Asteria - In Love with the Prince Page 16

  “We should think about heading back,” Jagor told me.

  I bit my lip. I was looking forward to being with him. I just wasn’t looking forward to the reception we’d get in Asteria. “I know,” I said, cuddling closer.

  Gwen kept shifting her weight and hinting that she was going to fall, forcing the poor bodyguard to glance up. In a minute, I predicted, she’d pretend to fall and he’d have to catch her.

  Jagor stroked my cheek. “You’re scared.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “They won’t like me.”

  “They will. I’ll execute those who don’t.”

  I punched him on the arm and he chuckled. But I was still stressed, and he could see it.

  “What if,” he said after a moment, “we went somewhere else first? Ease back into it?”

  My heart leapt at that. Yes: a few quiet days somewhere. Get used to being with him again, before I had to face the Asterian public. “Where?”

  “Oh!” cried Gwen theatrically, nearly overbalancing. She was in heels, of course. I was only surprised she hadn’t put on stockings.

  “Where do you want to go?” Jagor asked. I had to blink at that. The money was strange enough, but the freedom would really take some getting used to. He was used to just going on a whim – wherever he wanted.

  There was a shrill cry from the kitchen area and we looked across to see Gwen flail and topple from the chair. To give her credit, she really did fall, like some sort of twisted drama school trust exercise: if the bodyguard hadn’t caught her, she really would have been in trouble.

  He did, of course, one hand under her bare legs, one under the small of her back. She pressed herself urgently against him, her breasts pushed against his chest. “Oh!” she almost moaned. “Thank you! I—”

  And it happened. The bodyguard’s eyes flicked from her heaving breasts to her face and she got The Look. The same male Asterian look that I’d got in the boutique in Monaco.

  For once in her life, Gwen was silenced as hours of raw, pent-up lust burned into her, his eyes telling her I want you and I’m going to have you.

  Jagor cleared his throat. The bodyguard broke his gaze and walked away and Gwen was left standing there, open-mouthed.

  “Paris,” I said. “Can we go to Paris?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I thought we’d have to convince Ismelda, but as we drove to the airport, she was actually excited.

  “It’s perfect,” she told us. “We need to create the illusion that the two of you have been together for longer than you have, without actually lying. Seeing you in different places helps with that. We’ll do a little teaser: something to get them talking. Then the announcement won’t be a total shock.”

  ***

  As before, traveling with Jagor was nothing like normal air travel. We seemed to largely skip the airport: there was a limo (and the simple pleasure of being able to sit next to him, of being able to talk about us and not hide everything beneath a layer of work talk). Then there was a brief stop in some sort of VIP lounge that I guessed the public didn’t even know existed. We were there for no more than ten minutes, but the airport deemed that more than enough time to serve us coffee on a silver tray and – in case we felt we were being ignored - offer us food, wine or a manicure.

  Then, no more than an hour after leaving my apartment, we were on Jagor’s plane: twenty minutes later, we were airborne. I found myself wishing it were a night flight: sleeping – or not sleeping – in that big double bed, thousands of feet in the air had a definite appeal.

  I’d left Gwen with a solemn promise to keep her updated: she promised to come over for the wedding, though I hoped I’d be back to visit long before that. I’d had to calm her down after her experience with the bodyguard. She’d claimed to need a stiff drink, but I’d dissuaded her.

  “Do they all do that?” she’d wanted to know. “Look at you like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even Jagor?”

  I thought of those darkly green, entrancing eyes. “Especially Jagor.”

  “And if you didn’t have a collar on, some guy could just....”

  “Take you for his own. Yes.”

  “He’d—”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’d own you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’d have to do whatever he said?”

  “Yes.”

  She’d thought for a moment. “Sweet Jiminy Cricket. You’re living the dream.” A quick glance at the bodyguard she’d tempted, who had studiously ignored her ever since. “Maybe I need a visit to Asteria.”

