Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(28)

I sneer at him. "I'd rather marry a codfish than marry you. The codfish would be better in bed."

"Oh my princess, you have no idea. Our wedding night will be a garden of sensual delights. I'll make you—"

"Go f*ck a narwhal and die."

I cut off the call and block him. He'll figure out a way around it, I'm sure. I'm not surprised he buys that damnable tabloid rag. He probably clips out all the pictures of me and hangs them in his room. I vividly recall the ball Mother held before I came to America. Mortimer was in the upper gallery of the Great Hall, with one of the servants kneeling and sucking on him. He waved to me, the pig. My innards twist in revulsion at the thought.

Ugh. I have to go to class.





Chapter Six





Jason



After Anastasia leaves, the scent of her hangs in the air like a half-forgotten memory. I touch the spot on the couch where she was sitting curled up against me as we read. It's still warm. The sadness in her beautiful eyes burns in my chest like a knife thrust between my ribs.

Going home is like a dream. I am aware of my actions. I get up. I pack my shit. I walk. I enter the house I share with the Thunder Brothers. I sit in the living room. I stare at the fireplace. I watch day fade fully into night. I do all these things but none of them register. When Akele speaks to me, it's like I've snapped awake from a fitful sleep.

"Jason?" he says, his voice heavy with concern. "Whatsamatter, bro?"

I scowl at him and open my mouth to say something. A jab, a comment, a warning to stay out of it, a plain statement that it's not his business.

Nothing comes out. He sits down on the couch opposite me and puts his huge feet on the coffee table, slightly bowing the oaken top. He leans back, spreads his arms, and his huge wingspan puts his fingertips at either end of the couch cushions.

"Talk when you wanna."

"I don't wanna."

"Wanna, wanna."

He doesn't say a word for the next fifteen minutes.

"I talked Anastasia into studying with me. We hung out in the library until about nine. Then I came back here."

"I was born," Akele says, "and I grew up."

"Don't quote books at me."

"I'm ready to listen to the real story. Or not. Up to you."

I scrub my hands over my head and rock in the seat. Nervous energy tightens in my legs. I want to kick something, run, move, anything. Akele is the picture of Zen master calm, waiting.

So I tell him what happened. Slowly, leaving nothing out. Maybe I spend too much time describing her eyes. I don't know.

When I finish he nods and says nothing for a good fifteen minutes. Then he stands, fetches two tall cups of Hawaiian Punch, and offers me one as he resumes his seat.

"I can't believe you drink this shit."

"The irony amuses me."

"Right. Say what you're going to say."

"She don't want you to be hurt."

"I don't need her to protect me."

"Somebody has to. You do a bad job of protecting yourself."

I glare at him. "So that's it, then? Let it go?"

"I can't tell you what to do." He sips the sickly sweet "juice" and takes on a serene, sage expression. "I see that you have before you two choices. You have many options, but only two choices. You can give up or you can try. One of those choices, you'll regret for the rest of your days. Only you know which one that is."

"How do I know?"

He tips his head back, narrows his eyes, and furrows his brows. In a gravelly voice he says, "Only what you take with you."

I glare at him. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I know. Just drink the Hawaiian Punch and go to sleep, cousin. When you rise in the morning, your heart will be true, and you will know what you must do."

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Akele."

I stick the half-empty glass of punch in the fridge and trudge up the stairs. I shove my pants off and throw my jacket aside and sprawl on the bed.

I toss. I turn. I sleep a little, wake, dream of Ana and wake up sweaty with a hard-on the size of the Empire State Building. Even thinking about her is different. I can't close my eyes without seeing hers, so inviting and sharp and sad, her soft lips and the airy sound of her voice, the way her accent picks up when she's excited or upset.

I swore I'd never let myself feel this way again, but it's different now.

I can't stop myself. I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. My cock stands straight up against my stomach, and now I can't stop visualizing her with my eyes open either. I flop back and take myself in my hand, thinking of her. Her lips, her eyes.

A guilty feeling washes over me when I remember the feeling of her breasts in my hands. I pulled away quickly and she was wearing a bra, but they were so soft. Her skin must be like silk, warm and silky smooth. When she was lying on top of me, loose strands of hair brushed my face, tickling me.

I'm so f*cking hard I can't stand it. My balls throb and tighten as I think about her. When she was on top of me, she gripped my hips with her thighs and I could feel how hot she was between her legs. She wanted me. I want her to ride me like that, rake my chest with her nails and work her hips

I grunt as I come, clenching my teeth, imagining the tightness of my fist is her body clenching around me. I want to see her come so badly, see the flush on her skin and her eyes unfocus, hear her cry out in pleasure because of me, wring my dry.