Protecting Their Princess Read online

  “Of course it’s still good,” Kieran says.

  “You check the expiration date?”

  Kieran just turns and glowers at his friend.

  “You want to watch me eat a piece of it as proof that I’m not trying to poison you?”

  “I didn’t say you were trying to poison us,” Beckett says, grinning. “Just that you might by accident. I can remember an incident back when we were in the service...”

  Kieran shuts the waffle maker a little too hard, and waffle batter splashes out as it thuds closed.

  “Yeah, you remember one incident. Because there was only ever the one, and I cooked for you assholes how many times?”

  I’m not really sure what’s going on with these two. I’ve never seen them bicker like this before — until now, as far as I knew, they were two peas in a pod.

  Or two cocks in a...

  I clear my throat to rid myself of that thought, and they both look over at me, expectantly.

  “Sorry,” I say. “But also, stop fighting.”

  “We’re not fighting,” Beckett says, still grinning. “I’m just winding Kieran up a bit.”

  “Well, the princess said quit it,” Kieran says, wiping his hands on a towel, his eyes suddenly smiling. “You heard the girl.”

  “So she’s in charge now?”

  I lean against the table and cross my arms in front of me.

  “If it gets you two old hens to quit bickering, then yeah, I’m in charge,” I say.

  Kieran glances back at me, his muscled torso twisting. I force myself to look away.

  “Go find the syrup and sit the fuck down,” Kieran says, but despite his words he’s clearly in a better mood.

  “You gonna put a shirt on?” Beckett fires back.

  I roll my eyes at them, find some glasses, and put them out on the table.

  Hours later, I’m sitting on an expensive-looking Persian rug in one of the cabin’s many rooms, staring at a bookshelf, trying to find something to read.

  In the panic of leaving, it somehow didn’t occur to me that I’d need some kind of entertainment while I was here — especially because I’ve got no idea how long I’ll be here for.

  I didn’t bring my computer, or my phone, or any electronics, obviously — everyone was terrified that despite the cabin’s remoteness, the hackers would somehow find me that way. But I also completely forgot to bring anything else for fun.

  So I’ve got no books, no crossword puzzles, no anything. I don’t even have the knitting project that I abandoned long ago, which could at least be something to work on.

  And the books here are boring. This shelf, at least, seems to consist entirely of Griskoldian histories, and from the dusty tomes that I’ve taken down and thumbed through, they’re not even the interesting histories.

  They’re the dry, dull, year-by-year histories of who held what office, what nobleman curried the most favor, what supplies each military division needed and how they got there. If I needed help sleeping, this would do the trick nicely.

  I sigh and look at the bottom shelf, hoping that I can do better than that at least, but my hopes aren’t high.

  But then, in the very corner of the very bottom shelf, I spy something else. Something that’s got actual colors on the spine and isn’t two inches thick.

  The Woodsman’s Captive.

  I raise one eyebrow and grab it from the shelf. I thought it would be some sort of swashbuckling story about, I don’t know, a woodsman who takes someone captive, but from the cover alone it’s clear that I’m wrong.

  Or, kind of wrong. Because the captive is a sexy captive.

  I’ve clearly found the cabin’s one romance novel, and it’s obviously the steamy kind. On the cover, there’s a big, burly woodsman, frilly shirt open to reveal bulging pecs and a six-pack, and in his arms is a blonde woman, practically fainting against him, her breasts nearly-but-not-quite out of her dress.

  He’s got an axe in one hand. There are some trees around.

  Actually, he’s got dark hair and piercing blue eyes, and... kind of looks like Kieran.

  There’s nothing better to do, I think. It’s been a long time since I read a romance novel this old-school, but I get off the floor and settle into an overstuffed leather armchair in the other corner of the room.

  Chapter Eight

  Beckett

  “What, are you keeping a diary?” Kieran asks.