  “You need to get back together with Louis.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  ***

  I’d phoned my boss at the UN before we left and humbly apologized for quitting again only a few weeks after begging my old job back. He took it surprisingly well: I suspected Jagor and Ms. Sato of the State Department had something to do with that: they’d thought I was valuable to the US as the Prince’s aide; they must be in paroxysms of joy at the idea of me as his wife. Still, if anything went wrong in Asteria it was clear that I wouldn’t be able to skulk back to the UN a second time. My old career was effectively over and my new one was a mystery to me. What exactly did a princess do all day?

  The crew served us lobster and a crisp white wine. Ismelda explained what she’d lined up for us.

  “I thought we should start slowly,” she said. “It’ll be afternoon in Paris when we land. The only thing I have set up for you this evening is a drinks reception with some French dignitaries.” She frowned, as if personally offended. “The president can’t be there, but several ministers will be.”

  That was starting slowly? I’d met a few VIPs as Jagor’s aide, but this was different. Instead of just hanging back and nodding politely, I’d be expected to talk to them. I glanced down at my clothes.

  “Don’t worry, Exkella: I have a temporary dresser for you until you get to Asteria. She’s already putting your wardrobe together; you can change when you land. There will be a dress for tonight’s reception and suits for tomorrow.”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Sightseeing.”

  Even our downtime was being meticulously planned. I sighed. At least the nights would be ours alone. I smiled at the thought of Jagor and me alone in an upmarket hotel room.

  Ismelda was blushing. “I, ah—I also asked the dresser to get the items you requested for the Exkella, Your Highness.”

  What?

  Jagor smiled. “Good. Even—”

  “Yes, even the red underbust corset.”

  I’d been wrong. Apparently, even what happened in the bedroom wasn’t private. I glared at Jagor. “Could I speak with you in private, please?” I said tightly.

  Ismelda sensed the storm brewing and departed. When the door had closed, I wheeled on him.

  “You ordered lingerie through your retinue?” I demanded. I was mad as hell: we’d been apart for what felt like months, and now I finally had him back I wanted it to be about us.

  He shrugged. “Lucy, you’re going to be my wife. I think they suspect we have sex.”

  “But in Monaco you went to all that trouble to hide what you bought for me....”

  “When you were my aide, it was inappropriate.”

  “Well it’s inappropriate to discuss my underwear with your assistant! How come she knows about this...this corset before I do?”

  He was frowning at me. “I enjoy buying things for you. Do you not enjoy wearing them?”

  I remembered the constricting, delightfully sexy corset in Monaco. The way he’d made me wear it out in public. “Yes, but—”

  “And you know that I’ll own you, soon. And choose your clothes for you, or at least guide your choices.”

  He sounded different. He hadn’t moved, but he seemed to be closer, somehow, as if he’d grown larger. The back of my neck prickled.

  “I don’t care, Jagor,” It was weird, using his name. I’d got used to Your Highness.
“I don’t want you discussing me like that. Like I’m some...some....”

  “Possession?” His eyes were gleaming now and his lips twisted into a smirk.

  My face was hot with anger, but I had the weirdest feeling. It was like I’d been furiously pedaling a bike, only to crest the hill and find there was a steep drop on the other side. Only instead of braking, I was pedaling even harder. “You don’t own me yet!” I snapped.

  It was almost as if I wanted us to be arguing.

  “But I will soon,” he told me. “I’ll own you, Lucy; you will wear my collar and do exactly – as – I – say.”

  I just glared at him, too wound up to speak. Even though none of what he said was a surprise; even though I wanted to be owned by him. This was crazy: why would I want us to be arguing? Why would I bait him? And I could see something else in his eyes, now: a hint of laughter. He was enjoying himself.

  “I think you need to start getting ready to be owned,” he told me.

  “Ridiculous!” And I did something I’d never done before: I actually stamped my foot like...well, like a spoilt princess. What was going on?

  “Do I need to teach you a lesson, Lucy?” he asked.

