Chapter Eleven
Belle
I know I shouldn’t be surprised .
I shouldn’t be surprised that I was caught. I shouldn’t be surprised that the prince has ways of knowing what his prisoners are doing that aren’t obvious .
And I probably shouldn’t be surprised that now I’m staying in his quarters, just a few rooms away from him .
After all, that’s what he said the other day — you are mine .
I want to hate him. I want to rebel against the idea of what he said, but I can’t. Not quite, because when he talks to me, when he orders me around, it sets off vibrations deep in the base of my spine .
It makes the rest of my brain go quiet until there’s nothing but him .
I shut the door behind me, and I almost get in bed still clothed, but at the last moment, I take my shirt off, then the ugly pants they have me wearing .
A thrill hums through my body at the action. At knowing that even though I locked the door behind me, I’m positive that he could come in here at any time he wants, see me totally naked .
I don’t hate that thought, either. Despite myself .
I slide between the dark silk sheets, trying not to think about the way that the cool, soft material feels against my heated skin, or against my exposed nipples .
I try not to think about the way Julian looks at me, with his good eye at least. I try not to think about his tall frame or the way his muscles strain against his military uniform .
And most of all, I try not to think about the things I secretly want him to do to me. The way his voice makes me feel like melting butter, like his control over my body is total and complete .
My hand is already between my legs, and I bite my lip .
I wonder if he’s watching, somehow. I wonder if Julian knows what I’m doing right now, or worse, if he knows I’m doing it thinking about him .
I’m thinking about being on my knees, naked, while he sits in a chair fully clothed. About his voice saying open your mouth as he unzips his trousers, about licking and sucking the swollen head of his thick cock while I look at him for permission .
God, I’m so wet, just thinking about this .
The fantasy speeds up along with my hand. I think about swallowing him until there are tears running down my cheeks, about letting him bend me over and take whatever he wants from me .
I think about his hand in my hair, pressing my face down against —
The wave shatters over me and I come hard, face turned and pressed into the pillow as I gasp through clenched teeth. I’m shaking, and my fingers slow, then finally stop .
I pull them from my panties and roll over in the massive bed, face down in the pillows now .
You have to stop doing that , I tell myself .
You’re his prisoner, and you’re letting all this fuck with your head .
He doesn’t want you. Just stop, Isabelle .
* * *
When I get out of bed the next morning, I put the same clothes back on that I was wearing the day before. My bedroom has its own small bathroom, thankfully, so I shower and wash my face quickly before taking a deep breath and heading out to see Julian .
He’s at the kitchen table, eating breakfast and drinking a large cup of tea while reading something on his tablet. News, probably, and he takes his time looking up at me when I enter .
My stomach clenches, the way it does every time he looks at me. Even though I know I’m being a little ridiculous, I can’t help but think of last night, of the wicked fantasies he makes me have .
Finally, he speaks up .
“There’s a package for you in the parlor,” he says, his voice gravelly and low. “And you can call down to the kitchen if you’d like them to prepare you breakfast .”
I clear my throat, not quite sure what to say .
“I thought I was a prisoner,” I say, trying to keep my voice ice- cold .
Julian looks me up and down thoroughly, something hungry and vicious in his eyes .
“I told you,” he says, his voice equally cold. “You’re my guest .”
“You’re keeping me captive .”
“It’s a hell of a gilded cage, isn’t it ?”
I swallow hard, stand up straight .
“It’s still a cage .”
Julian stands, stalks toward where I’m standing. He towers over me yet again, his good eye boring down into my face .
“You’re here at my pleasure,” he says, his voice as dangerous as I’ve ever heard it. “I suggest you remember that, Isabelle Marchand .”
Then he walks away, through the door, and into his own bedroom. I’m still standing there when I hear the shower turn on and start running .
His pleasure .
Why do I like it when he says that, so much more than I should ?
* * *
The package waiting for me in the parlor is… nice .
It’s a fancy white box wrapped with black velvet ribbons, neatly stacked on a side table .
I’m positive Julian didn’t do this himself. I’d be amazed if he knew how to tie a bow, let alone make a package look nice .
And I’m equally positive that these aren’t going to be the street clothes I was hoping for. Jeans and t-shirts don’t come in boxes like this. I’m not sure I’ve ever bought anything that came in a box like this, to be totally honest, so I’m not sure what they contain .
I pick one up, hold it next to my head, shake it. Whatever’s in there just barely whispers against the box, and I hear the faint sound of paper crinkling inside .
My heart beats a little faster, and heat winds down through my body in a way I don’t quite like. I don’t want it associated with Julian, at least, that’s for damn sure .
But I have a feeling that whatever’s in here isn’t exactly prisoner material .
I head back to my room, already blushing, toss the box onto the bed and rip the lid off before I can lose my nerve .
Inside is a black puddle of fabric. My first thought is that he’s given me bed sheets for some reason I don’t understand, black sheets, but then I gather my nerve, step forward, and pull it out .
It’s lingerie .
No, it’s a dress .
No, it’s… lingerie? A slip ?
I heft the fabric in my hands and it slithers through, already heated with the warmth of my body. It feels like it’s a live animal with a mind of its own, glimmering darkly in the scant light of my bedroom .
I’m lost. I have no idea what to do, or what I should do — I could put it on, of course, that part is obvious, but do I want to? Is putting it on a good idea ?
I’m still a prisoner, and a political prisoner at that — if I wear this sleek, silky dress that the prince gave me, does that make me something else entirely ?
I toss the dress onto the bed lightly and notice the note in the box .
I’ll be back at six. Wear what’s in the box. Nothing else .
It’s not signed, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who left this note. My whole body heats up, inside and out, my toes clenching against the floor. I reach for the dress, caressing it one more time, fighting my own impulses .
Don’t do it , I think. Don’t do anything he wants .
But dear God, I want to. There’s a dirty, craven part of me that gets a little wet just reading this note in his commanding voice. That part of me wants to wear the dress, wants him to see me with nothing but thin silk between his body and mine .
I take the note out of the box, then realize there’s one more package in there. It’s small and heavy, and when I shake it, it jingles .
I open it, slowly, my palms sweaty because I don’t know what to expect. A dress seems like one thing, but is this… something else? Handcuffs, some sort of restraint, a sex toy ?
When I open the box, it looks like a black ribbon tied to a gold-and-pearl necklace, and I’m relieved and disappointed all at once .
It’s just a necklace, I tell myself. Maybe he’s going to take you out somewhere, needs to make the media believe you’re being treated well .
I pick it up, letting it dangle from my fingers, and frown. It’s the wrong shape for a necklace, and the ribbon is stretchy, almost like it’s a …
I rearrange it in my fingers, and suddenly, I realize what it is. The stretchy black part isn’t a ribbon, and the pearls aren’t a necklace .
It’s a thong .
My eyes fall to the note lying on the bed again .
Nothing else .
I grab the box, shake it onto the bed. This is everything that’s inside: a slinky gown and a thong with pearls that are going to go right over my clit, the thought already making my body heat up uncomfortably .
I can’t imagine walking out of this room, the thong caressing and rubbing me with every step while Julian looks at me, naked except for this thin fabric. Worst of all, he’ll know what I’m wearing underneath it, and he’ll know that I’m already wet and on the edge …
There’s no way. I can’t do this. I’m not a prostitute or a courtesan or something, I’m a political prisoner with rights, no matter what this beastly prince thinks .
You can’t be both ? a tiny voice inside my head asks .