Owned By the Prince by Tristan Rivers
Chapter 9
Blair
Another minute, and it would’ve happened. Max’s deep, sexy voice in my ear, his big, callused hands restraining me so effortlessly. I was putty in those hands, ready to give him what no man has had before. I imagine what my friends back home would say if I told them I’d had sex with the Prince of Anglia. They’d say I was the luckiest girl in the world, of course. All of us had a teenage crush on him. Why didn’t you let go, give him what he wanted? I ask myself on my way back to my room.
Because I’m not being paid for sex is the answer. Too many girls back home were doing it, when we were as young as fifteen, being fucked by older guys for pocket money, cell phones, weed. Beer, for christsakes. I always promised myself I wouldn’t do it, no matter how tough things got. And then everything changed in my life, and having sex for money was something less fortunate girls did, not girls who got scholarships to one of the best schools in the whole country. Who got to study in Londis. Prostituting myself, even to Prince Max, would mean falling back into the dark hole of my past. And the voices would say—the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
I tear the dress off the moment I get inside my room, and take a pair of black skinny jeans and a black crepe T-shirt out of my suitcase. He said he didn’t need me again tonight, so there’s no reason why I should dress up. I feel comfortable back in my own clothes, but when I sit down at my work desk, loneliness washes over me. Without Max’s unsettling company, I have no one to talk to. I’m pretty much a prisoner in this room, having my meals brought to me, being summoned from time to time by my jailer.
You’ve just got to do this for a month, I remind myself. Clean his room, his kinky equipment, do everything you can to avoid getting your ass whupped. And at the end of it, you’ll be seven hundred thousand dollars better off.
A hot wave of shame floods my cheeks and chest. You don’t want to avoid getting your ass whupped, a little voice says. You liked it. A lot.
“I did,” I say aloud. Gods knows why, but I did. And I was disappointed that he didn’t punish me when I didn’t clean the room well enough.
I try to focus on my schoolwork for a couple of hours. It’s nice not having to go to my shift at the restaurant. The window in front of my desk looks out on an ornamental garden with a winding path cutting through it. It’s a great view, and I can tell that the sunset’s going to be real pretty. James brings the menu at seven-thirty p.m. and, feeling a little bolder this time, I quiz him about the ingredients of each dish, and he answers graciously. I start to wonder whether anything could ruffle him. If he walked in on me touching myself, he’d probably make out nothing was going on.
Twenty minutes later, my bowl of fettuccine with rocket, wild mushrooms, and truffle oil arrives, and I eat it while watching my favorite legal drama series on Netflix. After three episodes, I’m sleepy. I climb into the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in, and I’m out.
* * *
I awake naturallyat eight a.m. the next morning, having slept deeply. James knocks on my door at eight-fifteen a.m., and there’s the same routine with breakfast. At eight-forty-five a.m. I open my laptop, and I’m not at all surprised when my video caller starts beeping and the face of my macroeconomic theory lecturer appears on the screen. He’s also far more polite than normal, even asking if I need an extension on my next assignment. He tells me the university will send me live recordings of all the lectures I’m missing, and by the time we’re done, yesterday’s lectures are already in my inbox. Seriously. I can’t even imagine what Prince Max is doing to get these results from the college.
I watch the lectures half-heartedly. I’ve always been someone who learns better from reading than listening. I keep expecting Max to call and order me to his quarters, but I don’t hear from him all day. And I know I should be relieved, but there’s a tiny part of me that’s disappointed that I’m not being called upon to mop his bathroom floor or bend over his bondage bench.
Finally, when the sun is low in the sky, turning it hazy, Max calls.
“Fancy coming for a walk?” His tone is jaunty, full of enthusiasm.
“With Fariba?”
“Of course. Get changed into something comfortable, and I’ll go get her. I’ll meet you outside my room when you’re ready.”
I pull my old college sweatshirt out of the closet and put it on over my gray T-shirt and jeans. I shrug at my reflection. He did say comfortable.
I head to Max’s room, and he’s waiting with a very cute, mixed-breed dog. She’s gray and brown and medium sized with floppy ears and big, soft eyes. Watching me warily, she doesn’t come to me right away, so I squat down and hold out my hand. Little by little, she comes over and sniffs my hand before allowing me to stroke her head.