  Oh.

  Suddenly I understood. Understood why I was gasping for breath, why his presence seemed to swell and touch me even though he hadn’t come any closer. Why my legs felt as weak and unsteady as a newborn foal’s and a dark, delicious heat was spiraling down to my groin.

  “Do I need to teach you a lesson?” he asked again. He wasn’t smiling: not with his mouth, at least. But in his eyes I could see it; the sparkle that told me this was play, that he’d never hurt me.

  You were worried it wouldn’t be like this anymore, a little voice in my head sang out. Time to find out.

  “Yes,” I said very quietly.

  “What was that, Lucy?”

  “Yes,” I told him more clearly.

  He smiled and walked past me to a chair. As he sat, he suddenly grabbed my waist and pulled me down across him, drawing a surprised yelp from me. I wound up lying over his lap, my head hanging down and hair trailing, my legs kicking in the air.

  I suddenly knew, very clearly, what it was he had in mind. He’d spanked me before, but that had been in a dimly lit private bedroom, after hours of build-up and teasing in public. This was in broad daylight and unexpected: he was throwing me over his knee on a whim. “I—Jagor, I didn’t mean—” I’m not sure whether I was protesting for his benefit or my own.

  It didn’t matter.

  He took one of my hands in his and I felt something cold push onto the ring finger of my right hand. I didn’t have to look to know what it was. The safeword ring. He’d kept it. He’d ignore me, unless I took it off.

  I felt my skirt wrenched up, and then my panties yanked down to my thighs. I gasped and tried to get up, but the soft leather armchair was huge: my hands didn’t touch the floor and I had nothing to push on. “Stop,” I moaned. “Don’t—Someone might....” I looked at the closed door, behind which Ismelda was no doubt waiting to come back in.

  The firm muscles of his thighs flexed beneath me, settling into a comfortable position. His huge hand rested on my naked ass for a moment, the skin deliciously warm. “They may come in. They may not.”

  I swallowed. “I—”

  His hand seemed to rise and fall all in one instant, the crack as it hit exploding around the cabin. I cried out in shock and sudden pain, the heat flowering and spreading across my ass. “AH!”

  “If they come in,” he told me, “They won’t be shocked. Do you think they’ve never seen a man discipline a slave before?”

  I started to speak, but his hand fell again: I actually felt the whoosh of air this time ahead of it. I yelped and struggled, my breath coming in hoarse gasps now. His other hand burrowed under me, seeking my naked sex. He cupped me and I moaned.

  “Perhaps I should ask Ismelda to come back in here....” He paused for effect. “To hold you down.”

  The thought of it made me go weak: the image of her tight, disapproving face glowering down at me, her hands on my shoulders as Jagor spanked me. His hand swung down again. Crack!

  “That’s three. I think you deserve ten,” he told me. His hand whistled down again, the pain exploding out like fire across my skin, but a deeper heat blossoming inside me. The hand on my sex started to massage me roughly and I let out a long, low groan. I could feel how wet I was.

  He spanked me a fifth time and my long bare legs kicked in the air, red heat crackling outwards down my thighs. His fingers were on my folds. Between them. “Ahh!”

  Jagor started to growl, a low rumble that set every one of my nerve endings twitching, making me pant harder and faster. His fingers suddenly strummed at my clit and I was bucking and shaking, my hair a tangled curtain as my head thrashed. He spanked me five more times, faster and faster and on the final one – even though I’d long since lost count of where we were – I came, my knees pulling up to my body, my head pressed hard against his leg.

  He slowly turned me and sat me up. I was red-faced and panting, all the blood having rushed to my head. I hadn’t cried, this time. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  “Better?” he asked me, and it was about much more than the argument.

  “Better,” I gasped. And it was. My question had been answered: I was his exkella and soon to be his wife, but I was going to be his slave too. Wife sex and slave sex. I could live with that.

  ***

  When we landed, a limo whisked us away. A Renault, I noticed, with what looked like government plates. I wondered if the whole French government had to drive Renaults.

