Bad Boy Prince: A British Royal Stepbrother Romance by Vivian Wood

party apartment, especially the gorgeous balcony and hot tub overlooking the Stanfeld Gardens below.
    It’s a leftover from the old me, from my old life, but I haven’t been able to get rid of it yet. Like so many things from my past, like the leftover feelings for Kit that have risen to the surface tonight.
    It’s been five years. I’m over it. I haven’t been that guy in a long, long time.
    Pushing thoughts of the past out of my head for the hundredth time tonight, I head straight into my bedroom and open drawers, sorting through stacks of fresh laundry until I find a set of flannel pajamas for Kit. They’re going to drown her, they’re so big. Fine by me. Now that we’re here in my apartment, I’d rather her considerable assets be well-hidden than on display and within reach.
    She saunters into my bedroom in her bare feet, her hair mussed and lipstick a little smeared. She sits on the edge of my bed.
    “Here,” I say, tossing her the pajamas. “I’m the only one who gets to be naked in this apartment. There are three spare bedrooms and a nice couch, find somewhere to crash.”
    Kit doesn’t move, just tilts her head. She bites her lip, her eyes traveling up and down my body, and in that moment I would give everything I own to know what she’s thinking.
    “You look different,” she says, her lashes lowering to disguise her thoughts. “Taller, at least.”
    “Kit…” I begin, but what is there to say? There’s too much left unspoken between us, old riddles and wounds, and this is just not the time to open that door.
    Hell, there will probably never be a proper time for it. What good could possibly come of talking about that argument? The night she kissed my lips, crept out of my palace bedroom, and disappeared from my life?
    Yeah, I am not in the fucking mood to unravel the mysteries of Kit tonight.
    I unlace and kick off my Doc Martens, then pull my shirt off. I won’t say I don’t feel a rush of pleasure at the way Kit’s eyes widen when she sees the effects of all the hours I put in at the gym. Or maybe she’s more shocked at the fact that I’m dripping with tattoos, dark whorls of ink on my shoulders, pecs, arms, and sides.
    “See something you like?” I ask. Just for a second, I want to make her as tense as I feel right now, want to see if I can make her blush.
    Kit’s eyes leave my chest to lock with mine. They’re a little darker than usual. I wonder if it’s just the alcohol, or if she’s feeling as twisted up and curious as I am.
    “Rex…” she says. She shifts on my bed. Her dress hitches up, flashing her black lace garter.
    That’s all it takes; I’m hard as a fucking rock, thinking about how the sweet, innocent Kit I used to know has changed. The girl who was so wholesome that it nearly killed her to ask me to fuck her the first time, to take her v-card.
    And yet here she is on my bed, garters clinging to her thighs, looking at me with those big doe eyes. In two strides, I’m standing over her. In another beat, I’m trailing a fingertip over that garter.
    She’s not wearing stockings, so the garter must connect to something else she’s wearing.
    “Rex,” she says again. I don’t look at her, though. I look at the garter, slip my finger under it and test its elasticity. I pull it and let it bounce back against her bare skin with a snap.
    “Kit,” I say. “You really shouldn’t be here tonight.”
    Her cheeks are flushed this delicate shade of pink, her lips redder than fresh blood.
    “You brought me here, Rex.”
    I have to touch her; I think I’ll die if I don’t touch Kit, right this second. I can’t seem to stop myself from reaching out and pulling the silky blonde curtain of her hair back over her shoulder.
    Her lips part on a soft gasp when I run my thumb over her collarbone, when I tug her earlobe, when I brush the sensitive underside of her jaw.
    Her intake of breath is audible. She’s either about to moan or protest, and I can’t stand either, for very