  We’re both slumped on the couch in front of the fireplace, though there’s no fire going at the moment. It’s still too warm out for that.

  “I think it’s a good idea to keep a record of what happens here,” I say. “Just in case, maybe we can look back and see what went wrong, pinpoint our problems...”

  Kieran just shrugs. He’s reading a huge, thick novel, some historical fiction about King Arthur.

  Of course Kieran came prepared with a month’s worth of light reading. Kieran’s always prepared, always cool, calm, and collected. I know he can come across as harsh and cold sometimes, but it’s not really true.

  “I think there’s pen and paper in the study,” he says. “Maybe you could get started on your memoirs while you’re at it.”

  “Maybe I will,” I say, getting off the couch, even though I’m kidding. I think that writing my own memoirs might actually bore me to death, because I’ve already done all that stuff. Why re-live it?

  I make my way through the halls of the hunting cabin and to the study, where, to my surprise, the light is already on.

  I crack the door open to find Bianca sitting in one corner, curled into an overstuffed armchair, totally engrossed in a book. She looks up when I enter, then puts the book in her lap and covers it with one hand, trying to be nonchalant about it.

  She’s obviously embarrassed about what she’s reading.

  “Found something good?” I ask, forgetting all about the paper and pen, leaning against the doorframe.

  “Just a book,” she says, her tone a little too casual.

  “Lucky,” I say. “All the books I’ve managed to find in here are dreadfully boring. I swear there’s a whole shelf about the botany of just this side of this mountain.”

  Bianca laughs, still not showing me the book.

  “What’s that one?” I ask, coming closer.

  She curls herself around it a little more, pressing her hand against the cover.

  “Nothing,” she insists, but now she’s smiling.

  “Doesn’t look like nothing,” I say. “Come on, it’s not ‘The Merry Housewife’s Guide to Eliminating Foul Body Odors,’ is it?”

  “Do I smell like I need that guide?”

  Fuck no. She smells wonderful, like vanilla and fruit. Fucking delicious.

  “I can’t say I’ve ever really smelled you up close,” I lie. “Is that an invitation?”

  Now I’m standing over her, still in the chair. She looks up at me with her bright blue eyes, red lips slightly parted, fingers splayed over the book.

  From here I can see the veins pulsing in her neck, the soft rise and fall of her chest, and it does something wicked to me. I want to put my mouth on those veins, want to grab her ribcage between my hands, feel her breathe.

  I want to see my cock between her lips as those perfect blue eyes look up at me, watering as she swallows my—

  I take a deep breath, and with every ounce of willpower I’ve got, force my erection down.

  Not here. Not now. I’ll jerk off to that later — that’s for damn sure — but not now.

  “It’s a romance novel I found,” she finally admits, taking her hand from the cover. “You know, some trashy old book that was just sitting around.”

  I raise both eyebrows at the cover, because that is definitely softcore porn.

  “You get to the good parts yet?” I ask.

  Bianca stretches out, sitting sideways on the chair, her feet over one arm.

  “I’ve got no idea what you mean,” she teases.

  “The hell you don’t,” I say, grinning. “Did you
even read the first half, or did you skip right to ‘his member, like steel wrapped in velvet...’?”

  “I didn’t know you were a connoisseur of romance novels,” Bianca says, tilting her head back. “Sounds like you’re practically an expert.”

  “Why wouldn’t I read them?” I ask. “When I was a kid, my governess loved the things. What better way to learn what women like?”

  Bianca blushes, kicking her feet a little.

  “Though I admit the euphemisms were a little confusing at first,” I say, flipping casually through the book. “I wasn’t sure why there were so many delicate flowers and all that, though I figured it out pretty fast.”

  “That got me too, at least for a while,” she says. “And then I figured it out, and suddenly...”

  She trails off, looking at her toes.

  “Suddenly what?” I tease. “You had a passion for gardening?”