“She takes a while to warm up,” Max says. “But I can tell she likes you. She doesn’t normally let people touch her until she’s met them a few times.”
“I love dogs, and they usually like me back,” I say, straightening up.
He looks me up and down. “You look cute in that outfit.”
“Oh, it’s old.” I tug the sweatshirt down over my hips.
“It makes you look fresh, innocent.” He flashes me a nice smile, one I haven’t seen before.
We go outside, Max carrying some toys for throwing. The sun has set already, and dusk isn’t far away. “Does your whole family live here?” I ask.
“No. Just me. The rest of them—my mother, father, and younger brother—live in Berkshire Palace.”
“Pretty sweet you get this whole place to yourself.”
“I know. I’m very lucky,” he says without a lot of conviction.
“Are these all the palace grounds?” I ask as we walk across open grass toward a wooded area.
“Yes, there’s acres and acres. Enough space to forget we’re surrounded by electric fences and snipers.”
A chill shoots down my spine. “Snipers?”
He shrugs. “You get used to them after a while. It wouldn’t do for the seventh in line to the throne to be killed by some kind of maniac. Try to forget they’re here. When you live like I do, you’re observed every second of the day. If you start to focus on it, it’ll drive you crazy.”
I bite my lip. There are so many questions I want to ask him, but they all seem intrusive. Instead, I grab one of the toys, a glow-in-the-dark frisbee, and hurl it for Fariba. To her delight, it goes a long way, and she races for it like crazy.
“You have a pretty good throwing arm. Ever thought of being in the military?”
“Thanks, and no.” I laugh. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“I saw in the media— I mean—” I break off. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to seem like a gossip hound.”
He gives a deep, rumbling laugh. It’s a nice sound. “If you ever overstep the mark, I’ll tell you. So go ahead.”
“Is it true that you had to come back from Afghanistan after the media revealed your location?”
He exhales a long breath. “Yes,” he replies shortly, and I know I’ve stepped on a nerve. We’re both silent, me trying to figure out how to fix this. We enter a patch of dense woodland, and the light is failing fast.
He’s quiet for so long that when he starts to speak again, it’s startling. “I was mad as hell about it. I still am.”
I give him an encouraging glance, hoping he’ll say more, but I can’t make out his features very well. “You were enjoying the work?” I say eventually.
He sighs. “I was. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was doing something that really mattered. I mean, I believe in the role of the royal family in this country, and I’m happy to carry out my public duties—for the most part—but this was real. It was life and death. Protecting my country, keeping my men safe.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess everyone who has a salacious interest in your life is to blame for that.”
“No. It’s the media, and only the media,” he says in a hard voice.
Just then, I trip over a tree root that was invisible in the darkness. I go down hard, but he catches me at the last moment, easily drawing me into his arms and setting me on my feet again. “Okay?” His hands are on my shoulders, his face inches from mine, and I feel safe. Like he made his men feel safe. I sense, rather than see, his chin tilt toward me, but I don’t move, and the moment passes. We start walking again, my heart beating a little faster.
“Fariba!” he yells, his powerful voice echoing through the dark woods. There’s an answering yap, and she hurtles back, her eyes glowing. He bends down and strokes her vigorously as she pants, tongue hanging out. “Too much energy, this one,” he says. I smile, enjoying the affection the two of them have for each other.
We’re back on open grass again, and he throws the Frisbee for her, sending it whizzing into the darkness. He points to a tree stump. “Let’s sit down for a minute. I’m knackered.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I say with a laugh. “You must be in amazing shape.”
He makes a pffft sound. “I was. I completed the full special ops training before I went on active duty. To prove that I was worthy of being there, I didn’t just need to be as fit as the other guys, I needed to be twice as fit.”
“I can understand that mentality,” I say. My mind drifts to that time when I got the highest grade in my class, the highest grade that had ever been achieved at my school, but Gracie Fields got to be Valedictorian instead of me because her daddy was a foreman at the local agricultural plant, and she always wore nice dresses, whereas I didn’t have a daddy at all, and my clothes were hand-me-downs from family friends and relatives. The fact is, when people think of you as trailer trash, you’ve got to prove you’re two times as smart as they are.
His head turns toward me.
