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“Last night, when we fucked, you knew you were taken, but you let me fuck you anyway?” He ground his teeth together. “And today, after having a date with him, you fucked me again.”
She gripped his arms. “I—we—didn’t do anything wrong. I hadn’t even met him before today.”
He closed his eyes, the muscle under his left eye ticking. She wasn’t making any sense. She’d never met him, but he was her fiancé, but he wasn’t. “You. Never. Met. Him.”
“Not until today.” She made a weird little sound. “He’s just someone my parents want me to marry. That’s all. I don’t even want to.”
“Then don’t. Don’t fucking do it.”
“It’s my duty,” she said, her voice cracking. “I have to.”
“Cut the shit.” He swiped his hand through the air. “I have to breathe. I have to blink. I have to drink water. But you don’t have to marry a fucking stranger. Not if you don’t want to.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. It’s about duty. Responsibility. And if it’s best for my country, then—”
“It’s best for you,” he growled. “Yeah. I got that.”
She raised her balled hands. “But—”
Unable to listen to another word about why she should marry a man she didn’t give two shits about, he growled and kissed her, cutting her off mid-sentence. She curled her hands into his shirt, fisted it, and yanked him closer. His mouth worked over hers, his tongue tasting hers while his hands roamed over her curves.
She was so soft. So warm. So perfect. So not his.
And for a second there…he’d wanted her to be his so fucking badly.
When he ended the kiss, his breathing was rapid. “I can’t believe you’re taken by a man you don’t even know. You’re his.”
She shook her head. “I’m not. Not yet.”
“I don’t play with technicalities.” He trailed his fingers over her jawline, locking gazes with her. “In my world, you’re either free or you’re not. You’re not. It’s over, unless you tell me you’re not going to marry him. Unless you tell me you’re not going to marry a man you don’t even know. Who you don’t even like.”
She swallowed hard. “I can’t say that.”
“So be it.” He pushed off the wall. “Good night, Princess.”
And with that?
He walked out of the room.
Chapter Eight
The next evening, Isabelle was ready to scream with frustration. Ever since she’d told Gordon about her parent’s wish that she marry George, he’d been so professional that it hurt. As a matter of fact, he rivaled Max for his polite, cool answers. He didn’t tell her what to do. Didn’t boss her around. Never told her she was insane for even thinking about marrying a man she didn’t care about at all. Always treated her with the utmost respect at all times.
She hated it.
As they walked toward the restaurant where she was due to meet up with the ambassador of her country, she stole a quick look at him. He wore a pair of shades, a dark black suit, a black tie, and a light gray shirt. His dark brown hair was styled into perfection, parted and placed in perfect accord on his perfect head. All of his tattoos were hidden under his suit jacket—but she knew they were there.
He looked like a proper bodyguard.
And hot. Really hot.
She swiped her sweaty palms across her dress. What would he do if she stopped walking, threw herself in his arms, and kissed him in the middle of the parking lot? It would reach her parents in a matter of hours, since her stylist and assistant were there, too. She’d be yelled at. Lectured. Crucified. But it just might be worth it.
Princesses don’t lower themselves to public displays of affection.
Oh, if only they’d seen what she and Gordon had done in the parking lot right before he’d found out about George. They’d die. Actually die.
“Everything okay, Princess?” Gordon asked, his tone casual.
