X: Command Me through Alexander's Eyes (Royals Saga) Page 6

  She takes this as well as can be expected. “You want to put me on display for all of London, but I’m not allowed to touch your abs? That hardly seems like a fair trade.”

  “I promise that you won’t feel that way by this afternoon,” I say. “I don’t think you’ll have any doubts about my generosity then. But you can say no now and leave. I’ll understand.”

  “I assume others have said no to this then?”

  “You know what they say about assumptions, Clara.”

  In fact, no woman has ever turned me down. I don’t really feel arguing this point further will get me back in her good graces.

  Instead, I cheat. Slipping my hand down, I find her clit and rub my thumb across it until her eyes close. “Perhaps I could convince you?”

  She’s either considering or toying with me, and I don’t care which so long as I’m touching her. Her breath picks up, each pant boosting my confidence.

  “You don’t have to tell me why,” she breathes. “Just tell me one thing—do you not take it off for throwaway fucks?”

  I can’t process her question. It nearly breaks my brain to try. I don’t even realize that I’ve stopped until she peeks up at me.

  “Throwaway fucks?” I repeat flatly. I get the gist of what she’s suggesting. I have no idea why she thinks so little of herself.

  “Girls like me,” she practically squeaks. “Girls you fuck and forget.”

  “I don’t like that term.” I don’t like her using it. “I’ve had casual sex before, Clara, but always with women who understood that’s what it was.”

  “We’ve never discussed it,” she says, looking a bit frightened. “Look, I’ve never had a fling. I don’t know how this goes. I’m usually a relationship girl, so help me understand. Do you keep your shirt on to keep your distance?”

  I bite back a groan of frustration. It’s all making sense now, and as usual, I’ve cocked things up. “I thought I made my intentions clear. I wasn’t under the impression this was a fling.”

  Clara’s eyes widen like a doe’s, and it occurs to me that maybe I’m the one getting the wrong idea. Why settle for snogging a prince if you can shag one? Why have a little fun when you can go temporarily mental and do something out of character? Because this is out of character for her. She’s made it clear, and I’ve been ignoring it.

  “Do you want a fling?” I force myself to ask.

  She stares for a moment. “I assumed...”

  “There’s that word again. I’m not interested in you as a throwaway fuck. Why would you think that?”

  “If it walks like a duck, and it talks like a duck.”

  “I think this is one time where you could use fuck in that statement.” I let go of the hand I’m still holding and push off her. “I don’t know what to do with you, Clara Bishop. I’ve been thinking about fucking you since I saw you in that tiny black dress at the party. When you said no to me at the club, I thought that was it, and then you changed your mind and agreed to a date.”

  “This is a date?” She starts like I’ve thrown cold water on her. I can only hope her body doesn’t have a similar reaction.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “The Royals really are fucked up.” She grins a little at me, and some weight lifts from my shoulders.

  “Don’t I know it?” My answering smile isn’t nearly as amused. “So did you expect flowers? The cinema?”

  “Usually, I expect a little more conversation on a date,” she says slowly.

  I try to see it through her eyes. What would a normal chap do? Pick her up and take her to dinner? Bring her those damned flowers? She deserves as much, and I’ve mocked her. “Maybe we should start over.”

  My cock disagrees with this assessment, and it takes effort to continue. Clara might deserve those things, but if she expects them, she will be disappointed. “I don’t court women. There wouldn’t be a point.”

  “But we’re on a date.” She sounds confused.

  “Dating and courting are two different things. You and I could go to dinner or to the country, or we could stay here and fuck. That’s dating to me. Courtship implies expectations. I don’t do romance, and I don’t do long-term. If you’re looking for more, I can’t give you that. What I can give you is pleasure. More pleasure than you’ve ever known in your life. I will spend every moment I have with you taking you to the edge and holding you as you spill over.” She squirms at my words, and I realize that’s what she wants. But it’s not as simple as her throwaway fuck implies, and she needs to know that. “Isn’t that what everyone is looking for when they go on dates? Why pretend we’re after something else? You’re attracted to me, and I’m attracted to you. I want to fuck you all day long, and then I’d like to see you again and fuck you again. Could you agree to that?”

