PLAYBOY PRINCESS (gxg) ✓

03. Paris Young

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                "PARIS YOUNG." 

                 THE DELIGHT IN ALEC'S BLUE eyes shone like glass as Paris froze. 

                 Every thought emptied out of her head.

                 Because the last time she had heard that voice—the last time she had heard her name spoken like that—

                 It had been in Switzerland.

                 Vega's Boarding School For Ladies.

                 She remembered that it had been in between the wooden pews of the church. Rory on her knees in front of Paris, worship on her tongue. 

                A wicked, devout glint in her eyes.

                And a sinner's grin on that heavenly mouth.

                Paris Young. 

                She turned around.

                What had she been expecting? The same boyish mischief in her long-lashed eyes? The familiar hint of utter cockiness in her red-mouthed smirk? 

                Rory Preston, the young heiress to a kingdom she had never wanted.

                What did they call her nowadays? 

                Paris's fingers tightened over her keycard. The Playboy Princess. 

                But Rory didn't look the same as she had five years ago.

                Her cheekbones were high, gilded in an unfair glow. Her chestnut hair was long and flecked with snow, a silvery spray of pearls. And her mouth wasn't that lush red, the same red Paris had once licked off her lips, but natural. Soft and dewy and pink. There was an unfamiliar flex to her sharp jaw, but her eyes—they still watched with the same unwavering arrogance as always.

                Maybe Rory Preston was more beautiful than the last time Paris had seen her, but it didn't mean she had changed. 

                There was one thing different, though. The wheelchair.

                She had a snowboarding accident . . . 

                Rory's arms were braced on either side, hovering over the metal wheels. It seemed as though she had just rolled herself right into the hospital from outside.

                "Your Majesty," Paris said, and she knew her cheeks were flaming.

                "Young," Rory said. "Don't tell me we've got to be formal now." 

                Alec was still watching, but Paris didn't care.

                Not as she hissed, "We have to be professional. Nobody knows that we know each other. My colleagues don't—"

               "You mean, your colleagues don't know I've been between your legs?" Rory asked, drawing her tongue over her bottom lip. "They don't know I fucked you senseless at Miss Vega's All-Ladies Boarding Academy, where women are supposed to be prim and proper?"

                Paris opened her mouth, fire roaring in her ears.

                "You can't say that here, Rory—"