by Nicole Snow
I want my money. I want dad to get better. And I want to go home to our boring middle class condo in boring old LA, where Kings and Queens are just something you see in movies or read about in trashy blogs.
Only one way to make that happen, to speed things along to their inevitable, probably catastrophic conclusion.
I dial dad without listening to the voice mail. “Hello?”
“It's me,” I say, hearing a strange machine whirring loudly in the background. “What's that noise?”
“Fluids cycling. It's a kind of chemotherapy, my dear. I'm sitting up right now, trying to distract myself while they pump this poison through my veins.”
“They're doing their best to heal you, dad,” I whisper, hating the tension in his voice. “How're you feeling?”
“Very restless the last few days,” he says slowly. “It's not the treatment. That's going fine, and I'm taking it as well as I should be. Rather, I'm having a hard time because my own fucking daughter decided to marry a goddamned Prince without saying a word about it.”
Shit. My stomach does a nosedive. I'm speechless for at least thirty seconds, trying to pull out of it, and keep myself from running to the bathroom to vomit.
“It's not like that.”
What am I saying? It's exactly like that.
“Bullshit. Erin, I don't know what he's offered you, but you don't have to do this. Don't do it for my sake. I raised you better than selling yourself out for anything, including me. I'd rather die than be a bargaining chip.”
“Daddy, it's not like that! Silas is a good man, when he wants to be. He would've flown you there anyway and given you treatment. That's exactly what he did, before I agreed to anything.”
“Silas?” I can hear him smirking over the phone. “You're on a first name basis with the Prince? Jesus Christ, Erin. Guess it makes sense, seeing how you're going to get hitched.”
He's got me by the throat. I want to lie, tell him that we're truly in love, and he'll see how wrong he is very, very soon.
But it's such a load that even I don't believe it. Neither will he.
“You need to get better,” I say, the only thing I really can. “You'll understand someday. Just trust me, daddy. Please.”
“Don't worry. I'm going to try to kick this thing, whatever happens. If I live, I'm going to figure out how to get you off that damned island before I wind up dead from disappointment. There isn't a cure for that.”
Disappointment? It hurts, but I can't blame him. I still can't believe I'm doing this.
Is it too late to walk away? To take a car without Silas chasing me, and hop the first plane to Mexico City so I can apologize up and down to my father in person?
No. I'm all in, and it's already too late.
“I'll find my way, dad. Don't waste any energy on me. Get better.”
He doesn't say anything. When I look at my phone, it's blank, the call terminated without a last goodbye.
There's a terrible urge to hurl the damned thing across the room. Before I can, there's a loud tap at the door.
Horrific timing. I creep up to it and put my ear close, yelling through the thick, ornately carved wood. “What?”
“His Highness has requested an audience tonight, madame. Seven o'clock, and strictly voluntary.” It's Dean, a voice I vaguely recognize belonging to the man who's been assigned to me personally, posted outside.
“Tell His Highness that I'm resting again tonight. I don't want to be disturbed unless there's food involved.” Fuming, I do a full 360 degree turn, realizing I've forgotten one thing. “Make sure I get a bottle of wine, too. I could use it tonight.”
“Of course, Miss Warwick. I'll relay the message to Prince Silas and the staff. If you need anything else, I'll be here until at least nine, before the shift change, and –“
I stop listening. I'm heading for the bathroom where I can soak for a long bath.
Maybe it'll help drown my inner bitch for the time being. Or if it doesn't, then it should at least tide me over until the wine comes. Tonight, I'm going to forget my father, my predicament, and the persistent asshole who's sucked me into all this.
I'm half asleep, surrounded by soft, cloud-like foam in the steamy bath when there's another knock at my door.
“Yeah, who's there?”
“Dean, madame. I have dinner and a gift for you.”
Gift? From who?
I don't even need to ask. I have an ugly feeling I already know.
My nose wrinkles, and I stand up, stretching while my naked skin drips fresh glacier water and thousand dollar soap.
“Leave it on the table outside, please!”
“As you wish.”
I step out of the huge tub and start drying myself off while I hear him enter with a cart on wheels. It only takes him a few seconds to lay out the dishes and whatever my – ugh – gift is on the table outside.
By the time he leaves my room and I hear the lock click into place behind him, a heavenly smell punches me in the nose.
Dinner. My gently growling belly becomes an earthquake.
Slipping into a fresh silk robe, I don't bother drying my hair, heading out to where my precious food awaits.
It's absolutely perfect, of course. There's a nice sized steak slathered in buttery goodness, just the way I want it, with citrus glazed vegetables and roasted marrow off the side, still in the bone. I don't even need to cut it to see that it's medium rare, just the way I like, cooked to perfection by chefs who are probably imported from the finest schools in Paris.
They've remembered the wine. Except, instead of a cork, there's some weird metal object stuffed into the top. A small card hangs off it, hooked to the loop with the diamond in the middle. It's a little tag, with a man's thick, black ink scrawled on it.
I'm going to help you unwind, one way or another, Princess. Look in the box of chocolates, too. - HRH
Rolling my eyes, I grab the bottle and pull out the stopper. It's got to be a joke that he's using the His Royal Highness abbreviation in his note to me.
But when the strange, heavy stopper comes out with a loud pop, what I'm looking at isn't a joke at all.
It's a vibrator. Gold plated with stripes of silver running through it, or maybe even platinum. What else from his royally ridiculous and filthy highness?
I slam it down on the table, clenching my teeth. Of course, it accidentally triggers the switch, that diamond on the end of the ring. It buzzes and jerks until I cover it with my hands, struggling to turn it off.
My eyes dart around nervously. I used to have one of these back home, before the noise became a huge liability. First with dad, and then with my roommates.