  She bites her lip again, and I move without thinking, my body taking control of the situation. My cock is pressing against her entrance before I realize she hasn’t agreed.

  “Yes.”

  It’s enough. It’s what I need to hear.

  I kiss her before she can change her mind. Slipping my tongue against hers, I roll my hips until her legs fan open. One thrust and the argument would be over. She gasps, and I want to swallow her pleasure. Sucking her tongue languidly, I wonder how long I can make this last—how much more I can make her want me. I want her to forget her worries. I want to show her that my way means pleasure without the baggage of my family and title. I circle the crown of my cock against her clit until her nails clutch my shoulders. Then I slip inside her—barely.

  “I want you inside me.” Her voice is soft, but I hear her plea. She’s not begging. Yet. That will come. But that’s not the point. I push inside, her cunt clamping against me as her body arches into mine. It feels better than I ever imagined. It’s never been like this before. I have to remind myself to move. Holding her to me, wanting to feel her breasts brush against my shirt, I bring us to the edge, our eyes still locked together.

  She wants to look away—to close her eyes and fade into the safe and known.

  But I won’t let her. “Say my name.”

  “Alexander.” She’s panting now, her arms tightening around my shoulders.

  “Again.” I grab her hips and urge her hips against me harder and faster, meeting each movement with a thrust.

  “Alexander.” She comes with my name on her lips and her eyes on me like she’s been waiting her whole life to be given what she needed. I wait, wanting to give her that without taking my own pleasure. But her climax clenches against my cock and pushes me over. Digging my fingers into her hips, I empty inside her, already thinking of when I will take her again.

  I don’t know how it’s been with other men. I only know that this is the part where, in my experience, the girl stumbles off to the loo, and I don’t want Clara going anywhere. Wrapping my arms around her, I draw her to the bed and hold her against my chest. With her in my arms, my racing heart settles. I don’t know what to make of that, especially with her still breathing so heavily against me. I want her to feel the peace she’s given me, so I kiss her forehead. She relaxes instantly, folding into me with an ease I don’t deserve but finding myself wanting. Maybe I’ll always want her—want to fuck her, want to hold her, want to kiss her forehead.

  But a man like me doesn’t get stolen kisses and a woman who still blushes when she undresses. We don’t get always.

  Chapter Seven

  I lose myself in her. When all I want is to watch her fall over the edge again, it takes restraint to stop. Clara needs a break. Her body might be responsive, but she’s never been with a man like me. I can tell by how her teeth sink into her lower lip with every thrust, how her eyes roll back with every touch—she didn’t know it could feel this good. I aim to show her exactly how much she’s been missing, but there’s no need to rush. My self-control slips as she rolls out of bed, stretching against the wall like she’s just finished a rigorous work-out session. But she arches her back a bit too much, putting her perfect, round ass
on display. I want her again—the desire tears through me and escapes with a growl. She’s turning me into a goddamn caveman. When I spot the sly grin flash across her face, I realize she’s enjoying it.

  I consider lunging for her and dragging her back between the sheets.

  “I’m going to take a shower if you care to join me,” she says, her eyes sliding to the undershirt.

  It’s a nice tactic, but I’m well-versed in strategic maneuvers. Still… “Tempting, but I’m going to order room service. Any requests?”

  “I’m not picky.” She pauses, and I wonder what’s going on in that sexy brain of hers. “Actually, get some champagne.”

  “Your wish is my command.” Jumping up, I mean to head toward the phone, but her eyes linger on me. No doubt she appreciates that I don’t bother with pants. But I’m nothing compared to her, even if her gaze continues to follow me as I cross the room.

  Not that I mind the admiration. I just want to return it.