  I’d presumed we were going to a hotel, but we stopped outside an apartment block. Medenko led us inside and into a private elevator. When we emerged, we were in the penthouse: a sprawling apartment with four bedrooms, three bathrooms and servants’ quarters. There was a small staff – by palace standards – just a chef and a butler. A small army of maids would visit while we were out each day, we were told.

  The apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows with views out over the city: I stood right in front of one with my arms stretched out along the pane, and it felt like I was flying. There was apparently a rooftop garden, too.

  We’d been there perhaps five minutes when the entry phone buzzed. I suspected whoever it was had been there cautiously early and had been cooling their heels across the street until they were sure we’d arrived. I wasn’t used to inconveniencing people: my whole life until then had been about standing in line without complaining and working late at a moment’s notice.

  The bodyguards carefully vetted the newcomer and then showed her into the lounge. She was a petite blonde woman, no more than 5’4” even in her towering heels. She glanced at me and I saw her eyes date, price tag and identify the brand of everything I was wearing. She gave a very discreet sniff of pained disapproval and then curtsied, as if she’d done it many times before.

  I was embarrassed, but a little part of me was singing inside. Someone was curtseying to me!

  “There’s no need to do that,” said Jagor, walking in. “Lucy is the Exkella: she’s not a princess yet.”

  Aww!

  The woman rose smoothly, as if she hadn’t been curtseying to me at all, and curtsied to him, instead. “Your Highness. Exkella. I am Patricia Bosse-Rameau.” She spoke in quick, heavily accented English, the syllables ground smooth as beach pebbles. “I am here to assist the Exkella with her wardrobe.”

  I marveled at the way she made assist sound like help the American idiot who has no concept of style.

  Jagor kissed me lightly on the back of the neck. “Then I will go.” And he left me alone to the cruel mercies of Patricia.

  First, she made me get out the suitcase I’d brought from New York. When I’d left Asteria, I’d left behind all the clothes Jagor had bought me, so these were my own clothes: what I wore for the UN. They weren’t expensive, but they were perfectly serviceable blouses, skirts and heels.


  Patricia lifted things out one by one, her expression carefully neutral. Then she put everything back and stepped back from the case.

  “Do you wish to wear any of these clothes, or would you prefer an entirely new wardrobe?” she asked. Her tone was neutral. Very, very neutral.

  “Um. I think perhaps a new wardrobe would be a good idea?”

  She nodded quickly and closed the case. I think she would have locked it and thrown away the key if I’d let her.

  Patricia measured me in about a hundred different places, not writing any of it down. Then she pulled out a smartphone the size and thickness of a playing card and spoke into it in machine-gun French.

  “Your clothes will arrive in fifteen minutes,” she told me. “I will ask your chef to bring coffee while we wait.”

  ***

  One whole side of the living area opened onto a balcony, so we sat out there while we sipped dark, smoky French coffee and talked. Patricia apparently flew around the world doing what she was doing now – fourteen cities, by my count, in the last few months – but was back on home turf to help me. After several minutes of feeling incredibly unstylish and dull by comparison, I was surprised when she asked, “Exkella, if I may ask: what is it like?”

  I actually thought she meant the UN. In my mind, I was still Lucy Snow, translator. I caught myself just before I said quite interesting if you like languages, but the headphones hurt your ears.

  “Being the Exkella?”

  “Asteria.”

  I kept forgetting that no outsiders ever saw it. “It’s...like Prague?” I’d never been to Prague, but I’d seen photos. “Very old, with a lot of money.”

  She wasn’t interested in the architecture, though. “Is it true what they say about the women?”

  I thought I could just detect a blush through all that ruthless efficiency. I was going to have to get used to explaining it, I realized, even though I barely understood all the details myself. “Depending on what you’ve heard...yes, probably.” There was a pause, and I wondered which of us was more embarrassed. “Was there something specific?”