Prince Albert (A Step-Brother Romance #4)

“Yeah, right,” she says, laughing. “You noticed. She’s your new stepsister, in case you haven’t figured that out. That means you need to keep your dick in your pants.”


“That’s a phrase I could do without ever hearing come out of your mouth again,” I say. “You might want to go put on something that isn’t jeans. Maybe consider buttering our father up a little bit by actually playing by the rules, for once. Aren’t you planning on going to Monaco?”

“So?” she asks. “Finn’s father has a plane.”

“Yes, but aren’t you using our house in Monaco?”

Alex exhales heavily. “Fine. You have a point.”

“What’s that?” I ask, cupping my ear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. Could you say that louder, please? Did you say I was right?”

“I liked you a lot better before you did the whole military thing, you know,” she says. “Before, you would have shown up to dinner stoned or with a stripper on your arm. Now you’re all about working for the man.”

“It’s called picking your battles, Alex,” I call to her back as she stomps off in the opposite direction. “And I never brought any strippers to the palace.”

Well, I never brought any strippers to dinner at the palace.

I'm about to turn in the direction of the dining room, but I don't. Instead, I head in the opposite direction.

Toward her room.

"Yes?" Belle asks, her voice muffled. When I open the door, she's turned with her back toward me, her arms contorted as she tries to zip the back of her dress. "I guess I do need help with the zipper, after all."

"I'm better at unzipping dresses than I am at zipping them up, but I'll give it a try," I say.

Belle whirls around at the sound of my voice, one of the straps of her dress sliding over the edge of her shoulder. Shit, her and the damn straps of dresses. It's enough to make me want to rip the fabric off her entirely.

"Oh my God, what are you doing here?" she squeals, pressing her hands to the top of her dress, and clutching the garment against her breasts. "I thought you were the woman who was supposed to help me dress. She just left."

"Turn around," I say, crossing the room toward her. I know full and well that this is a bad idea. I shouldn't be in here with her, not when the sight of her shoulder has me hard as a rock. I swear to all that is holy, my dick is acting like I've never seen a woman’s shoulder before.

“I will not,” she says. “You need to leave. I’m sure you’re not supposed to be in here. Isn’t there some kind of palace rule against this kind of th–”

She stops talking when I reach her, and I hear her inhale deeply, the sound sharp in the stillness of the room. Her breasts rise underneath her palms, and I think about covering my hands with hers and simply moving them, causing her dress to fall to the ground in a pool at her feet.

I could do it. It would be so easy.

And the way she’s looking at me right now, her eyes big and her pupils dilated, makes me think she would let me do exactly that.

“Some kind of what?” I ask, my voice soft. She looks up at me with her lips slightly parted, and a sheen of gloss on them. Even though it’s simple, the effect is somehow the most seductive thing I’ve ever seen. “A rule against a prince welcoming his new st—”

“Do not say it,” she whispers. “I’ll slap you.”

I look down at her hands. “Please do,” I say. “But use both hands. I’d like to see that dress on the floor.”

Belle blushes. “You have to leave.”

“Or what, luv?” I ask. “Are you that afraid of being in the same room alone with me? Relax. I’m harmless.”

She laughs. “Said the lion to the mouse.”

“Isn’t there a story about a lion and a mouse? One where they’re friends?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “It’s probably more like the fox in the henhouse,” she says. “I did some reading about you.”

“Mmm,” I murmur, not sure whether to be irritated or flattered that she’s reading about my exploits – tabloid sensationalism, no doubt. Quickly, before she can protest, I reach around her waist and spin her so that her back is to me. Her dress falls open, revealing an expanse of bare creamy skin.

Shit, she’s not even wearing a bra. I wonder what else she’s not wearing under that little black dress of hers. The thought sends a rush of blood to my cock, which tents the fabric of my pants.

Fuck. This girl is going to unravel me.

“And?” I ask, clearing my throat to cover the arousal I think must be evident in my tone. I reach for the zipper at the base of her dress, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back, the apex of the curve of her ass. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t step forward or protest the way I linger there.

Maybe she’s not aware that I’m contemplating flattening my palm, running it over the curve of her ass and down her thighs, yanking up that skirt of hers.

“What did you learn about me from all your research?” I ask.

“You’re a playboy,” she says.