With my head poking around the corner, I can see her melting in his arms. She lets out a moan, and the Prince tangles his fingers in her hair. My eyes widen and a dagger of heat passes through my stomach.
I wonder if anyone will ever touch me like that? I can almost feel the need rolling off them in waves.
Hunter is correct. I’m a virgin. I’ve kissed a couple of guys—usually drunkenly, after they resigned themselves to the fact that they were never going to score with my sister—but I’ve never had a man touch me like the Prince is touching my sister.
My fingers curl around the edge of the building and I stare at the two of them, watching how the Prince’s hand sinks into my sister’s skin, how she melts into him and presses her body against his.
There’s a tightening around my eyes as I squint at them, my hands gripping onto the corner of the mansion. My lips part as my ribs squeeze me breathless. The Prince lets out a low groan, pulling my sister’s body into his.
Lucifer cackles and pats the seat he reserved for me in hell.
I know it’s weird. I’m watching my sister make out with someone…and I think I’m kind of turned on? Or am I just jealous?
I bite my lower lip, wanting to tear my eyes away. I don’t, though, and it’s a mistake.
A big mistake.
Because while my head is poking around the corner of the house, the Prince’s eyes flick up and meet mine. The second his gaze lands on my eyes, embarrassment engulfs me in a bath of fire. My stomach bottoms out, and a gasp stays stuck somewhere in my throat.
If a normal guy saw someone watching as he made out with a girl, he would probably stop what he was doing. A normal guy might call out and ask who it was that’s creeping around the side of the building.
Not Prince Luca.
No, the Prince tightens his hold on my sister, and keeps kissing her as he watches me.
For an interminable and extremely uncomfortable moment, we stare at each other. His eyes are dark and enchanting, and they keep me rooted in place. I can’t look away, or move, or even breathe. Heat blooms in my stomach, between my thighs, all the way down to my toes. He pulls my sister’s head back, kissing her neck and lifting his eyes to me again.
My heart hammers against my chest so hard I think it might break through my ribs.
I’m going to pass out.
Tearing myself away from his gaze, I lean my back against the side of the house. My chest heaves as I suck in the cool night air. I close my eyes and try to regain control over my racing heart.
My body is a mess. I’m sweaty and shaking. I’m embarrassed…
…and I like it?
I hear the Prince’s low, deliciously growly voice say something that I can’t make out, and then the front door opens and closes.
I let out a breath, staring up at the starry night sky. The roof of my mouth is still raw and tender, and I run my tongue over the rough skin. Then I shake my head, get on my scooter, and I drive to the diner.
The whip of the air around my body shakes the last of the heat from my veins. I drive fast—faster than I normally would—wanting to put as much distance between myself and the Prince as possible.
Georgie was telling the truth. She has two milkshakes ready and waiting in our favorite booth in the Grimdale Diner. Her family inherited the diner from their parents, and the seven of them run it together. The booths are still cracked, green vinyl, the jukebox in the corner hasn’t worked in years, and the faded pictures on the wall are from old Farcliff and classic Hollywood.
Georgie and Giselle grin at me from one side of the booth. Georgie’s midnight blue hair is tied in two braids that hang on either side of her face, and Giselle’s bright orange hair is pulled up in a high ponytail. Georgie pushes my milkshake toward me—vanilla, always—and takes a sip of her strawberry-flavored one.
“I should have asked Irving to put vodka in your shake,” Georgie grins. Their eldest brother runs the diner, and he’s like a big brother to me, too.
Giselle nods her head at me. “You look like you need a bit of alcohol.”
“Maybe if I wanted to vomit.” The vinyl seat creaks as I slide in, leaning my head against the back and letting out a heavy sigh.
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
Georgie flicks a blue braid over her shoulder and grins. She takes another sip of milkshake and waits for me to continue.
“I saw Prince Luca making out with my sister.” I grimace.
The twins’ eyes sparkle. They nod in unison.
“Go on,” Giselle says.