  She doesn’t look like a woman; she looks like a goddess with her glowing skin and her soft hair cascading over her shoulders. The makeup she’d so carefully applied is now smudged but somehow even sexier. She looks well-fucked, and I like it. If only every afternoon could be spent seeing to her sinful body, life might be worth living. As it is, our time is limited. I intend to make the most of it. Holding out a hand, she takes it with some apprehension. But all I want is to kiss her—to feel her against me—if only to remind me that she’s here and for now, she’s mine. My lips meet hers, and somehow it’s easier to ignore the primal urge to take her again. It doesn’t make sense. My cock isn’t usually so well-behaved. Instead, the taste of her kiss sends my heart racing. It seems my body is getting confused, so I pull back and avoid looking at her, instead smacking her bare ass.

  It’s all about perspective. We have an arrangement. “What would you say if I suggested you only wore that around me?”

  “I’m not wearing anything.” She sounds almost grateful for the redirection, and I catch myself wondering if she feels it, too.

  So much for perspective.

  I slip into the role I’m used to playing. Smirking, I charm her by being exactly what we need me to be.

  The playboy prince.

  The bad boy.

  Exactly what they say I am. What I’ll never escape.

  “Exactly,” I say. I really wouldn’t mind if she was nude all the time. I’d rather prefer it.

  “You’re a bit of a fiend, aren’t you?” She laughs, and now my cock takes notice.

  “I’ll show you just how much,” I reach for her. If she runs, it will give us space. If we wind up in bed, I’ll fuck her until I’m too numb to do whatever this is. It’s a win-win.

  She sidesteps me and backs toward the loo. “You promised me food and champagne.”

  It’s the right move to put space between us, but the less enjoyable one. Clara is smart. She’s not taking me for a ride. Well, not like other women I’ve known. She doesn’t want to play mind games or try to make me fall in love. She’s here for the sex. It’s refreshing.

  At least, it should be.

  “Food and champagne.” I focus on the task at hand, but I can’t help but drink her in one last time. “But then I’m going to have my way with you.”

  “Promise?” The question is hopeful, small, uncertain. I want to give her my answer now. No talk necessary.

  “I promise that you’re going to spend the rest of the afternoon screaming my name,” I tell her what she wants to hear.

  A momentary haze seems to descend over her, and she trips over her own feet. I catch her, and now she’s back in my arms, exactly where I want her. “You’re testing my resolve, poppet.”

  She stares up at me, blinking rapidly as if she’s processing this. Or trying too, at least. It only makes her more beguiling. Staring into her wide, gray eyes, I’m temporarily lost, drifting at sea. I force myself to take a beat.

  “Standing there, biting your lip, with your hair down. I give you ten seconds to get out of here, or I’m taking you back to bed.”

  Her squeal tests my resolve, and when the bathroom door shuts behind her, I consider following her. I would take off my shirt and lift her against the tiled wall, make love to her under the water, and screw these feelings out of my system. If she let me after she saw the truth—saw what I really am—what I hide beneath my clothes and beneath my skin. I let the wrong woman see once—a proud, angry, fearless woman. And when her eyes filled with pity, I became her nightmare.

  Clara would pity me, too. It’s her nature.

  “Order some goddamn food already,” I say under my breath as I hear the water turn on in the bathroom.

  The least I can do is feed her. But the moment I look at the menu, I realize I know very little about Clara Bishop. What if she doesn’t eat gluten or has a food allergy? It would be my luck to kill a beautiful woman with a peanut. I could go into the bathroom and ask, but I don’t trust myself to see her naked and wet. A man only has so much restraint.

  I settle my dilemma by ordering everything and a good bottle of Champagne. They assure me it will arrive swiftly. No one in the kitchen knows who is in this room, but they know what room is calling. Unfortunately, impending room service demands clothing.

  As it turns out, waiting is boring—and made harder by knowing Clara is nearby. I haven’t had enough time with my new toy yet. I want to play with her, discover every little sound she makes.