“As a woman,” I say quickly.
He nods. “What school are you at in the States?” he asks. When I reply, “Chicago. One of the best schools for studying economics,” he lets out a whistle. “And a very impressive woman you are, Blair.”
I shrug. If he knew the truth about me—that I’m not really Blair Kirkham, and I didn’t grow up with doting parents in a leafy Boston suburb, but Staycee Duckett, who grew up in a broken-down trailer—I wouldn’t even be here.
He asks me all about my childhood, what led to me getting my scholarship, and I lie effortlessly, telling the story I’ve told many times before. My mama is still my mama—fierce, loving, and always in my corner—but she’s a well-respected pediatrician. And my father is a distinguished legal academic who encouraged my passions and taught me all about history and the countries of the world. There’s one older brother, who was my partner in crime, and we grew up in a comfy home with a huge garden and two spaniels. I went to a small prep school, where I excelled, even among my illustrious classmates.
“Fascinating,” he says, and I wish, more than ever before, that it was real.
My throat prickles with emotion, and to distract myself, I ask, “Why did you call yourself Tig at the party?”
“Oh.” He laughs, ruffles his hair, and fleetingly looks like his teenage self. “It was a childhood nickname. My grandmother always called me Tigger, after the character in Winnie the Pooh, because I had so much energy. And even after she died, the name stuck, so some of my friends still call me that nowadays.”
“Your grandmother seemed like a lovely lady,” I say, seeing sadness in his eyes.
He nods. “She was. More fun and outspoken and energetic than you’d expect from the papers.”
“Is it weird talking to someone who knows things about you, but only via a third party?”
“It was at first, when I was in the army. But you—” He lays a hand on my knee. “You already know more about me than most people.” A little spark of surprise runs through me, settling in my chest, where it fizzes disconcertingly.
“How do you mean?”
He stiffens, caught by a thought he doesn’t share. “I-I don’t know what I meant!” he says and erupts into that loud laugh of his. “I guess, right now, I’m not a soldier, and I’m not in my public role. I’m just here with you.”
“But different from when you’re with your friends?”
“That’s kind of a public role, too. You ask some pretty damn incisive questions, you know that?”
“I’m sorry. I forgot myself,” I say in a sarcastic tone. He grins at me—fondly, I think. “I’ll stay on safe ground in future. What kind of movies do you like?”
“Movies?” He tilts his head. “You’re in Anglia now, Yankee-girl.”
“I’m sorry. Films. What films do you like?”
“Action mainly.”
“You’re such a guy.”
He grins. “Unapologetically so. I like scary films, too. But not horror. Proper spine-chilling ghost stories.”
“Me, too. The Shining is my favorite movie of all time.”
He nods approvingly.
“I like art house as well.”
“Chick flicks?”
“Nope. I can’t stand them.”
“I’m sure you love a good romantic comedy.”
“Probably as much as you do.”
“Come on, admit it. All girls do.” He bumps his shoulder against mine in a very familiar way.
“I do not!” I exclaim, and before I know it, I’ve retaliated, cuffing him playfully. I freeze, horrified. Is it not written into the laws of their country that one must not hit any members of the royal family? “I’m sorry,” I blurt out.
He gives a low growl in his throat. “You will be,” he says.
Suddenly, I’m no longer sitting on the tree stump, but lying on my back on the grass, Prince Max arching over me, pinning my wrists above my head. I gasp but then squint at him, trying to make out whether he’s mad. But it’s too dark. I wriggle, trying to get out of his grasp, but it’s like iron. He transfers both my wrists into one of his massive hands. And then he tickles me, all over my stomach and ribs. I yell out, giggling and trying to kick him, but his pelvis slides between my legs, his weight coming down on me, and my kicks are futile. And, oh god, this feels good. I become aware that something’s growing between us, steadily getting harder. My clit jolts, and there’s an ache deep inside.
He releases my wrists, and his callused fingertips run along my cheek.
“You’re incredible,” he whispers, and his mouth is on mine, lips soft and a little salty, his tongue probing into my mouth. It’s blissful and hot. I yield to him, my tongue dancing around his, tasting him, as waves of euphoria rush through my body. He places one hand below my head, cushioning it from the grass, and he kisses me more and more deeply, as if he wants to suck the soul out of my body. It’s the most erotic kiss of my life, and I never want it to end.