“He saw me looking at them…” A blush creeps over my cheeks as I relive the embarrassment all over again. “…and then he kept kissing her while he stared at me.”
“Wow, very weird,” Georgie says. She exchanges a grin with her twin, and they both nod again. “I love it.”
“It was awful.” I shake my head, pinching the bridge of my nose.
My best friends laugh, and the embarrassment of the evening fades ever so slightly. I take a sip of my milkshake as Irving drops a big piece of pie on the table.
“Strawberry and rhubarb. I tweaked the crust recipe slightly for extra flakiness. Let me know if you can taste the secret ingredient.”
I sniff the pie, and my face breaks into a wide smile. “Ginger.”
Irving shakes his head, smiling. “You’re too good, Ivy. Didn’t even have to taste it.”
“Smells amazing.” I force a smile, but my thoughts drift back to the Prince. I can still feel the tendrils of heat that tease the edges of my womb, faint reminders of the heat of his gaze…
…while he Kissed. My. Sister.
What the hell is wrong with me?
4
Luca
When Margot and I stumble inside, I run my hands over her fit, near-perfect body. She kisses me, and then pulls away. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes look a little hazy from drinking. Or did she take something else? Maybe she’s a lightweight.
“You want to come upstairs?” she drawls.
Unease twinges in the pit of my stomach. She’s far from sober.
Margot arches a fine eyebrow and holds out her manicured hand. I nod, letting her lead me upstairs. Her house is nice, with a wide staircase leading up to the second floor. The place stinks of new money. The rugs are thick, the art is modern, and the decor is sterile.
I hate it.
But I let this pretty, young woman take me by the hand and lead me to her bedroom. Her king-sized, four-poster bed is made, which I like. Nothing bothers me more than someone who’s messy.
Margot fumbles with my buttons and I stand there, not moving. I know I would hate myself if I fucked her right now. She’d wake up and she might regret it, or she might not—but I know I would. When she finally gets my shirt unbuttoned, she pushes it off my shoulders and lets out a giggle.
“Your body is royally hot.” The actress looks up at me through her eyelashes, giving me her best sexy pout. Her hand drifts down to the outside of my pants.
I glance down at my crotch.
No movement.
I clear my throat. “I have to pee. Bathroom?”
Margot nods to a door beside us, and I gently extricate myself from her hold. I wink at her and give her a soft kiss on the lips before disappearing into her ensuite.
Once inside I let out a sigh. What the hell is wrong with me? Usually, I’d be ready to go. I’d have her splayed out on top of the bed and I’d be plowing her from here to Argyle. Leaning against the sink, I close my eyes and try to gather myself.
It’s because of Cara. I know it is. Being close to her at the event tonight threw me off. I just can’t get used to seeing her with my brother, even though it’s been over a year since they were married. I can’t see my life without her by my side. I can’t imagine her spending it with someone else.
The day I found out they were engaged was the same day I took my first step after an experimental operation and lots of physiotherapy. It was the best and worst day of my
life. I’d thought of Cara constantly after the accident that made me paraplegic, and the thought of coming back to her was what got me through the low, low months that followed.
Then, I became a miracle, and my life became a nightmare. All in the same day.
We were attached at the hip from the time we were toddlers until the time I jumped off a cliff into water that was a little too shallow. When I broke my back, everything changed. I thought I’d be with her forever, and I still can’t get used to the fact that it won’t happen.
She couldn’t wait for me. She couldn’t even visit me.
When I was sent off to Singapore for my seventh operation, she kissed me on the lips and told me she loved me. Then, four years later—one year ago—she married my fucking brother and became my Queen.
Is that what she calls love?
I turn the faucet on and let it run, watching the water for a few moments. Then, I open the medicine cabinet and have a look. I glance over my shoulder, listening for any noise on the other side of the door.
I hear nothing.
