Darius

American Beauty drifted immediately to sleep. It was unbelievably adorable, her light sighs slipping through swollen lips, flushed face relaxed. I didn’t want to disturb her. I managed to remove the condom and toss it in the trash next the bed, and then I simply laid beside her watching.

She’d yielded so easily. Just gave herself to me. I hadn’t expected her to say yes. To docilely assume the position I suggested. Thought I’d have to command her surrender, trick her into it, even. I’d been ready for a worthy adversary in a battle of wills. But she was a natural submissive, even though her mind resisted. Her body had gone pliant, responded like it was made just for me. For my fingers to play, my tongue to lick.

And that delicious ass… mmm. American booty—so firm and round. My handprints still glowed pink on her smooth skin, like art on a canvas. I wanted to fuck her again. Spank her again. Take her ass next time. Chain her up, and keep her as my prisoner for the rest of the trip.

Which, actually, would be necessary.

She was trouble, for sure. Almost certainly a reporter, though she hadn’t admitted it. Young, but intelligent. She had nerve, showing up on this yacht. I needed to find out her name, and who she worked for. Mostly, I needed to keep her away from Kaspar. If she was responsible for another lurid story being printed about my deviant ways, it was one thing, but I couldn’t allow our future king’s reputation to be sullied.

So, yeah. She’d be my prisoner, and I’d train her in the art of submission.

I stroked a lock of hair back from her face, wanting to study the delicate bone structure, deconstruct what made her so beautiful.

She made a faint humming sound, and her eyelids fluttered open. Just a cat nap. For one brief moment, her eyes rounded with innocent awe, like she couldn’t believe she’d woken beside me. Then the wariness snapped into place, and she pushed herself to sit.

“Well…” Her gaze darted around the room, and she lunged for the t-shirt I’d given her earlier.

I caught her wrist. “I didn’t say you could cover up.”

Her face flushed, and she tugged to free her hand, eyes locked on mine with more curiosity than fear. Damn if her sweet nipples didn’t pebble up again. Had that tight pussy grown damp for me, too?

Her stomach rumbled.

I raised a brow. “Are you hungry, slave?”

She cracked a smile, which flickered with uncertainty, then returned to full wattage. “It’s slave, now? Not American Thighs?”

“It’s whatever I want to call you, even after you give me your real name. Which is…”

A resolute expression came over her face. “I’m going by Allegra here.”

I grabbed her other wrist and held both high in the air, lifting her pretty tits. With my free hand, I slapped her breast.

She gasped, her jaw dropping, eyes going wide. She’d probably never even heard of breast spanking.

I slapped the other one.

She struggled against my hold, panic creeping over her face.

I slapped each breast again. “Your name. Now.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but I knew it wasn’t from pain—I wasn’t slapping hard. My guess was that it had more to do with the helplessness and general fear about her situation.

I made my face stern. “Do I need to get the collar?”

That flipped her. Her pupils shrank with terror and she rolled away from me, making it hard to keep my grasp on her wrists. I leveraged my weight to haul her back, lifting her wrists high enough to stretch her arms taut, bring her shoulders up to her ears. “One name. Just your first. Give it now, or I’ll get the collar.” I wouldn’t. Not after I’d seen the real terror, but I’m not above a bluff.

“Ch-Chelsea!” The word came out in a rush, as if I had a choke chain on her and she was in danger of asphyxiation.

I released her wrists. “Good girl.” I stalked to the door like I was pissed. “Get in the shower and clean up.” I jerked my head toward the ensuite bathroom. “I’ll get some food.”

She rubbed her wrists and scrambled up to comply.

I opened the door, but turned back and pointed my finger at her. “Do not, under any circumstance, leave this room. If you do, I’ll whip you until you can’t sit. Understand, Chelsea?”

She nodded rapidly.

“Yes, sir,” I corrected.

Her nostrils flared and her jaw set, like that was the demand which had crossed a line for her. Funny what a girl’s limits were. Breast spanking was okay, but yes, sir was too much.

I waited, lifting both brows in expectation.

“Yes, sir,” she said sullenly.

I hid a smile. “Lock this door after me.” I held my ground until she came over to the door, wearing nothing but a pretty blush. I lightly touched her throat in one hand and fisted her hair in the other, so I had her immobilized, but without any actual squeeze on her neck. I knew the throat was a trigger for her and wanted to help her, through domination, ease some of its intensity. “And, baby, don’t make me knock twice or you’ll spend the rest of your time here in solitary confinement.”

Even though I wasn’t squeezing at all, she must have thought she was choking, because she clutched at my hands with a desperation that made me regret the move. But now that I’d started, I needed to go on.

