Her Bodyguard Page 3

  like this is enough for my needs, although I make a mental note to rent something small out in town, away from the palace. It never hurts to have an escape plan. That's always been my motto and something that's served me well my whole life, but especially in the Marines.

  If the princess keeps taking her clothes off in front of me, I'm going to need a damned escape plan. I can't imagine that thinking about the king's daughter that way is going to end well.

  I lean against the bedroom door, exhaling heavily at the thought of the princess dancing like she was on top of the bar tonight, her hips swaying and that look in her eyes. She was trying to wind me up with the dance, that much was clear.

  Hell, I'm pretty sure she was trying to wind me up the whole night.

  My cock twitches, a reminder that she most definitely succeeded.

  I don't know a normal red-blooded male who wouldn't have gotten hard just looking at the display she put on tonight. But I'm not a normal red-blooded male, either. I always stay in control – another trait that's always served me well. I'm not a person who loses control, and tonight I lost control.

  I shouldn't have picked her up and carried her out of the club. The fact that I did that might have cost me my job. But hell, I didn't want to just stand there watching her dance like that with every guy in the room looking at her.

  My cock strains against the zipper of my pants just thinking about her. Self-control seems to be a trait I don't presently possess.

  Unzipping, I wrap my hand around my hard cock. Pre-cum drips from the tip like it's a damn faucet. Instead of going to bed and getting to sleep on schedule the way I should – the way I would if I had any semblance of self-control – I'm in here jerking off because I'm too wound up to do anything else.

  I can't shake the image of her on that bar, her expression as she looked down at me. Or her pulling off her shirt in her room and walking away, like she was daring me to come after her.

  I'd never do that. I'd never jeopardize my position here, or the income that's going straight back to support my parents.

  Except in my fantasy.

  In my fantasy, she's standing right here, leaning back against the wall wearing a dress pulled high on her creamy white thighs and nothing underneath. In my fantasy, when I slide my fingers between her legs, she's wet. I bring my fingers to my mouth, her wetness sparkling on the tips like the small fortune in jewelry she wears around her neck. When I touch them to my tongue, it's better than anything I've ever tasted.

  She arches her back, her shoulders against the wall and a mixture of lust and defiance in her eyes, an expression that's becoming all too familiar coming from her. "Taste yourself," I whisper, putting my fingers to her lips. I tease her lower lip, and she opens for me, sucking me seductively the way she would if her lips were around my cock.

  Fuck, I want this girl's perfectly painted royal lips wrapped around me. I want to come in an explosion inside that royal mouth. I want her to look up at me with those wide eyes and swallow everything I give her.

  "On your knees, princess," I growl, my tone harsh, but only because I'm already so close to coming.

  She smirks and arches her eyebrow like she's amused that I dare order her around. "Do you really think the Princess of Protrovia is going to get on her knees in the middle of my bodyguard's bunkroom?"

  "I do," I whisper softly into her ear, taking pleasure when she turns her head toward me, visibly squirming as I speak. She writhes when I slide my palm over her inner thigh, my fingers finding their way back between her legs. She's so wet, and when I press my fingertips to her clit, she lets out a little whimper. Soon, the cadence of her breath changes, becoming shorter until it sounds more like panting than breathing. Her clit swells, and despite how badly I want to take it in my mouth, I don't, because that would be too easy.

  Giving in to her would be too easy, and Princess Alexandra doesn't do easy. Anything with her should be difficult as hell.

  So I bring her to the edge, my eyes never leaving hers as I stroke her. Her eyelids fall halfway closed and her breasts move up and down as she breathes in and out, and then I … stop.

  A look of confusion passes over her face. "What are you doing?" she asks, her voice practically a whine.

  I don't answer. I reach for her hair, beyond caring that I'm destroying several hours' worth of work by the royal hairdresser who created this hairstyle that goes perfectly with her dress. I completely ruin it. I angle her face upward until her lips nearly touch mine, but I don't kiss her. I want her lips for another purpose.

  "I told you – on your knees," I growl. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

  Hell, I've been fantasizing about it since the day I met her. My cock twitches its response, my hardness agonizing.

  "I don't get on my knees for anyone."

  "Don't forget who you're talking to, princess," I whisper. She inhales sharply, and I know I'm giving her exactly what she wants. "I know you. Don't try to deny you're soaking wet at the very thought of dropping to your knees so I can fuck that pretty little mouth of yours."

  When she gasps, the sound echoes off the walls. "This dress is worth more than your monthly salary," she protests, indignant. "I'm not getting on my knees in it."