Margot’s got Prozac, Celexa, Zoloft—all three bottles old and expired—a bunch of antihistamines, some bullshit fat-burning supplements, and some Advil. Nothing too interesting. Nothing too fun. Sort of like Margot. I close the medicine cabinet and splash a bit of water on my face. Patting it dry, I rack my brain for a way to get out of this situation.
I need to stay with Margot, if only to make Cara jealous. I don’t give a shit about the fact that my PR team wants us together for the month, but I did love the daggers that Cara was shooting at me.
So, I can’t insult Margot by leaving—but I also can’t fuck her. Not when she’s drunk and falling over herself. The way she was slurring her words did nothing to make me want to fuck her. My cock seems to have forgotten how to function properly.
Bracing myself, I open the door, only to see Margot passed out across the bed, snoring softly. My shoulders relax as I let out a sigh of relief, and I slip out through the bedroom door.
Padding silently through the house, I start opening doors at random.
What can I say? I like snooping.
I think you can tell a lot about a person by the way they keep their house. I open a bedroom that’s obviously a guest room. Two bathrooms, a home gym, another guest room.
Then, at the opposite end of the house from Margot’s room, I finally find a room that seems to be inhabited. It smells fantastic. Like fresh laundry with a sweet, feminine undertone. Maybe a bit like cinnamon? I inhale the scent deep into my lungs, and my cock stirs.
Down, boy.
I walk to the vanity, where pictures are stuck to the mirror. Staring at them, I see a young Margot with a dark-haired girl—her sister? The dark-haired girl has a dimpled smile and eyes that sparkle, even in a picture. In another shot, she has her arms slung around a pair of twins. All three of them are laughing at something.
It feels wrong to be looking at these intimate pictures, but I can’t look away. On the vanity is an old, carved box. I flip it open and find old, stained cards. Pulling one out, my eyebrows arch.
Recipes—hundreds of them. They’re organized alphabetically and split into meal categories, and the Type A side of me nods in approval. I close the box again and lay on the bed, stretching out across the pillows.
Is it weird for me to be here?
Kind of.
Do I care?
Not even a little bit.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the hard cigarette case where I keep my joints. I light one up as I stare around the room. It’s tidy, but it feels like home. My thoughts flick to the girl that was peeking around the corner of the house. Is this her room?
She was staring at me making out with her sister. Maybe she’s just as much of a creep as I am. I ash my joint into the glass of water on the bedside table, folding my other arm behind my head. I watch smoke swirl up and dissipate before it hits the ceiling, taking in all the trinkets and pictures that dot the room.
This room doesn’t feel as sterile as all the others. It feels lived in.
It feels real.
As weird as it sounds, I like being in here. It’s like a home I never knew I was missing.
After a time, I get up off her bed and head back to Margot’s room. She’s still passed out on her bed, so I close the door and head downstairs.
There are very few personal touches around the house. Everything is perfectly displayed, perfectly arranged, perfectly designed. In the living room, there’s a huge painting of Margot on the wall, naked, with her arms and legs strategically placed to hide all the fun bits. I arch an eyebrow, tilting my head.
She’s definitely hot. Maybe when she’s sober, I’ll fuck her.
Maybe her sister would want to join.
It’s not until I’m in the kitchen that I get that feeling again—the feeling that someone actually lives here. It smells incredible in here. There’s a bright yellow stand mixer in the corner and beside it, a tray of fresh-baked cinnamon buns.
My stomach rumbles, and suddenly I feel hungry. No, not hungry. I feel like my stomach is an empty pit, and even if I filled it with all the food in the world, I could still eat more.
I descend on the buns like a pack of hungry seagulls who just spotted a toddler with a corndog. The first cinnamon bun, I inhale in about three seconds flat. The second takes me a few seconds longer, but definitely less than a minute.
I groan in pleasure, stuffing my face with soft, sweet dough, cinnamon, and—apples! I laugh as I rip another cinnamon bun open. There are pieces of apple in here! I ate the first ones too fast, but this one, I really taste. It tastes like doughy magic.
I eat another.
And then another.
And then another.
They’re. So. Fucking. Good.