  “I was even more interested in these things,” she laughs. “I must have gotten caught with them a dozen times. I even got grounded for it once or twice. My cousin Aurora would sneak them to me, since her parents were a tiny bit less strict than mine.”

  “Speaking of strict parents, I should take this away from you and scour the cabin for any more of them,” I say. “Your father made us swear up and down to keep you chaste.”

  Her faces changes instantly.

  Now Bianca looks horrified, her face turning splotchy pink, white spots in the very center of her cheeks.

  “He didn’t,” she says.

  “He did,” I say, suddenly feeling bad for her.

  “Jesus,” she mutters, looking down and away. “You’d think I was a twelve-year-old nun locked away in a tower. Did he threaten to put a chastity belt on me, too?”

  I lick my lips, even though I don’t mean to.

  “Does that mean you haven’t got one?”

  “Not yet, at least,” she says, looking at me again. “Though if my father’s making the two of you swear to keep my hymen intact, I imagine it can’t be far away.”

  Every time she opens her mouth, I get harder, I swear to God. Even thinking of her in a chastity belt means thinking of her otherwise naked, nothing but a strip of metal around her hips, plunging down between her legs.

  I’m positive I could still figure something out, chastity belt or no.

  “Well, we both promised,” I say, casually flipping the book open again. “So I’m afraid I won’t be, let’s see, ‘invading your love cavern with my masculine pole.’”

  Bianca smiles a little, then bites her lip.

  “I think that sounds a bit too much like spear fishing for my tastes anyway,” she says.

  “What about ‘spreading your delicate petals with my deft touch, discovering the sweet honeypot within’?”

  She blushes, bites her lip harder. The purple prose, courtesy of The Woodsman’s Captive isn’t getting me harder at all — it’s just watching her reaction to it.

  And her annoyed reaction to discovering what her dad said? That doesn’t hurt either.

  “I never did like the euphemism honeypot,” she says.

  I toss the book onto her lap, cock now at half-mast. I know she can see it, and I don’t even care.

  “What about licking you until you come twice, then fucking you until you scream my name?”

  Her eyes are wide, her lips parted. Bianca doesn’t answer right away, but I know what a woman looks like when she’s turned on as fuck, when she’s heard something she likes, and this is it.

  This is exactly it.

  Damn it all to hell. Damn the promises I made to her father, damn the deal I made with Kieran. I fucking need Bianca, and if I can, I’m going to have her.

  “Is that in here?” she finally whispers.

  “How’s that memoir going?” Kieran’s voice asks from the doorway, and I whirl around to find my best friend leaning there, looking furious.

  Shit.

  Chapter Nine

  Kieran

  He’s fucking talking dirty to her. First, he made her laugh, now he’s talking dirty to her.

  I’m so jealous I can’t even see straight. I knew it would be like this. I knew she’d want him and not me, because he’s funny and charming and I’m... well, I’m me.

  I’ve always been like this — serious and straight-laced — and even though it works for me, out in the world, I don’t think I’ve got a chance one-on-one like this.

  Beckett freezes for a split second, then his shoulders relax.

  “It’s going fine,” he says, turning casually, leaning against a desk. “Bianca found a trashy old romance novel and we were just laughing about some of the stuff in it.”

  “It calls a vagina a damp love-cave,” she adds, then blushes.

  “It’s true,” Beckett says.

  His dick is at half-mast. I don’t mean to notice, but it’s not like I haven’t seen his dick before — how many times have we fucked the same woman? — and it’s right there.

  Fucker.

  “Sounds like your favorite kind of literature,” I say to Beckett. “Sexy and overwrought.”

  “Just like my memoir will be,” he says, and finally grabs a notebook and pen from the desk behind him.

  With a final glance at Bianca, he rises, then walks for the door.

  “Enjoy the book,” he says, and walks past me.

  I turn and follow him back out into the main area of the cabin, where we sit. I read. He doodles or something, and neither of us speak for a very long time.