I leaned close to her face but made my voice soft, soothing. “Be still, baby. You’re okay. You’re not choking. Eyes on me.”

She panted, digging her nails into my hand, but she did meet my eyes.

I didn’t move, just held her in that position, locked in my gaze.

Desperation flitted over her face, but after a long moment, her breathing slowed and the big brown Bambi eyes swam with unshed tears. “What?” There was hurt accusation in her tone.

“You’re okay, princess. I’m not going to hurt you. Not your throat, anyway. You can tolerate my touch.”

After two more breaths, the fight drained out of her. The expression in her eyes changed from fear to submission—a waiting for the next command from my master look. One that nearly took my breath away.

I stroked my thumb ever-so-lightly along her fluttering pulse. “Good girl. Lock the door now.” I released her and slipped out of the room.

“Yes, sir.” Her hoarse voice followed me, hitting me like a blow to the gut.

I liked her. Way too damn much.

Unfortunately, I already knew how this one ended. My name in mud as a result of yet another woman looking to profit from my family’s wealth and fame.

It would be just like Madison James all over again.

Chelsea

My legs wobbled as I stumbled to the shower, rubbing my neck. He hadn’t even squeezed it. Yes, I’d felt like I was choking, but when I looked in the mirror, there weren’t even fingerprints on my throat. My brain just immediately went to strangulation.

But what kind of perverse mind fuck was that? He purposely put in me in a position he knew would scare the shit out of me and then pulled me back from the ledge. Soothed me. Or was that just showing me he was the boss? That he had my number and could dial it at any time?

No. Well, yes, but no. Not quite. Because why tell me I’m okay? It was some sort of dominant trust exercise. That was my best guess. I knew exactly zero about BDSM, but it sort of made sense. He wanted me nervous, not scared.

I turned on the shower water, infinitely grateful he’d given this order. The water felt wonderful—a little too hot on my spanked ass—but still blissful. I stood under the spray, sorting through my thoughts.

Despite all Darius’ threats and even the way he’d manhandled me—spanked me and slapped my breasts—he’d been a gentleman, too.

He’d rescued me from the collar, tossed me his t-shirt. Had waited for my consent to have sex, even though I’d come in the guise of a prostitute paid to do whatever he wanted. And now he’d gone to get me food. So yeah. You could make a dom out of the royal, but you couldn’t take the royalty—or in this case, chivalry—out of the dom.

I went still, struck by a realization that I should’ve seen sooner. Darius Halsburg wasn’t a violent abuser of women; he was a dominant.

He never assaulted his girlfriend.

Or rather, whatever ‘assault’ occurred had been sex play. The woman who’d pressed charges—what was her name again? Madison something—had used the ol’ Monica Lewinsky trick. Seduce a public figure and powerful man, collect the evidence and use it to destroy him.

Or in Madison’s case, receive an enormous payoff to shut up and drop the case. But not before the duke’s name had been disgraced.

Bitch.

Her ploy had worked because he had a history of violence—when he was in his early twenties he’d pulled a Sean Penn and punched a camera man.

Goosebumps rose on my arms.

In that case, it had been in defense of a woman. He’d been protecting his girlfriend at the time from being hounded. Yes, all the clues still pointed to Darius being a gentleman. A rough-around-the-edges one, but a gentleman, nonetheless.

I suddenly wanted nothing more than to write the exposé on Madison. Her manipulation of what must have been a consensual BDSM arrangement. Because I was sure, now, it had been exactly that. If the duke asked and waited for my permission to have sex—a girl who had boarded the yacht as a call girl—I couldn’t believe he would abuse a partner.

Fearing I’d been in the shower too long and would miss Darius’ knock, I shut off the water and quickly dried with a soft towel. The luxury of it brought back my mind-blowing situation with a bang. I was on a two-hundred-million-dollar yacht with the Halsburg royals of Austrinia. I just had sex with Darius Halsburg!

As out of my comfort zone as I was, and even though two hours ago I was sure it had been the biggest and most dangerous mistake of my life, I now had no regrets for my decision to board Sweet Surrender under false pretenses. I would get an amazing story out of this, even it if was only my personal tell-all on being taken to task by the infamous Devil Duke.

But no, that felt wrong. One woman had used him that way and done irreparable damage. Even if my intent was to shine a sweeter light on the duke, he’d probably hate me for it. I could certainly write a big reveal on the playboy prince’s activities. But that didn’t feel right, either.

Well, I had three more days on this yacht to figure it out. In the meantime, my BDSM education had begun.

Darius

Chelsea answered the door in my t-shirt. Her thick, wet hair had dampened the shoulders of it and those American thighs looked smoking hot where they jutted out below the hem.

