Vicious Prince (Royal Elite #5) by Rina Kent

Of their own accord, my fingers hover over the Instagram app. I don’t even use Instagram — or any social media, for that matter — but the other day, I made an account. It has zero followers, is following one, and lacks any profile picture.

The only reason I started it was to see what he posts in my quest to read him.

Ronan’s Instagram is a translation of his bubbly, energetic personality. It’s filled with pictures of him and his friends half-naked. Most of the shots are in pools with bikini-clad girls, and he always showcases that signature sickening smile.

A smile that hides more than it shows.

I hover over a picture of him from the side taken without his notice. It’s after one of the games and he’s wearing the team’s blue uniform. The stadium’s lights shine on him as he throws his head back in deep, radiant laughter that glows on his entire face.

How can he fake that? Even I fell for it, and I don’t understand human emotions all that much.

How could someone be so carefree and yet bottling up so much inside?

It doesn’t make sense.

Either you’re on this side or that — it can’t be both.

I scroll down below and find a picture of him leaning down to hug his mother’s shoulder. She’s smiling at the camera, and his grin in this one is almost too boyish, softer than the others.

The caption says: Her ladyship. A woman after my own heart.

Interesting. I keep that information for later use.

I’m about to exit when he posts a picture. I click on the notification so fast I’m scared I actually alert him to my presence.

It’s a selfie of him lying on a bed, half-naked as usual, as he places a hand on his stomach — the same stomach I wrapped my legs around not long ago. The same stomach I rubbed myself on so he’d release me while having a crazy thought of What if he doesn’t?

The caption says: In the mood for some debauchery.

Swallowing, I click on the picture to study his messed-up hair and the slight smile on his face.

It’s like we’re still in that room. He’s pinning my wrists against the wall as my nipples brush against his naked chest and my core is sticky with arousal on his stomach.

My hand snakes under my pyjama shorts and cotton underwear to find my folds — my wet folds.

It’s still such a weird sensation to be wet. I have a toy and I touch myself, but it’s felt so bland, so uninteresting, even, that I started to wonder if I’m somehow asexual.

Right now, though? As I stare at his face, at his hand on his stomach where I was not long ago, there’s no asexuality whatsoever.

I rub my fingers over my clit and my lids flutter closed. Rich brown eyes invade my thoughts, and I moan then hide my face in my pillow to muffle the sound.

He’s gripping me by the wrists, pinning me, making me helpless as he dry-humps me over and over again.

He’s kissing me hard and fast and he’s touching me, flicking my clit, twisting my nipple —

I come.

I don’t even know how it happens, but my body shakes and I free-fall into a feeling so addictive I want to restart all over again.

My eyes snap open, and I find his face in that picture.

What the hell is he doing to me? Why am I letting him?

I pull my hand from between my sticky legs, feeling disgusted that I let him, a pawn, get to me this way.

He won’t.

Absolutely won’t.

I start to tuck the phone away then notice I clicked like.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

I remove it immediately. He probably receives a thousand notifications, so surely he didn’t notice it.

Just when I’m about to throw my phone to the ground, it vibrates with a text. I startle, my heart nearly jumping into my throat when I make out his name.

Ronan: Hey, stalker *winking emoji*

He noticed. Oh, god, he noticed.

What is wrong with me today?

But fuck him, really. I won’t reply.

When I ignore his text, he sends another.

Ronan: How-about-no98 is an interesting username, by the way.

I glare at the phone as if I can wrench him out of it and punch him in the face.

Ronan: Also, your scratch still hurts. Want to come kiss it better?

Teal: I should’ve scratched you harder.

I curse myself as I hit Send. Why the hell am I even indulging him? I broke so many of my patterns today, and it’s all because of him. I should stay the hell away from him to avoid any other disaster.

Ronan: Pain. Yum.

My legs clench, and the orgasm from earlier feels like it’s rising to the surface all over again. Just how can he elicit this reaction from me?

But if he thinks he can get me out of my element and receive no retaliation, he has another thing coming.

Teal: You’re not my type. Get over yourself.

Ronan: And what’s your type, ma belle?

Teal: My type is at least fifteen years older, experienced, and doesn’t smile the entire time like a gigolo on crack. In short, not you.

I feel a weight slide off my chest as I send that text. I needed to remind myself of that fact as much as letting him know, because that’s what’s bothering me about the whole thing — the fact that he, someone not even close to being my type, is invading my thoughts this much.

There’s a long pause before he sends his next text.

Ronan: And yet you came when I only touched your tits.

Teal: That’s because I didn’t know it was you.