Prince Albert (A Step-Brother Romance #4)

PRINCE ALBERT SHOWS OFF HIS PRINCE ALBERT!



ROYAL DICK EXPOSED! GET THE UNCENSORED PHOTOS THE ROYAL FAMILY DOESN’T WANT YOU TO SEE!



It only made him more popular with the press. But not with his father, apparently. The next major magazine articles, two months later, announced that Albie would be doing his “royal duty” and serving in the army.

The royal dick…

I refrained from searching for the uncensored versions of the photos, even though even now the thought sends a surge of heat flowing through my body that’s so intense it nearly takes my breath away.

I blame my stupid, traitorous body for thinking Albie is hot. Because more importantly, he's a pretentious, arrogant dickhead.

If you don’t want to stick around for the fireworks this summer…

I can’t stick around here for the summer, pretending to be a princess.

I don’t want to stick around here for the summer. Not under the same roof as Albie.

That night in Vegas, when we were driving around in the limo, Albie didn’t touch me. Not once.

He didn’t have to. The things that came out of his mouth – just like the things he said to me in the hallway yesterday – were enough to leave me practically writhing.

I told myself it was because I hadn’t been with anyone but Derek twice in the past two years, during visits at Christmas. Not even when I saw Derek when I came home from Africa, right before the Vegas trip.

I should have known things were over when I saw him. A reasonable person would have realized it -- in retrospect, it seems obvious. He said he was too stressed out because of a big case at the firm.

So it’s been a while.

It’s been forever.

I told myself that was why I was practically crawling out of my skin when I was sitting in the back of that limo with Albie. And when he kissed me…

“You may kiss this hunk-a…,” Fake Elvis’ voice seems to fade into the background as I look at Albie, trying to stifle my giggle.

Albie steps close to me, and I breathe in sharply at his proximity. Even through my tequila haze, I’ve never seen any man more beautiful than this one. “It was just a dare,” I say, my voice soft. “We don’t have to –“

He cuts me off before I can speak another word, his arm sliding across my lower back and drawing me to him in one swift, hard movement. When he brings his mouth down on mine, the world stops. Everything in the universe pauses.

I’ve never been kissed the way he kisses me. He kisses me with an intensity that takes my breath away, his tongue finding mine hungrily, and I melt against him.

It’s the kind of kiss that demands more.

It’s the kind of kiss that demands everything.

I think I let out a moan that is completely inappropriate for a wedding chapel, even one in Vegas with an Elvis impersonator. The fact that I’m so swept away by Albie sends a pang of fear through me, and I break away. I look at him, my fingers touching my lips, still swollen from his kiss.

“Just a dare,” I repeat.

But the way my hands tremble, the way this kiss has shaken me to my core, says it’s not as simple as just a dare.

I shake off the memory. I try to shake off the feeling it leaves with me, the goose bumps that dot my arms at the thought of his lips pressed against mine, his tongue finding my tongue. I try to forget the thrill that rushed through me at his touch.

He was deceptive. He could have told me he was a prince.

He’s a playboy.

He’s definitely no good.

And he’s my new stepbrother. That fact alone makes him off-limits.

I can still feel his lips against mine. How fucked up is that?

It’s even more reason for me to leave.

The knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts and I jump, immediately feeling guilty for sitting here thinking of Albie the way I’ve been thinking about him. I clear my throat. “Yes?”

I swear to all that is holy, if it’s Albie at the door, I’ll kill him. He seems to have a way of turning up at the most inopportune times, and an uncanny knack for being able to read my thoughts.

And the thoughts I’ve been having about him are certainly not ones I want read.

“Are you going to hide out in here all summer, or what?” Alexandra stands just inside the doorway, her hand on her hip, glaring at me. She’s still dressed in her t-shirt and jeans, and she twirls a piece of jet-black hair, laced with colored strands – pink and lime green – around her fingers as she surveys me.

“I was thinking that might be nice,” I say. “At least until I find my passport.”

“You’re going to leave?” she asks. She sounds simultaneously accusing and disappointed, and I don’t know what to make of her. I’m not sure if she wants to be friends with me, or if she hates me on sight.