  Later that day, close to sunset, I take a walk to secure the perimeter. This whole scenario — protecting the princess — has made me jumpy and anxious, constantly looking at every window to see whether a noise was a branch or an assassin.

  There’s nothing, of course. Nothing looks even remotely suspicious: there’s the whole stone façade of the cabin, the low wall around it, the massive trees that were probably planted by my great-times-five grandparents.

  The only thing out of place is the all-wheel-drive Jeep that we drove here in, an hour down the rutted dirt tracks that are the only way to even get here. When the main method of transportation was mules and horses, that didn’t matter so much — but now it’s at least ideal for keeping Bianca safe from whoever’s hunting her.

  As I come back around the side of the cabin, I see her, standing on the veranda, leaning against the railing with her arms crossed, looking at the still-covered hot tub.

  Even though she’s just wearing jeans and a shirt, she’s still stunningly beautiful, beyond gorgeous. I stop for a moment just to catch my breath, let myself appreciate the curves of her body, the way her hair flows past her neck and over her shoulders.

  Before I can say anything, she turns to look at me.

  “You didn’t tell me there was a hot tub,” she says, tilting her head slightly.

  I walk forward, eyes still feasting on her body.

  “I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

  “Of course you were supposed to,” she says, a smile around her eyes as I get closer. “If you’d told me I’d have brought a swimsuit.”

  Now I’m on the veranda as well, leaning against a post, only a few feet from Bianca.

  “You know,” I say. “We’re the only ones around for miles and miles. There’s no reason you need a swimsuit.”

  “You and Beckett are still here,” she says. “Unless you’re promising you won’t look...”

  Her face is totally innocent, but there’s something in her tone that tells me she knows we will.

  That we’ll look, and she’ll know, and she’ll like it.

  For easily the thousandth time I think about the conversation that Beckett and I had last night. About how neither of us will make a move for Bianca, since we know she won’t share us. And no hell sounds worse than lying awake in my bed at night, knowing that she’s with him.

  But I’m starting to rethink that position. I’ve got a feeling that, despite her virginal state, Bianca might not be quite as innocent as we’ve b
een thinking. Just because she’s a virgin doesn’t necessarily make her sweet.

  After all, every single girl we’ve ever shared was a virgin once upon a time. Who knows what kind of girl is hiding inside Bianca?

  “I don’t think I can promise that,” I say, keeping my voice low and serious. “If there’s a situation, we might need to come rescue you.”

  I try not to imagine it, but I can’t stop myself. The way she’d bend over the hot tub to take the cover off, the deep pink edges of her pussy just barely peeking out from between her legs. Her getting into the hot tub, breasts bobbing in the water, nipples puckering among the bubbles.

  I wonder if I could hold my breath long enough to eat her pussy and make her come, I think.

  Maybe.

  “What kind of situation?” she asks, still playful. “I need to know what not to do before I commit to getting naked out here.”

  “Well, I can’t exactly say before it happens, can I?” I say. “The only way to really know is to try it out and see if anything can coax us out of the house while you’re out here stripped, hot, and wet.”

  Now she flushes, her cheeks flaming all the way down to her neck, but she doesn’t look away from me.

  “Who knows?” I say. “I might not take much at all to get us to come.”

  I leave a long, long pause.

  “...Out to rescue you,” I finish.

  Not thinking about it is fucking hopeless. I’m hard as a rock, imagining Bianca standing in front of me, water frothing around us as she grabs the side of the tub, her body buoyed up. The way I could grab her legs and lift her.

  Or it could be both of us, her sandwiched between us, half-floating. I could claim her sweet, tight little pussy, her hard, pink nipples rubbing against me as she moaned while Beckett claimed her other hole and I watched her eyelids flutter, her brain nearly short-circuiting...

  “Sounds like the only way for me to know is to try it,” she says, her face still red, but with something wicked in her blue eyes.

  She wants this, I realize.