  She fought me earlier, and it had only turned me on. I tell myself I would have stopped. I was raised a gentleman, after all—but I can’t ignore how her protest made my cock ache to fill her. It’s fucking sick. I know it. She deserves better. A nice barrister or doctor who’s in touch with his feminine side and never thinks about silencing her with his body. I’m building her ideal man, turning it into some perverse psychological torture when the food arrives.

  The staffer is older and only barely betrays that he recognizes me as he wheels the cart inside. He’s probably attended to rock stars and diplomats and god knows who else, but being the prince of England carries a caché that can’t be matched.

  “Sir?” he asks as though he’s talking to any guest, and I motion for him to leave it by the chair. Peeling a few bills from my wallet, I tip him for his discretion. It’s the strict standards that set the Westminster Royal apart.

  I resume my musings on how much better Clara will be when she moves on, deciding that she might be better served as a career woman.

  Clara appears in the hotel robe, which is a bit of a disappointment. Although, if she’d come without it, she might end up never getting fed. She’s even more beautiful with her hair piled on top of her head. She looks at ease—comfortable.

  “Did you order everything on the menu?” she asks, taking in the array of dishes that take up both the top of the cart and the shelf underneath it.

  “Personally, I worked up an appetite,” I shrug as if this is a normal amount of food, “but if you need to work on your own, I still want to screw you against that window.”

  She holds up a hand in protest. “Stop. I’m famished, but maybe after?”

  That can be arranged. I like taking care of her in every way that I can. “You continue to surprise me, Clara Bishop. One minute you’re running away from me, and the next—”

  “You have my panties off in a lift?” she interrupts. “Be honest, this isn’t the first time a girl has dropped her knickers for you.”

  “Well, no.” I can’t lie. “But you hardly dropped them. That reminds me that I need to buy you another pair.”

  She pretends to not care, but her eyes hood slightly. She enjoyed having them ripped off. I’ll buy her another pair just so I can see that reaction again. I stashed the ruined pair in my suit jacket. It may be a tawdry souvenir, but I’ll know where to find them. Then again, I might prefer she leave that sweet cunt bare. She seems to guess what I’m thinking and heads toward the room service cart with renewed purpose. Her eyebrows shoot up when she lifts
the lid on the first dish and discovers hamburgers.

  “I hope it’s okay.” I can’t help but join her, suddenly hungry myself. But rather than reaching for the food, my hands find her hips. There’s only one thing here that can satisfy me. “You aren’t a vegan or something? I haven’t mortally offended you?”

  I’m about to tell her there’s a salad here somewhere. Chicken. Caviar, I think. Clara twists in my arms before I can.

  “It’s fine,” she reassures me. “I love meat.”

  My cock responds to her Freudian slip with petulance. Apparently, Clara is determined to turn me into a sex fiend.

  “Tell me more,” I tease.

  “After we eat.” She pulls away, and I let her go. Clara grabs a plate without bothering to check the other offerings. “I had no idea the royal family ate things like hamburgers.”

  “Oh yes, usually it’s only crown roast and leg of lamb and mint jelly.” It’s meant as a joke, but it comes out bitter. There are some subjects that I can’t take lightly, even if I’d like to. “Actually, my family dinners are terrible. Stiff. Too many courses. Too many forks. Someone’s always picking a fight, usually me. Maybe that’s why I skip so many of them.”

  Clara swallows hard, studying me for a moment. Her hand’s frozen mid-air. Then she shakes it off. “I can relate to that.”

  “Ah yes. Your parents are web entrepreneurs,” I say. “Lots of dinners alone?”

  Her eyebrow arches into a question mark. “Checking up on me?”

  “I was interested, and if I have to spend my whole life in the public eye, I might as well enjoy the perks of my position.” I take a seat next to her, wondering how she’ll take this. Surely, she can’t have expected me not to look her up. How did she think I’d found her? She hadn’t left a glass slipper.

  “Translation: it’s okay for you to spy on me.”

  I laugh off the accusation, not wanting her to know she’s right. “It was not nearly so clandestine. You probably learned more about me on the internet than I did from MI5 files.”

  “I have an MI5 file?”