  "Most likely," I agree. Gripping the bottom of the fabric and tear it, right up the middle. "But now it's torn."

  Alex looks at me long and hard, and for a minute, I think she's going to slap me. That's exactly what I'd deserve; hell, I deserve much worse than that for how far I've already gone with her.

  But she doesn't slap me. Her eyes narrow and her hand goes to my chest. My cock swells at her touch, even though her hand is nowhere near it. Her palm lingering, she keeps her eyes on me as she drops.

  To. Her. Knees.

  I wrap my fingers in her hair, gripping tightly as she falls to the ground. Then she's kneeling, looking up at me with large eyes that are clouded with lust and the sudden willingness to bend for me.

  She runs her tongue over her lips as she unbuckles my pants, and as she wraps her hand around me, I let out a long groan. It takes everything I have not to come all over her face right now.

  I'm being careless, out-of-control, and entirely reckless with her. Yet, I don't care.

  Here in my room, I stroke myself faster, the image of Alexandra on her knees with her mouth open and her tongue out almost more than I can take.

  She looks at me approvingly before guiding the tip of my dick into her mouth. As she wraps her lips around me, she moans, a long and low sound like she's been eagerly waiting for me.

  I can't wait any longer. I fuck her mouth like I intend to fuck her pussy, and definitely not like she's a princess.

  I know by the way she groans her encouragement, with one hand caressing my balls as she takes me in deeper and deeper, she doesn't want me to treat her like a princess.

  She likes it like this.

  In the bunkroom, I let out a long groan, beyond caring that any of the staff in either of the adjoining rooms might hear me. The image of Alexandra's wide eyes looking up at me, her ruby lips wrapped around my shaft, pushes me over the edge and I come hard. When I'm finished, I'm breathing like I've just run a damn marathon.

  I've never gotten this worked up thinking about a woman I've only just met. She's gotten under my skin, and that's dangerous in this job – if I still have this job tomorrow.

  I need to get this under control.

  6

  Alexandra

  "I've already decided, Alexandra. I won't hear another word about it." My father looks at me sternly, his voice firm. He's in one of those moods where it does absolutely no good to argue, but I protest anyhow. The very idea that my bodyguard can tell me what to do and where to go is insane. I'm a grown-ass woman.

  "It's completely ridiculous," I argue. "I'm twenty-one years old. I'm not a child, Father."

  "Then stop acting like one," he bellows, his voice booming through the room. The fact that he's yelling catches me by surprise; my father hardly ever raises his voice. Even when we were kids and Albie and I seemed to get into mischief on an hourly basis, he stayed relatively calm.

  It's all her fault, the new girlfriend. Excuse me – the new fiancée. He came back from a weekend with her and sprung the engagement on Albie and I yesterday like it was good news. Today, he's suddenly an involved parent, trying to enforce rules and boundaries like I'm a teenager again.

  "Stop trying to impress your fiancée." I practically spit the word, totally not cool with the fact that he's remarrying, despite how my father clearly expects Albie and I to think that this whole thing is no big deal at all.

  "That's enough, Alexandra," he says sharply, but I seem to be unable to stop talking. I plunge headlong forward, despite knowing that it's not going to get me anywhere. It's only going to make things worse.

  "I'm an adult, and I'll go where I want and do what I want, Father," I argue, my words coming out faster and faster, a torrent of frustration. "My bodyguards have no right to pull me out of a club –"

  "That will be enough, Alexandra!" my father yells. Then he stops abruptly, clearing his throat as Sofia opens the door.

  I couldn't despise her more than I do right now. Instead of being annoyed with the interruption, my father looks positively relieved by it. Sofia stands just inside the doorway, her hands clasped at her waist. My father is too busy looking at her like a schoolboy with a crush to notice she's not even trying to hide the fact that she's looking at me with disgust, her nose wrinkled like she's just smelled something bad.

  I'm suddenly self-conscious in my outfit – torn jeans and t-shirt and combat boots. So what? In an instant, I feel like an awkward kid about to be scolded, and the fact that I feel like that makes me angry.

  I glare at her, daring her to say one damned word about what I'm wearing, and hoping it's crystal clear what I'm thinking without me having to say anything: It's clear both of us are displeased with this entire arrangement, lady. I don't want you to be my new step-mother, just as much as you don't want me for your daughter.

  "Your father and I were just discussing how careful we need to be with the media, Alexandra," she starts.

  I bristle at her use of my full name. She's definitely not allowed to call me Alexandra; only my parents call me that. "Don't call me that."

