Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(16)

She made polite entreaties to the British crown, but was refused. For one, the British royalty no longer even arrange marriages. More importantly, they no longer marry foreigners. Marriage alliances are a relic of the past. That did not stop Mother from trying to betroth me. As I grew older, more suitors appeared.

A few even deigned to visit us. One, a Prince Liam of Anglefell, disgusted me. Mother insisted we dance, and he did nothing but look down my dress and try to grope my buttocks. I told her I'd rather marry a lamprey than take that one as my husband.

I threw a fit when she told me she'd asked Prince Kristoff of Kosztyla to visit us and meet me, or if he would be willing to accept a delegation so we would be introduced. I was ready to chain myself to my bed to keep her from saddling me with him, until he curtly refused with no more than a letter brought by courier. Mother ripped it to shreds and would have had the man who brought it thrown in the ocean if I hadn't stopped her.

Until I left to study abroad, the stream of suitors was constant. When she ran out of nobility, she tried to pair me with the children of rich, old-money families. I took one look at a man named Damien Blackthorne and walked out of the room; his eyes frightened me. The others I barely remember. They were all the same—soft, boring men whose only interest in life was counting money and venal pursuits, or drunken partying and fornicating.

Yet here I am thinking about a man whose only interests in life are football, drunken partying, and fornicating.

"Don't tell me you're already doing the 'how it must be' thing over this guy."

"I didn't say that."

"You totally did. You like him. Jason Powell, you like Jason Powell."

I sigh. "I did not say that."

"You're not denying it."

"He is interesting," I huff. "He amuses me. He has fire."

"He has a chubby. The only things he finds amusing about you are between your legs and in your bra. Oh, and your ass. Probably also your legs. And—"

"I get the point. You do not need to list everything but my mind."

"I just don't want you to get hurt, Princess."

I give her a sharp look. "I don't need you to mother me."

"I know." She rolls her eyes. "But you princesses, you're not the cautious type. Jason will twist you around his little finger and then dump you."

"What if that is what I want?"

I stop on the sidewalk and plant my fists on my hips.

"What?"

"Maybe I want to have a f*cking and then quit." I stare her down. "Other people do it. Why can't I?"

She looks at me sadly. "You're not the type."

I scowl and turn away. "I need to get back. It's better if you are not seen with me."

"I know, Princess," she sighs. "I'll see you in class."

We part ways and she heads for the dorms, while I head for my house.

When I settled on De La Warr, Mother bought a house near the school and had it appointed for my use. It stands separate from the others on the street, and has its own yard. I reach it by cutting through the neighbor's property and climbing over the fence.

From there, I have to climb. I hop up and grab the roof overhang, hook my feet on the porch railing, and push up. On all fours, I crawl to my window, raise the sash, and swing my feet inside. My bedroom is on the third floor. The servants and bodyguards are on the second floor.

Once inside, I strip. It is not until then that I realize I'm still wearing Jason Powell's sweatshirt. Turning it in my hands, I look it over. It is old and worn and threadbare, and I suspect it has not been washed.

Tentatively, I bring it up to my face and sniff. I blink a few times and sniff again. It smells like him. I look around, as if I expect someone to be hiding in the closet watching me, and sniff it again.

I can't stop thinking about him. I can feel his muscular body under my hands, and the way his hands roamed over mine when we danced. The hardness of his cock pushing into my back, his breath on my neck. Laying his sweatshirt on my bed, I take off my pants—also his, actually—and roll onto the bed.

Modesty demands I wear more clothes than I would like. It is a crisp October day, which to me is quite warm. Sprawled on the bed and clad only in my underthings, I let the cool air wash over my skin. Then I roll onto my stomach and let the cool air wash over my back.

My hands tuck under my body, almost moving on their own. After the fight in the bar, most of last night is a jumble, but I remember very clearly when Jason picked me up in his arms, as a newlywed might carry a bride, and bore me up to his bedroom. Thinking about it sends a thrill down my body.

His powerful muscles flexing under my knees and against my back, his chest expanding against my side as he breathed, gripping the front of his shirt in my hand as he carried me up the stairs. The scent of him; sweat and beer and something earthy, like clay and leather.

I tug my underwear down a little and slip my hands between my legs, thinking about the way his stubble scratched my cheek, and the way he looked at me with hunger in his eyes and hardness between his legs. I made him hard sitting with him on the couch playing the board game. I could feel the way he tensed when I kissed his cheek. His scratchy, short whiskers brushed my lips, and when when I kissed his later, they were so soft and warm, pulling me into them.

There are things I want to feel, experience, and I imagine them all as I explore my body, sliding my fingers inside myself, rubbing. Why not him? He has a rock-hard body, solid muscle head to toe, and I could feel his hard cock, so impressive in its size. He radiated hunger, and he wanted to put that inside me.