Prince Albert (A Step-Brother Romance #4)

I imagine him with his lips near my ear, his warm breath against my neck, asking me if I’m wet for him. Goosebumps dot my skin, a chill traveling down my spine as I think of him.

My eyes closed, my fingers dancing over my clit – over and over until my heart races in my chest, until my breath comes so short that I’m nearly breathless – I think of him. I imagine him with his head buried between my thighs, my dress pulled up around my waist, his tongue tasting me.

I think of his tongue, hot between my legs, flicking over my clit until I can’t do anything except call his name.

I imagine my fingers threaded through his hair, my legs wrapped around his shoulders.

I can almost feel him sliding his fingers inside me, fucking me until I pant his name.

I’m so far gone, brought so close to the edge by just the thought of his mouth between my legs, that I can barely keep myself from crying out when I crash over.

And Albie’s name is on my lips.

***

“I’m so pleased that you decided to join us, Isabella.” My mother raises her glass of wine to her lips. Her chilly tune conveys the exact opposite of her words, and the look she gives me is just as frosty as her voice.

She’s pissed off that I’m late for dinner.

I’m afraid the reason I’m late is written all over my face, that my guilt is immediately evident. Even as I slide into my seat at the table, I can’t get the thought of Albie as I imagined him – naked, throbbing, irresistible – out of my head.

That fact sends heat to my face, and I know I’m blushing.

I glance at Albie, and immediately regret it. Evidently, he finds my current state amusing.

“Yes,” Albie says, “I was afraid you’d gotten lost, that we’d have to send a search and rescue party after you.”

“I had to finish up something,” I say, trying to keep my voice composed, settled. Nonchalant.

I might be failing terribly at the nonchalant part of things.

“Well, I hope you know that I’m always willing to help with whatever needs attending to,” Albie says, looking at me meaningfully. Arousal washes over me like a wave, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat, crossing one leg over the other.

“I’m sure,” Alexandra snorts, rolling her eyes. She flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder and looks at me across the table. And winks.

I might actually die of embarrassment right now, if my mother didn’t interrupt to present me to the other guests at the table. She rattles off the names and positions of the grandmother, two aunts, an uncle, and three cousins. I nod, feigning interest in the social pleasantries but mostly just distracting myself from the incessant throbbing between my legs.

“Oh Albert, you are always such a gentleman.” Albie’s grandmother beams at Albie, adoration written all over her face. She’s regal, poised from head to toe, dressed in a cream-colored suit with a single strand of pearls, her grey hair pulled up into a loose bun.

Her words bring a fresh snort from Alexandra, and I wonder what she suspects, or if she’s just being obnoxious.

“Yes, you’re quite considerate, Albert,” my mother says before turning to put her hand on the king’s arm. King Leopold looks at her and smiles, obviously smitten with her.

“Isabella, I was told you’ve spent the last few years doing charity work.” One of the aunts, Victoria something-or-other, interrupts.

“Oh, I adore charity work,” the blonde cousin says. The cousins are triplets, two blondes and a brunette, with matching names: Lily, Rose, and Violet. “I just love all of the dinner parties and fundraising. In Paris once, we – oh, what was your cause?”

“My cause?” I ask, looking at her blankly.

“Your charity,” Lily says, staring at me. “Your cause. Hunger, shoes for poor children, whatever.”

“I wasn’t actually hosting parties and fundraising,” I say, starting to explain what I’d been doing the last two years.

“Oh,” Rose says, her brow furrowed. “What kind of fundraising were you doing?”

My mother interrupts. “Isabella means to say that she was working with a non-profit group.”

“Working?” the dark-haired triplet, Violet, asks. Her nose wrinkled, she looks at me like I’m a different species. “Working, as in a job?”

“I was working, yes,” I say. This entire conversation is beginning to sound surreal. “In Africa, actually.”

“Isabella,” my mother says, her voice unnaturally bright. “You must tell us all about it later, perhaps at a time other than when we’re celebrating.”

“I would love to hear about Africa sometime, Isabella,” the King says, his voice warm. “There’s an aid organization from Protrovia that you might have worked with. From what your mother has told me, I believe they may have been in the same region you were.”

“You were in Africa?” The King’s mother sniffs. “Isn’t that rather dangerous?”

“Actually, I –“ I start, before my mother interrupts.