Page 6 of The Bodyguard

I ignore them, and instead, use the other door in his office that takes me onto the street.

The scent of her now fills my nostrils. My arm is curled just under her ass and my skin tingles with the softness of her body.

When the king had called me in for the meeting that evening, he had instructed me to pack for two weeks and scout out a safe house. One so secluded that only I knew my way out.

After meeting with the king, his request made sense. I have to protect the princess from herself.

I head toward a nondescript four-wheel drive, already packed with the princess's luggage, provisions, and now my own duffel bag.

I open the door and deposit the still riotous princess into the passenger seat. Without breaking my hold on her, I throw her handbag on the back seat and then reach into my bag at the foot of the seat for the set of handcuffs that, surprisingly, the king had also instructed me to bring as well.

And now I know why I need them too.

I slip the cold metal onto her delicate wrists, capturing both her hands in front of her. Then removing my belt, I loop it through the cuffs and secure it to the inside of the door handle.

But that still leaves her legs free, and she uses her silky limbs dangerously. By the time I come around to the driver’s seat, the princess has swiveled her sleek body so her legs are over the driver’s seat, kicking out madly.

But then something happens. She realizes her short skirt is around her waist, not that there was much to speak of anyway.

She stops shouting, and as demurely as she can, she swipes her long legs off the seat, then awkwardly tries to lower her skirt.

With her legs no longer blocking my seat, I get into the car and start the ignition. I don’t torture myself with the image of her white cotton panties.

Her skirt is still bundled around her waist. I don’t torment myself with the sight of the sweet vee at her thighs.

She clears her throat. I put the car into gear, ready to take off.

“If… if you would, please... Can you lower my skirt?” she asks eventually.

Fuck.

I turn off the car.

She’s long since lost her wig, and now she’s blowing her shiny tresses out of her eyes, tossing her head this way and that. Both her hands are awkwardly handcuffed to the car door’s handle. She’s at my mercy.

I don’t breathe. I twist my body, lean over her, grip the hem of her skirt, and pull it down. She helps by trying to lift her ass, but that only brings her face closer to mine.

I yank harder and manage to get her skirt over her thighs, at least over as much as the leather would cover.

I then reach out, and her soft gasp, as I gather her glossy tresses in my hand, heats my blood and makes my cock ache for a split second. I tuck her dark locks behind her ear; my fingertips brush against her skin as I do so. The skin on her thighs is as soft as the satiny skin on her face.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

I clench my fingers before gripping the steering wheel again with a super iron-clad hold to delete the utter smoothness of her from my touch.

We drive in silence for more than ten minutes before she breaks it.

“So what,” she starts, all royal and haughty. “You’re going to kidnap me for two weeks, and then bring me back in time for my wedding?”

She knows that’s what I’m going to do, but she had to throw the word "kidnap" in there.

I don’t say anything. I already told her what I was going to do. I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.

“Just because my father instructed you to do this, doesn’t make it right, or me any less a person with basic human privileges. One of them, not to be taken against my will. I am a grown woman, and this is kidnapping.”

She’s not basic.

“Does that mean I’m not allowed common decency? The ability to make my own decisions? I’m an adult and demand to be treated like one.”

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