Better than sex. Not that I’ve had sex tonight, but this food triggers something in the pleasure center of my brain. A rush of dopamine floods through me and I laugh, my mouth full.
I don’t even hear the door open, or footsteps, or anything before a voice makes me jump.
“What the fuck?”
I turn around and I see her. The girl from the photos. Dark, almost black hair—it’s messy, and she has a big red mark across her forehead. She arches her eyebrows, staring at me.
“I said, what the fuck? What are you doing?”
I chew, looking her up and down. She’s wearing jeans—faded and ripped on the thighs—and a plain white t-shirt. A leather jacket is slung over her arm, and she’s carrying a tiny backpack. In the other hand, she has a helmet, and the mark on her forehead makes sense.
I swallow. “I’m eating a cinnamon bun.”
Her cheeks flush as her eyes flick to the empty plate behind me. Her lips—blood red, with the bottom lip slightly fuller than the top one and an exaggerated cupid’s bow—are perfect. I want to taste them, too. Her eyes flash with anger, and my cock twitches.
“Did you eat them all?” Flinging her bag, jacket, and helmet on the kitchen island, she stomps over to me. The girl stares at the plate and then back at me. I catch that smell again—fresh and sweet and feminine. Desire twinges in the pit of my stomach.
I grin. “They were delicious.”
Her plump red lips fall open and she shakes her head. “All of them? I was looking forward to one of those in the morning.”
“So? Just buy more.”
“I made them, you knucklehead.” The girl stares at me, eyes blazing, and all I want to do is bend her over the kitchen counter and drive my cock into her. I want to make those cheeks even redder as she screams my name. I want to grab fistfuls of her ebony hair and twist it as she comes all over my cock.
I take a step toward her, suddenly keenly aware that I’m still not wearing a shirt. She seems to realize that at the same time, her eyes drifting over my chest.
I lift a finger up, brushing it over her soft, round cheek. She stares up at me, unmoving, as if she’s frozen on the spot—just as she did outside when she watched m
e with Margot. The tension grows between us. Her lips call out to me, begging to be kissed. Her body is soft, and supple, and exactly what I need right now.
But it’s her eyes that make me want her. One is blue, and the other one is a pale green color, and they’re both full of pain and hardship and complicated history.
“Your eyes are different colors,” I say in a gravelly voice.
She snaps out of her stupor and jerks away from me. “Keenly spotted, Sherlock. Got any other revelations for me?”
Reaching behind me, the girl grabs the plate that used to have cinnamon buns on it. Her arm brushes against my side, and the blush on her cheeks deepens. She keeps her gaze averted, taking the plate to the dishwasher without sparing me a glance.
I grin. “Are you embarrassed that I’m not wearing a shirt? You can look, if you want. You can even touch. I won’t bite…unless you want me to.”
Finally, she lifts her eyes up to me. “First of all, ew. Second of all, I’m not in the habit of having my sister’s sloppy seconds, but thanks.”
“That’s disappointing.”
Her blush extends up to her hairline, up to the fading red mark on her forehead.
“What’s your name?” I inch closer to her.
She closes the dishwasher, throwing me a disgusted glance. “Ivy.”
“Ivy,” I repeat, tasting her name on my tongue. “Maybe I should call you Poison, because you’re killing me standing there like that.”
That dumb line makes her stare at me, and a surprised laugh falls through her lips. She shakes her head as I take another step toward her.
I need her. I need to feel her skin under my palms. I need to taste her, kiss her, make her mine. I need those two-toned eyes to drink me in, and I need to hear her moan in my ear.
Ivy’s jaw juts out and her eyebrow arches. “Do those stupid lines actually work?”
“You tell me.” I erase the distance between us, sweeping my arm around her back. My other hand runs up her delicate neck, cupping her cheek. I run my thumb over her red lips, dragging it across her full lower lip. Her breath teases the edge of my finger, and my cock throbs between my legs.
Knocked Up by the Broken Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance Page 3