I gave her a disapproving look. “Shirt off.”

Fuck. Although she blushed, her look was pure come-hither as she pulled the shirt over her head, tits bouncing.

Aaaand I was a goner.

I handed her the plate of food. I’d love to make her kneel and eat from my fingers, but I didn’t think she was ready for that kind of submission. Don’t get me wrong—she loved surrender; she just didn’t know it yet.

“Thank you.” She accepted the food with a shy smile—the one that had knocked me on my ass the moment we’d met—and carried it to the bed, where she sat and placed it on her lap. The chef had put together a bread, cheese, fruit, and olive plate for me.

I picked up an olive and popped it in my mouth, watching as she arranged a piece of cheese on bread.

“I figured something out,” she said before taking a bite.

“What’s that?”

“That woman—Madison James—”

My eyes narrowed and my lip curled, all good humor fleeing. Now the little reporter comes out, sniffing for her story. The familiar feeling of being used turned my stomach. I stalked away to stand over a trashcan and spit out the olive pit with far more force than necessary.

“It was never assault, was it? Just BDSM?”

Smart cookie. I gave her the coldest look I could muster, the kind designed to wither fruit on a vine. “Keep up the questions, American, and I’ll put a ball-gag in that pretty mouth of yours.”

She stopped chewing, the color draining from her face. It appeared to take great effort for her to swallow. “I’m sorry, I—”

I gave a small but deliberate shake of my head, and she stopped speaking, like a good slave. She was a fucking natural. Too bad she had ulterior motives.

“Mention it again and I’ll punish you. Severely.”

She squirmed and the color returned to her face in a flush. I hoped she was imagining the most sordid forms of punishment possible.

My mood soured and I paced around the room, debating my next move.

As if she read my mind, Chelsea asked, “What are you going to do with me?”

I stopped and fixed her with an assessing stare. “It depends on you.”

She’d stopped eating, which I regretted, because I knew she was hungry. I walked over and took her chin, lifting her pretty face.

“Ready to tell me the truth?”

She shrank from my touch, but didn’t deliberately pull away. “I did tell you the truth. Allegra is my roommate.”

“Why are you here, Chelsea?” I kept my voice soft, but she shivered anyway.

She bit her lip, and her eyes slid to the side, unable to fully look away because I held her jaw.

“Don’t lie to me, baby. It’s one thing I won’t forgive.”

She lifted her gaze once more, boldness taking the place of doubt. “I won’t lie, then.”

I waited.

She said nothing more.

My temper flared. “I see.” I resisted the urge to pace again. “I think you underestimate the danger you’re in. If I tell Samson a reporter sneaked on board, he will destroy you. You see, Samson has underground connections all over the world. A few phone calls and he could ruin your career, your parents’ lives, anything you care about.” That was true, but I would ever actually hang her out to dry. It went against my very fiber. Protect. Pleasure. Train. Those urges couldn’t be ignored. The rest… the rest we’d figure out.

The pulse at her throat fluttered, and her breath had quickened, making those perky breasts rise and fall more rapidly. “Why didn’t you tell him already?” Her voice came out as no more than a whisper. Yep, smart cookie.

I blinked and turned away. Because my need to protect the female in my care trumps all else. Especially a woman like her. Despite her deceit, I saw a sweet innocence in Chelsea. The joy she’d taken with Shadow. The trust with which she’d given her body to me for pleasure and light punishment. They stood in contrast with the barriers she’d erected now, the stubborn ambition that drove her.

I swung around and pierced her with a glare. “You won’t be writing any story about my cousin. Not about this yacht, not about what you’ve seen. You will sign the NDA with your real name, or you won’t leave Sweet Surrender. Ever. Understand?”

She set her plate on the bed beside her with a trembling hand. “You’re going to just keep me here, forever? Don’t you think someone will come looking for me, eventually?” I saw from the flickers of fear on her face that no one would.

I made a tsking sound. “Who did you tell you were coming on this yacht, Chelsea?”

She sucked on her lower lip, her breath shortening. “Allegra knows,” she said in a small voice.

“Yes, Allegra. You’re close, are you?”

Chelsea’s eyes darted around the room, and she swallowed again. “You won’t keep me prisoner here.”

I let out a harsh laugh. “Won’t I? You have far too much faith in me.”

She lifted her chin. “No, I don’t. You’re not the bad boy they portray you as.”

“Stop.”

“Not even close. I don’t see the selfish playboy or a violent man.”

“Shut up.” I stalked over to her.

“All I’ve seen is a respectful gentleman who’s more concerned with protecting others than himself.”

