afraid of someone walking in, even though most of the staff and guests are far away on the other side of the palace right now.

  Then she shows me she’s wearing nothing underneath that dress of hers. She pushes the fabric to the side, spreading her legs for me on the piano bench, and she’s completely bare.

  Completely and totally bare.

  And the expression on her face, the sly smile, says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me right now.

  As if my raging hard-on wouldn’t be obvious from a mile away.

  “I want you to touch yourself,” I say. There’s nothing in my voice that leaves room for discussion.

  She doesn’t argue, doesn’t say a word, but I can hear her breath get shorter on the phone, and she listens.

  For once.

  I watch as she slides her fingers slowly between her legs, then pauses. “Don’t stop,” I tell her.

  “I’ve never done this in front of someone,” she says, her voice a whisper, so low I can barely hear it.

  The fact that she’s on display, right in the music room, with her legs spread open, is enough to make me hard as a fucking rock. But the fact that she’s never touched herself in front of anyone before is enough to make me insane.

  “You’re going to make yourself come in front of me,” I say, my voice gruff. “Right here.”

  “I’m not sure I can,” she protests.

  “You’re the one who set this up, luv,” I say. “You had me meet you here. Now, stop being coy. Spread your legs so I can see you.”

  She looks up at me in the window, the phone to her ear. For a second, I think she’s going to close her legs, stand up, and walk out of the room.

  But she doesn’t. She spreads her legs wider. When the fabric of her dress falls between her legs, momentarily covering her, she pulls it up farther on her thighs, suddenly less timid.

  “Slide your fingers over your clit,” I tell her, my voice low, watching as she obeys. Her eyelids fall closed, the phone still at her ear, as she touches herself.

  She’s like a fucking piece of art, spread out on the piano the way she is, in that red dress that’s practically obscene, her legs open.

  Touching herself for me.

  “Are you wet?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  Her breath comes in short pants, and I repeat myself. “Tell me, Belle.”

  “Yes,” she says. “I’m wet.”

  “Is this how you touch yourself when you’re alone?”

  “No,” she whispers, her voice breathy.

  I will my hand to remain where it is on the cell phone, my other hand on the window, my fingers pressed lightly up against the glass. I will my hands to remain where they are, no matter how much I want to unbutton my pants, draw out my cock, and run my hand down the length of it while she touches herself.

  I’ll remain in control.

  “Show me what you do when you’re alone, Belle,” I say. “Touch yourself the way you do when you’re alone. When you’re thinking about me.”

  “I don’t –“ she starts to say, but stops.

  “I know you think about me, Belle,” I say. “You think about me sliding my fingers inside your wet pussy, the way I did that afternoon, don’t you?”

  She doesn’t answer, but I watch as she draws her hand away from her clit, spreading her legs open wider as she slides her fingers inside herself until her palm is pressed flat against her mound.

  Fuck, this girl is going to give me a heart attack. I can already picture the headlines:

  Prince Drops Dead in Royal Observatory, Pants Around His Ankles, Cock in Hand.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking about, Belle,” I say, as her eyes close. Her mouth falls open, tongue running along her lower lip, and all I can think about is what I’d like to put in that smart little mouth of hers.

  “You,” she whispers. “I’m thinking about you.”

  “Tell me, Belle,” I say. “Are you thinking about my fingers sliding in and out of your slick pussy?”

  “Yes,” she says. Her hips buck against her palm as she fucks herself with her hand, tossing her hair back as she closes her eyes, no longer caring if I’m here or not. I watch her as she loses her inhibitions more, giving herself over to pleasure, her chest heaving as her hand moves faster.

  “But you don’t really want that, do you, luv?” I ask. “You want more, don’t you? You want my cock inside you, filling you up.”

  “I want…” her voice trails off as she bites the side of her lip.

  “Say it,” I order. “Say you want my cock inside you. Tell me how much you want me to bend you over that piano, to pull that dress of yours up around your waist and fuck you until you come around me. You want to feel my bare cock inside you, pressed against you until you can’t hold out, until you come and you’re milking me of everything I have.”

  She drops the phone, and it clatters on the marble floor, spinning in circles. But she doesn’t seem to notice.

  My eyes stay fixed on her face as she brings herself to the edge. I’m transfixed, watching her expression. Her breasts heave as her breath comes shorter and shorter. Then, at the last moment, she opens her eyes, and looks straight into mine.

  And she comes.

  Her lips, painted red to match her dress, form a perfect “O”. Her head back, hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyes wide open and meeting my gaze, she comes. I can hear her on the phone, the small moan she allows herself, still in control at the very last.

  I want to rip that control from her.

  I want to make her scream. I want my name on her lips. I want it to be my name she moans when she comes.

  I want that more than anything.

  When she's finally finished, she slides off the piano and picks up the phone. Putting it against her ear, she doesn't speak. I hear her breath, short gasps as she comes down from her orgasm. “You never said it,” I tell her.

  “Said what?”

  "Please."

  “I already told you,” she says. “I’m not going to beg.”

  73

  Belle

  It’s the big night – the night of my mother and King Leopold’s engagement party. Next week, we’ll head north to the summer estate, where we’ll be shielded from much of the media flurry that will inevitably follow the official engagement announcement.

  We’ll go to the summerhouse.

  Suddenly, I’m including myself in the future royal plans, as if I'm staying for the summer.

  Who am I kidding? Last night