Twisted Games: A Forbidden Royal Bodyguard Romance

“Five days in paradise,” I drawled. “Swimming, sunbathing, fucking—”
“Rhys.”
“What, you don’t like the itinerary?”
“Lower your voice,” she hissed, her face the color of the tomatoes on her plate. “People will hear.”
“No one’s listening.”

Jules sighed. “Tell your man he’s hot as hell but a total buzzkill.”

“He’s not my man. He’s my bodyguard.” I lowered my voice, but I thought I saw Rhys pause for a millisecond before he resumed polishing his knife.

“Even worse. He’s running your life and you’re not getting any dick from it.”

“Jules.”

Stella laughed. Fashion design and communications major. Daughter of an environmental lawyer and the chief of staff to a cabinet secretary.

British lord once tried to grope me under the table at Monaco’s Rose Ball. He only stopped after I “accidentally” stabbed his hand with a fork.

British lord once tried to grope me under the table at Monaco’s Rose Ball.

big, infuriatingly sculpted body.

My new bodyguard had to be at least six foot four, maybe even six-five, with solid, sculpted muscle packed onto every inch of his powerful frame. Longish black hair grazed his collar and fell over one gunmetal-gray eye, and his legs were so long he ate up the distance between us in three strides.

I might’ve imagined it, but I thought I felt his thumb rub the soft skin of my wrist.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“It’s fine.” I was too distracted by what might or might not be happening to my wrist to come up with a better answer.

“It is simple.” Rhys spoke with such quiet confidence it resonated in my bones. “I made a mistake when I left, and I’m fixing it.”

I let out a soft laugh. “When have things ever been easy for us?”