Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(17)

My frustrations drive my pleasure higher. My rear end lifts off the bed, and I imagine him taking hold of me and taking me, pumping with my fingers where I want him to be as I drive myself into a frenzy. My legs and muscles clench and I fall on my side.

I bury my face in his hoodie as I come, shaking and squirming on the bed, clamping on my hands between my thighs. It hits me so hard I can only lie there and whimper, thinking about Jason locking his massive arms around my body. I want him inside me.

My attempt to stand up is less than successful. I end up sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed with my legs outstretched. After perhaps half an hour I can get my feet under me and stand up.

I pace the room a bit before I step out of the last of my clothes and toss them down the laundry chute, then slip into the shower.

Leaning against the cold tiles, I let the scalding water run down my back. I love the cold, but I love a hot shower just as much. I let it warm up the kinks in my back and soak into my hair before I turn around and let it run down the front of my body and between my legs.

Taking a seat on a bamboo stool, I thoroughly wet my hair, turn the water off, and begin working shampoo into it. Washing it is quite an affair, but I find it soothing. It takes fifteen minutes of work to get it thoroughly lathered before I turn the water back on and begin the long rinse.

An hour later after applying conditioner and drying it, I bind my hair into a bun that sits on the back of my neck and trudge across the hall to my study room. I belly up to the desk and turn my math textbook to the appropriate page, and whisk through it. Mathematics has always been easy to me, and my studies at home are far ahead of what I must do here.

History and English literature are a different matter.

I press the history book open with both hands and struggle through the long, overly complex sentences, constantly tripping over the differences in grammar between English and my mother tongue. I have only a basic grip on the material because of the struggle of reading the words.

Who cares about the Teapot Dome Scandal, in any event?

The professor, for one thing. My last returned assignment sits on the desk, the D-scratched in red ink glaring at me like a scarlet letter. I keep it there as a reminder that I must focus on this subject, no matter how much I hate the helpless feeling.

After two hours of grappling with the book in a post-hangover fuzz, I have fully half the assigned reading to go. Or rather, last week's assigned reading. I'm far behind, and with no end in sight. When I look up, it's already late afternoon, and I still have to catch up on my reading of The Great Gatsby, which sounds about as desirable as stuffing an eel up my nose.

First, a dinner break.

I stride down to the kitchen and ring the bell on the counter. Mavra, the cook, appears moments later, uselessly wiping her hands on her immaculate, white apron. She curtsies in a smooth, practiced motion despite her ponderous size.

"What would Her Grace prefer for supper?"

Just once I'd like her to tell me what's for supper, so I don't have to choose. After all that liquor last night, thinking makes my head hurt.

"Chicken," I say, choosing at random.

"Her Grace will be eating at her desk tonight?"

The question is redundant; I always eat at my desk. I've used the oversized dining table perhaps once in the time I've lived here.

I nod and walk back upstairs. My head is throbbing. My mouth starts to water. Mavra finally brings my dinner on a silver platter and sets it on my desk next to my hand as I struggle over the book. I eat slowly as I work and sip my milk. It cools my stomach but doesn't stop the throbbing in my head.

When I am two-thirds through the assigned readings, the last scraps of my dinner have gone cold and my head feels like it is full of wood pulp. I stick a marker in the book, slam it closed with too much force, and grab my battered, used copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald's book.

Flopping on the bed, I start to open it, when I notice a missed call blinking at me from the lock screen of my phone. I set the book aside and check the missed calls.

Mother.

Oh, wonderful.

I trudge back to the study and stop so Mavra can head back to the kitchen with my scraps.

"Will there be anything further, Your Grace?"

"No," I sigh.

I plop into the chair and wake the computer, and open the video-call program. It rings five times, and then the screen blinks and Mother appears.

Queen Karen IV stares me down as if I have committed a great crime, anger twisting her pursed rosebud lips. She folds her arms over her chest and glares at me.

"Anastasia," she says.

"Mother," I reply, primly.

She picks something up from her desk and holds it to the camera. It's a tabloid newspaper, The Royal Exposé. The cover story is about Prince Liam's marriage.

"Yes?" I say, confused.

Mother lets out an exasperated sigh, edging into a growl. "Upper right corner."

I look closer.

The Princess's Lesbian Lover? it reads.

My mouth falls open. The picture is blurry and taken from a distance, but it's clearly myself and Dee; I'd recognize her elaborately braided, purple-and-blue hair anywhere. The picture is innocuous enough, showing the two of us sitting on a park bench in front of an ice cream stand.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mother demands.

"I wanted to have some ice cream."