The Controversial Princess (The Smoke & Mirrors Duology #1)(97)
“Horrible.” He must think I’m a brainless idiot, and he would be right. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know there would be press—”
His finger lands on my lip, hushing me. “I tried to call to tell you.”
“I dropped my phone, and it broke, and then I panicked because people were bumping into me, and I was worried I’d be recognized. I didn’t mean to cause such madness.”
“It’s always madness.”
“But I fueled it.”
He softly smiles, his palm smoothing down my cheek. “Could you imagine if they knew who was hidden under that hoodie and cap?”
“Don’t.” I shudder, it all becoming very real. The madness our relationship will cause, on so many levels of our lives.
“You look gorgeous, by the way.”
“What?” I look down my disheveled form to the Uggs gracing my feet. I’m wearing no makeup, and my hair is flattened under the cap. “They probably wouldn’t have recognized me even if they did get a peek.”
Josh moves in for a kiss, but the peaks of our caps clash, jarring both our heads. I laugh on a flinch, as does Josh, who then swipes off both of our caps and takes my lips, swallowing down my chuckle. Our kiss is fragmented and clumsy, both of us smiling too hard to seal our mouths. “I’m glad you’re here,” he tells me, wiping away all the stress.
Then our kiss finds a smooth rhythm, our tongues lapping lazily on hums of contentment. Until a cough interrupts us. I pull away quickly, feeling a blush color my cheeks. It’s so easy to forget my surroundings when Josh possesses me so completely. “Sorry,” I mutter, my head now low for other reasons. The two men move to the side to open our path when the doors slide open, and Josh takes my hand, leading the way. We pass the door to his suite, and I frown.
“They’re still clearing up the mess someone kindly made,” he says as we reach another room. “I’m in here.” He opens the door and ushers me into an equally lavish suite. “So since you’ve put me through hell tonight, how do you intend on making it up to me?”
He’s been through hell? What about me? I had a meltdown in the middle of a busy London street, just so I could snatch a moment with him. “How would you like me to make it up to you?”
Kicking his trainers off and tossing our caps onto a table, a devious smirk forms on his face. My trauma is forgotten with the hint of suggestion flickering in his eyes. Without a word, he strolls casually forward, the temperature of my body rising with each step that brings him closer to me. Josh Jameson is a god. He’s perfection on every level, all wrapped up in a body that’s built for sinful things. He’s built to be worshipped, and he’s built to be worshipped by me. Just me. And I want to so badly worship him.
Stopping before me, he sizes me up, taking in every piece of my bedraggled form. Maybe I should be conscious that I look such a wreck. Maybe I should be wishing I was standing here before him in a killer dress, my hair and makeup as perfect as they always are. But I’m not. Josh sees past the painted woman. He sees deep into my soul, past the forced exterior. He sees me. He knows me. He also knows what I want. Him. I want him with every fiber of my being, desperately so. I’m willing to walk through fire, and eventually, that is exactly what I’ll have to do. But not now. Now we are locked away safely, away from the prying eyes of the world. Nothing else exists, except him, me, and the electricity sizzling between our wanting bodies. My heart pumps erratically in my chest while I wait for him to tell me what he wants. Not that I need to hear it. His body is speaking to me all by itself. But I want him to say it. I want to hear the words that will tell me he is as hooked on these feelings as I am. That he’s becoming as addicted and obsessed as me. And I wait. And wait.
“Fuck, you’re divine,” he murmurs, his eyes greedy, still roaming up and down. When they finally reach my face, my lips have parted and my breathing is shallow. I refrain from touching, from taking him, because this is his move to make. And he suddenly makes it. On a growl worthy of a lion, he seizes me and tosses me over his shoulder with little effort, stalking toward the bedroom, a man on a mission. Fire blazes inside me and every stressful minute of my quest across London to make it to him is certified worthwhile.
I sail through the air when he launches me from his arms, landing on the bed on a gasp of delight. His T-shirt is virtually ripped over his head, his sweats kicked off just as aggressively. And then he’s naked, and it’s my turn to be greedy in my observing. That body. It’s on thousands of billboards across the world, plastered in endless magazines, but nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to the vision of him in the flesh and blood. Nothing. “Oh my …” I breathe, mentally licking every single glorious piece of him, my fingers mentally tracing the waves of his hard stomach.
Stepping forward, he takes an Ugg in each hand and pulls them off, casting them aside. I’m stripped down, his hands working slowly as I watch him focus on his task, my skin hypersensitive to every brush of his fingers on my flesh. I’m laid out before him like a sacrificial lamb, and it’s apt in its symbolism. Because for him I would sacrifice everything.
As my bra is drawn lazily away from my aching breasts, he dips and kisses each nipple in turn, and my body curves upward in response, spiking a faint smile to ghost his lips. And once my knickers are pulled down my legs, he pushes my thighs apart, spreading me open, and that faint smile vanishes, his expression serious as he stares at the juncture of my thighs. “There are so many things I want to do to this beautiful body.” His voice is thick and husky.