At long last, he pulls away. “I guess we should go inside before the snipers think I’m wrestling with an intruder.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed. “Seriously?”
He laughs. “Of course not. They’ve seen we’re together.”
“Of course. I knew that. I’m just not used to having sniper rifles trained on me.”
“They’re not trained on you. Come on.” He gets to his feet and pulls me up too.
To my surprise, he keeps his arm around me as we enter the palace. We don’t encounter any staff on the way. They seem to materialize when they’re needed and stay out of the way when they’re not. Convenient, if a little creepy.
Max takes me to his quarters, and I go happily. All I can think about is him kissing me again, that incredible, hard body pressed against my own. As soon as we’re inside, he throws himself onto the bed and pulls me on top of him. His fingers tangle in my hair as his lips burn on mine. “I want you, Blair,” he murmurs. “Not as my plaything, my hired help, but because I’ve never wanted anyone like this before.”
My breath catches. Does he really mean it? I don’t know. All I know is that I want him, bad. He pulls off my dorky sweatshirt, my T-shirt, and his hands cup my breasts through my lacy bra. I moan into his mouth, and a second later, my bra’s off too, expertly unfastened. He gazes at my breasts, his eyes filled with lust, before dipping his head and taking my nipples into his mouth, one at a time. He flicks his tongue over the tips before sucking hard on each one, and I rock my hips against him, seeking out the swell of his cock beneath his pants. It’s huge; I run my hand over it, and he groans. Shit, I’m wet. I need him inside me, need to satisfy that unbelievable ache.
“Stand up,” he commands, and I obey. He unbuttons my jeans and pushes them down, and I step out of them. Then he takes his time easing my panties off, exposing the narrow strip of dark hair and neatly shaved pussy. A wave of self-consciousness hits me as I stand there, fully naked. No man has seen me like this before. Still watching me, he strips his shirt off and reveals his—oh, god—ridiculously hot torso in all its glory. His skin is burnished brown, as if it’s ingrained with the desert sand, and it’s peppered with old bruises and healing wounds.
Prince Max lifts me in his arms, then drops me onto the bed and I fall, legs splayed, open to his gaze. His fingertips trace a path from my breasts, along my stomach, to the patch of hair, and when they find my clit, I give a long shudder. Slowly, his finger slides inside me and I cry out. It’s like liquid fire. He moves it in and out a little and waves of pleasure wash over me. He adds a second and pumps a little harder. It feels good, filling me up, almost too much to take.
“You’re so tight,” he breathes. “I love the way you grip me.”
I tug at his pants, nervous, but wanting him. He pulls back, strips them off, and his boxers, too. My eyes widen at the sight of his cock. It’s long and thick. Too big.
“I was planning on taking my time with you,” he murmurs, arching over me, kissing my mouth and then the side of my neck. “But I want you too bad, Blair. You’re so perfect and sexy.”
His cock bumps my inner thigh like a solid, unforgiving rod.
“Go slow,” I whisper in a sudden panic. “I’ve never done this before.”
He freezes, then his lips move away from my skin. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve never had sex before.”
His mouth opens and closes. “Really?”
“Yup. This is my first time.”
Emotions pass across his eyes like fast-moving clouds. “But the sex party—I mean, it never occurred to me that you might be a virgin.”
I shrug. “It was just an assignment. Genevieve asked if I was easily offended. I said no, and she sent me to work the party.”
“Wow.” He climbs off me and sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter. I just want you to know I can’t go all out. I need you to be a little gentle with me.”
“I’m sorry, Blair. I wouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine. I want to do this. I really do.”
“Someone as sexy as you,” he mumbles, as if he’s half talking to himself.
“Other things were more important than dating guys,” I say, speaking the truth, for once.
In a fast movement, he jumps off the bed, grabs my discarded clothes and presses them into my hands. “Please, get dressed. It’s better if you just go.”
“But—I don’t understand?”
“It’s not your fault. But just leave me.” He stands up and walks through the door into the next room. I watch him go, his cock semi-hard and a large bandage covering part of his right thigh. I get dressed fast, tears collecting in my eyes, and leave his quarters as quickly as I can.