Something splintered inside my chest. Something painful and real. To shut Chelsea up, to block out the intensity, I yanked her up and kissed her, hard. It wasn’t the sucking, nibbling kind of kiss. It was the bruising, teeth scraping, I-want-to-devour-you variety, and she softened to it immediately.

My good little sub who didn’t know she was a sub.

“Looks like you’re going to be my prisoner, then.”

Chelsea

Darius shuffled a deck of cards and dealt us each thirteen. We sat facing each other, cross-legged on his bed, the tray of food set between us. Shadow, his loyal dog, lay curled in a ball on the floor beside the bed.

He tossed the last card on his pile and flipped one over on the stack in the middle. “Queen of hearts.” He arched a brow at me like the card was significant. “I can’t believe you know how to play whist.”

“Why not?” I tossed down the first card of the first trick, a ten of spades.

He shrugged. “I thought Americans only played games like blackjack and gin rummy.” He tossed an eight.

I picked up the queen, since I won the trick. “My grandmother loved card games. She taught me every one she knew,” I told him, then cursed myself for offering up such inane conversation.

He picked up the face down card on the top of the pile and flipped over the following one. “Yeah? I learned them all from my father. He was an incurable… in English I think you call it a nerd.”

I snorted.

“Ja. Raised in isolation by his grandmother, the Duchess of Halsburg, he only knew the stuffiest parlor games, poor man. It’s a wonder he ever married. I used to wonder if my mother had actually died of boredom, not in childbirth as I’d been told.”

I choked on a laugh.

“It was just me and him for my entire childhood. I think he didn’t know how to relate to a child, except to hire the nannies. All he knew was games and polo, so that’s what he taught me.”

My mouth must’ve hung open.

“What? That my father was a nerd?”

It was more that he’d revealed this personal, extremely normal side of himself to me with no prompting, but I nodded, finally noticing that it was my play. I laid down a card.

“You thought I came from a long line of playboys? Nope. My black sheep status is largely a product of rebelling against the crippling boredom I was born into, lack of proper supervision, and then an early assumption of my father’s title.” Darius took the trick and picked up the face up card.

I drew from the pile and flipped over the next card. “How old were you—no wait—I’ve read this. Twenty-three?”

He grinned, and warmth trickled down to my toes. “Very good, American. Yes, twenty-three. Just a year younger than you are now. Although you are far more mature than I was at the time.” A shadow crossed his face, and I kicked myself for asking because it brought up his father’s suicide. I’d often conjectured that his wild streak, which worsened after he inherited the title, had been his form of grieving.

“You were probably already promoted to head journalist by twenty-three.” He winked at me and tossed out a king of diamonds.

My face heated at the teasing. “I’ve always been a little career focused.” I said it apologetically, like it was a bad thing. “My mom abandoned her career for a man. She had to drop out of college when my dad got her pregnant with me. She married him and put him through law school with her seamstress skills. She planned to go back to school when he was out, but he left us for his first secretary, and my mom was stuck with nothing but a sewing machine and me. So I wanted to make sure I had my career set before I married or had kids.” I realized he was staring at me as if I had said something quite fascinating. I tucked my hair behind my ear—my nervous tell. “I’m sorry, that was probably more than you wanted to hear.”

He smiled a little sadly. “We both tried hard not to become our parents, didn’t we?” He lifted his chin toward the cards in the middle. “It’s your play.”

“Sorry!” I flushed, embarrassed to have talked so much I’d forgotten the game.

“Don’t be. Cards are really just something to do with your hands while making conversation.”

My eyes lifted to his, surprised at this revelation. Was that why he’d pulled out the deck? Because he wanted conversation with me? I couldn’t be more stunned. Although, after all the crazy events that day, I shouldn’t be.

He shrugged. “That’s what my father always said. I imagine he found conversation awkward most times.”

“He has my complete sympathies.”

The duke’s gaze warmed. He looked almost… indulgently amused. “You don’t suffer social anxieties.”

My cheeks grew warm and I ducked my head. “Of course I do. All writers cling to the written word. That way we can edit until it’s perfect.”

“And the rest of us make a sport out of saying the wrong thing and shocking the press.” He gave a rakish grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. I had the sense he’d played this bad boy part so long it had become rote, yet it wasn’t really him.

The real him was so much more. And less. The devastatingly good-looking man in front of me wasn’t living life in the fast lane at the moment. He was playing an old-fashioned, slow card game with a simple American from the Midwest. Like he had during our shocking sex play earlier, I realized he was working to put me at ease without being obvious about it. Sharing less glamorous parts of his life, pretending mine were interesting.

I was certain now that the world had misjudged Darius Halsburg.

Terribly.