The Controversial Princess (The Smoke & Mirrors Duology #1)(23)

“You are, and I have a feeling you might become my favorite toy.” He bends and catches me behind the thighs, lifting me over his shoulder.

I pull in air quickly, nearly choking on it. “What on earth are you doing? Put me down.” A man has never dared to throw me over his shoulder in such a caveman way.

“No. Which way?”

“Left at the end of the corridor,” I answer without so much as a millisecond’s hesitation, quickly accepting that I’m desperate to be his play thing. His favorite toy, because I know without question I have found mine. I get a lick of pleasure bolt through me. It’s unnerving. But it is far more exhilarating than that. This scandalous bastard deserves at least some of my time, if only because he has achieved what no other man has ever achieved before. He has made me want. Really want. He has made me desire something because I really want it for myself, not to be disobedient and defy the rules. It both surprises me and scares me.

He carries me like I weigh nothing. “Here?” he asks, approaching the double doors that lead into my suite.

“There.” I mentally hurry him along.

He lets us in, makes a quick scan around, and moves straight across the thick, luxurious cream carpet to the bedroom on the far side. “Nice pad,” he quips, throwing me onto the four-poster bed.

I land with a gentle thud. “You must be used to nice pads.” I lie still, burning his clothes off with my eyes.

“I’m used to luxury, not palaces.”

“Comes with the job,” I murmur, and he smiles, a smile that could blow my knickers off. And then he walks away, casually strolling around my room, looking at photos, gliding his finger across the wood of my dresser, picking up and toying with pieces of jewelry. What is he doing?

“Has a man ever been in here?” he asks, gently setting down a sixteenth century broach that has been passed down to me through my mother’s Spanish royal heritage.

It’s only now I realize I haven’t ever invited a man into my private quarters. I haven’t done this before. Mind you, Josh Jameson didn’t exactly ask to come in. “No.”

He sits on the edge of the antique dresser, folding his arms over his chest. “So I’m the first?”

“And the last,” I retort softly, casting my eyes around my space that’s packed with historical pieces of art, treasures, and family heirlooms. My suite is so very old-fashioned and extravagant for a thirty-year-old single woman, but again, it comes with the job.

“I like the sound of that,” Josh says, kicking one ankle over the other, relaxing back, getting himself comfortable.

I realize my error quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“Are you gonna rain on my parade?”

“Are you going to fuck me?” I ask, losing both my patience and will to remain on the bed. Lord, if I have to have a man in my suite, he could at least hurry himself along and make it worth my while.

“Come get me.” He remains where he is. A ruggedly handsome, suave, if cocky, Oscar-winning Hollywood actor … on one of the Princess of England’s historical dressers.

Pushing myself to the edge of the bed, I slowly get to my feet and take one step forward. I’m not too shy to take what I want. And I want him more than I’ll ever openly admit. I wrestle with my mind momentarily, wondering why. The men I bed are off limits, apparently. But you don’t get any more off limits than Josh Jameson. Is that why he thrills me? The forbidden, as it were. Yes, that must be it. Because I refuse to let myself believe it is anything else. I take another step, and ano—

“Stop where you are.”

I’m stunned to a halt, not only by his sharp order, but by his palm held up.

“Take off your clothes, Your Highness.”

I balk mildly. “You want me to strip?”

“You’re bright, aren’t you?”

I scowl at him as I pull my T-shirt over my head, toss it aside, and unzip the fly of my jeans. I wriggle them down my legs before stepping out and kicking them away. I take the greatest pleasure from his pupils dilating and his nostrils flaring.

“Bra and panties.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t wear panties.” I leave my underwear exactly where it is, relishing in his frown. “I’m British. I wear knickers.”

His smile is so bloody beautiful. “Please, ma’am, will you remove your knickers?”

“I will.” I smile sweetly and push them down my thighs slowly, watching his lazy gaze follow them to the floor.

“That’s a line I never imagined I’d say,” he muses quietly, moving his stare to the juncture of my thighs, before continuing to my breasts. “The bra.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir? You learn fast.”

“I’ll call you sir, and you can call me Your Highness?” I free myself of my bra and drop it to the floor. “Anyone would think you are feeling inferior. Sir.”

“On the contrary, Your Highness, I am feeling very fuckin’ powerful right now. Get on your knees.”

I smile and slowly lower to my knees, no question, no argument. Nothing. The weightless feeling is new and thrilling, and most of all, it feels cathartic.

“All fours.”

“Are you going to spank my arse again?” I rest some weight on my palms and look up at him.