The Controversial Princess (The Smoke & Mirrors Duology #1)(27)
His mouth is vulgar, yet just like that, I’m swimming with want all over again, my orgasm barely leaving my body, another building. “So you’re going to fuck me now?”
His grin is wicked. “Beg, Your Highness.”
“Please,” I whisper, caution completely and utterly thrown to the wind, my inner slave breaking free willingly. It’s alien territory but at the same time, so very natural. Especially when the gratification in his gaze at those words is almost blinding. “Please, sir, I beg you. Play with me. Lick me, bend me.” I lick my lips seductively. “Fuck me.”
“Oh, shit, Adeline Lockhart.” His lazy eyes scan my face, a small frown marring his perfect brow. “I have a very addictive nature, and that’s bad news for you.”
“Why?”
“Because addiction means wanting constant access to the hit you need.” He kisses each corner of my mouth. “And constant access isn’t the kind of thing a man can depend on when he’s addicted to one of the most protected women in the world.”
I catch his lips and coax his mouth open, lapping my tongue softly across his. “So it is bad news for you, yes?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in so much trouble.” He deepens our kiss, his body sliding across mine briefly before he rises to his knees, smiling at his growing cock. “Cross your hands at your wrists,” he orders, which I do immediately, just in time for him to flip me onto my knees. “Hold tight, Your Highness.” I grip the gold bar of my headboard hard, grunting when his palm connects with my right cheek, reigniting the blaze across my skin. I don’t shout, don’t curse, and I don’t even jolt. In fact, I smile sadistically, focusing on the warmth that follows the sting and my body’s need to turn that sting into pleasure. My hair is gathered into his fist and tugged back viciously, and I still smile. With his body bent over mine, he brings his mouth to my ear. “Was that a smile?”
“What of it?”
“I love your cockiness.” He curls my hair around his hand and yanks until my head is forced back and I’m confronted with his face. “I need my belt.”
“Too bad it’s being used to restrain your prey.”
“Then I’ll have to find another.”
I wonder what for, but I don’t voice it. Because deep down, I already know. Squaring unaffected, sure eyes on him, I speak, just as certain and strong. “Bottom drawer of the chest in my dressing room.”
His smile is a blend of awe and approval, and he kisses me hard, fisting my hair tightly as he does. “Don’t move,” he orders as he gets off the bed and paces to my dressing room.
“Because where the hell can I go?” I say quietly, knowing I’m about to be thrashed, and wondering where the hell my objection is. I’m on my knees, hands tied, arse exposed, and I have never been so relaxed in my entire life. What is wrong with me?
Or maybe I should be asking what is right with me? Him. He is what’s right here. Josh bloody Jameson, actor extraordinaire, who is currently rummaging through my drawers to find a belt in order to whip my arse. I shake my head at myself and then still when I hear the crack of leather.
“Nice belt,” Josh says quietly, prompting me to look over my shoulder. He’s threading the leather between his hands, slowly and purposefully, that wicked grin on his face again. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Josh Jameson is a kinky bastard. Hankies, slaps, belts, and restraints. Why I am so eager to play with him is not something I’m prepared to analyze right now. I’m too wound up. Too desperate for him to bend me to his will, to beg, to make me melt away under his expert touch. To make me forget I’m a product of the most privileged family in the world, and this kind of behavior should be well off the agenda.
Another sharp crack jolts me from my reasoning, and I zoom in on the belt again, now dangling by his naked thigh. He stalks slowly forward, eyes rooted to my bare bottom, his face full of gratitude. “When I’m done with you, Your Highness, you’re going to be questioning who your true king is.”
I inhale sharply, not just at his words and that he’s most probably right, but at what he’s holding in his other hand. My maternal grandmother’s tiara, a beautiful piece bequeathed to me—her only granddaughter—by the late Spanish queen. It’s personal to me, and though it was argued that the treasure should be locked away with the rest of the family jewels, my mother insisted that as a Spanish treasure, it was a gift for me to admire, to wear, to cherish. It is one of the only battles she has won with the King. The antique, diamond-encrusted headpiece weighs a ton, and is so very uncomfortable. But it’s stunning, and it screams royalty. And it’s even more special because my mother fought for it. For me. What’s Josh doing with it?
He must catch the question in my eyes. “It’s beautiful.” He comes to a stop by the bed.
“It was the Queen of Spain’s.”
“It’s heavy.”
“Which is why I rarely wear it, except for the occasional royal engagement in Spain.”
“That’s a shame. Something so beautiful shouldn’t be hidden away.” He reaches forward and places the embellished tiara on my head.
I close my eyes, aware of what happens next. “Get on with it, Josh.”
“Are you telling me what to do?” The leather of the belt snaps threateningly.