  "Alexandra," my father growls.

  I'm too angry to have a rational discussion about any of this. My chest feels tight and my head is swimming. I can't believe he brought her into a private discussion about my life – or that she has the audacity to start lecturing me about the media. She's a nobody from America who hasn't had to deal with her entire life being in the public eye. "Spend twenty years in the spotlight," I recommend. "Then talk to me about being careful with the media."

  "The bodyguard stays, Alexandra," my father declares sharply, cutting me off. "He stays. And your security detail has the final say on whether a location you go to is safe or not."

  "So my bodyguards are my new babysitters?!" I ask, looking back and forth between them in disbelief.

  "Don't think of them as your babysitters," Sofia suggests brightly. "Think of them as your personal image rehabilitators."

  My personal image rehabilitators.

  I blink at my father. I think I might actually have to pick my jaw up off the floor. "Now you're saying that my image needs rehabilitation?" I ask. "It's been good enough for twenty-one years, but now that Sofia Kensington has declared that it needs changing, I suddenly require babysitters?"

  My father's face reddens. "I'm not saying that you're not good enough –"

  Sofia smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes, causing her expression to seem even more fake. "Of course we're not saying that, Alexandra," she says, using my full name again. That definitely has to be intentional. "When we announce the wedding plans, we don't want the royal family to already be the target of negative press."

  "The wedding plans??" I ask, my stomach sinking. My father only just told us that he was even considering marrying the woman; now suddenly we're moving on to public announcements of wedding dates?!

  My breath catches in my throat, and the room swims. I need to get out of here. The last thing on earth I want is for either of them to see me cry. The last time I cried was at my mother's funeral, and I'm definitely on the verge of tears right now. I clench my fists at my side and swallow hard, trying to quell the discomfort growing in my chest that threatens to completely overwhelm me.

  "You must consider your public behavior," my father goes on, oblivious to how upset I am.

  "And if I don't?" I choke out the words, but only barely. My throat feels like it's closing up – not because I'm being told how to behave, but because I'm being told how to behave by a woman who's suddenly appeared in my life out of nowhere, trying to act like my mother.

  As if anyone could replace her.

  My father pauses, looking at Sofia again, and that's when I realize they've talked about all of this already. They've had discussions about how best to deal with me, the way he and my mother would have, if she were still alive.

  I can't breathe. The room tilts to the side, my head dizzy, and before I can faint, I spin around, bursting out of the doors. The new bodyguard stands in the hallway looking at me, his gaze hard. He's as emotionless as one of the guards at Buckingham palace, and I hate him for that.

  Any other day, that's how I would be too, with nothing getting to me.

  Any other day, except this one.

  I don't even have a moment to feel angry at him the way I should for maneuvering himself into a position of authority over me, because every other feeling is eclipsed by how I feel about my father and his soon-to-be-bride.

  So I rush headlong past Max, hardly able to catch my breath as I head straight for my room.

  "Shit, Alex. What's going on?" Albie catches me, his hands on my arms, as I run straight into him rounding the corner to my room, but I push him away, shutting the door behind me.

  I don't want to see him or anyone else. Not now.

  7

  Max

  "What's going on?" Prince Albert asks, his voice low. "I haven't seen Alex that upset in a long time."

  "She just came out of a meeting with your father," I tell him.

  Even though I moved to the other side of the hallway, it was practically impossible not to hear him yelling at her in the room, but I don't tell Albie that. The way the princess looked when she burst out of the room, like she was either about to cry or hyperventilate, said it all.

  For whatever reason, even though I barely know her, I feel protective of her. So I'm not about to share with Albie what I overheard.

  That being said, I have to admit that I'm relieved Albie showed up in the hallway a moment ago, because if the girl started crying, I'm not sure what the hell I would have done. Give me a a hundred Marines to command or hand me a weapon and tell me to clear houses, and I'm fine. Give me a crying woman to handle and my stomach twists into knots.

  Albie groans. "I'm sure that went well."

  "It went probably about as well as you'd expect."

  Albie sighs. "My sister is difficult."

  "Yes, I'm getting that," I acknowledge. "Some warning about that fact might have been useful."

  "You're a smart person. Did you think I would have flown all the way to America to recruit you for an easy position?"

  "Let me just note that after I saved your life, putting me in charge of your sister is how you repay me."

  Albie grins and claps me on the arm. "You're a good friend. You're the only one I can trust to handle my sister."

  I laugh under my breath. "I don't think anyone handles your sister."

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