Suddenly, I'm not as hungry. I don't even want to look in the box of chocolates. I'll probably find a huge dildo, or something even nastier.
Pulling my chair roughly across the Turkish rug, I sit, pouring my wine glass so full it almost overflows.
I need to eat. Need to distract myself from the fact that Prince Asshole thinks he can send me sex toys.
I'm not stupid. Everything he does is painfully obvious. He's rubbing the no sex rule right in my face by trying to get me to rub something else.
All horror aside, the wine tastes good. The food, magnificent.
Silas' insanity won't ruin a meal like this. I dig in with a hungry, American etiquette that would probably leave the chef who prepared it shaking his head.
The only thing I'm craving by the end is something sweet. I can't remember the last time I had a piece of chocolate. Not since coming to Saint Moore, certainly.
I'm looking at the rectangular gold box like a fish stares at bait on a hook. Yes, it's a trap.
I just know I'm going to find something worse than the stupidly expensive vibrating bullet inside. Is the chocolate worth the price?
Reaching out nervously, I drag the box toward me and pull the little red bow wrapped around it loose. The package falls open. About a dozen of the most divine truffles I've ever laid eyes on surround a little compar
tment in the middle, housing something that looks like a small gold necklace.
I pop the first truffle in my mouth and let myself melt from the fireworks dancing on my taste buds before I pull the gold chain out. When I see the two little pinchers hanging on the ends, I gasp.
The clamps slip out of my hand and clatter gently on the table. Jesus.
I remember back to the conversation in the car, just a couple days ago, when he joked about seeing me naked, handcuffed, and locked up in these.
What kind of girl does Silas think I am?
It's like he doesn't know that he's dealing with a virgin who's never felt comfortable enough with a man to let her inner freak out. Or maybe he knows exactly what I am, and that's what gives him the eerily accurate insight about what turns me on.
Tight, wet, and very taboo desire burns between my legs. I pinch my thighs together, chewing another truffle, unsure whether I should be more disgusted at him or myself for taking a second look at these terrible gifts.
Oh, and there's another little notecard tucked into the empty shell I pulled the clamps from.
In case you wondered, I'm not breaking our agreement, it says in his all too familiar bold, angry script. No sex means you and me going skin on skin. I'm perfectly entitled to send you fuck toys, and you're more than welcome to send me pictures of you using them, love.
I don't read it a second time. I'm standing up, ripping up the card, and that's when I realize how fucking wet I am.
The bastard has a scary way of feeding on my frustrations. Turning the grossest things into things I crave like magic.
Maybe I should do the unthinkable – get this out of my system.
I drain the tall glass of wine while the fiery, insistent tingle coursing through my body deepens. My robe falls off before I'm heading for my room, grabbing my glass, the bottle, and the two illicit gifts on the way.
Fine, I'll let myself explore if that's what it takes to scratch this itch. Alone.
Hell no, I won't send him pictures. I won't be caught dead with him knowing I've ever touched his filthy offerings.
This is for me, myself, and I. My pleasure, not his.
The canopy bed I've been sleeping in must have a two hundred year old frame. Each night, I'm half expecting a dashing vampire to come flying in through the glass doors leading to the balcony, making my trip back to romantic Victorian times complete.
Only, tonight there's no vampire fantasy. There's nobody on my mind except Silas as I lay down, completely naked, and tease the golden bullet against my clit.
I'm way past sopping wet. My hot, aching pussy leaks all over the thousand stitch sheets, freakishly horny in this strange, infuriating place that's beyond my class and everything I ever thought I'd be.
I hate him for putting me in this situation. I hate his toys, his presence, the very air he breathes.
But he's all I'm thinking about as I move the humming metal through my folds, focusing its energy on the little bud that won't stop pulsing, burning, begging for Silas.
My clit is a traitor. It doesn't see Prince Asshole, Prince Playboy, Prince Fuck Off Forever.
It only sees Prince Hung and his ridiculous gifts. It wants to feel him, too.
Oh, shit. Holy hell.
I'm going to come soon, thinking about his tongue, his fingers, his big and legendary cock shaking me to my core.
First, I ease up, gripping the golden clamps tightly in my hand. They're easier to attach than I expected. The hard, angry bite sinking deep into each tender nipple right now is exactly what I need.
Pleasure hits my brain, rougher than before.
So real, so precise, it scares me out of my wits. I'm going, going, gone.
Given over to the need for a hate fuck overwhelming my body, making me grit my teeth and pant his name through my teeth.
“Silas, you asshole. No pictures. I can't believe this. Can't believe you're in my head, making me –“ Oh, God. My hips start to tremble and I can't hold back the fireball building in my womb.
“Fuck you, Prince! I'm coming.”
And I do.
So hard it's blinding. My whole messed up world disappears in a hot flash of red and white explosions rippling over my rolling eyes for what feels like forever.
His wicked, royal face is the last thing I see before I come up from the deep, deep ecstasy he's thrust me into. I imagine him whispering in my ear, his fingers tangled in my hair, jerking my head back, growling with that low, sexy voice that's naturally tuned to make any woman helpless.
You like that, love? Yeah, fuck yeah, you do. We can throw this no sex rule out any second.
You can feel my mouth, my fingers, all over your sweet little body. You can feel me inside you.
Coming hard. Coming deep. Coming together, just like we're meant to.
I lose myself in the toys for hours. Lost in the rage, the need, the wine, and all the shades of wrong coloring my attraction to the world's nastiest high class bad boy.
I'm drunk, sweating and exhausted. I barely remember to pull the clamps off before I pass out. I should feel ashamed, or guilty, like I have every other time I've ever stroked my body in the past.
No, not now. Something's changed.
I want to believe it's my situation, the deal with the devil I've made to save my father, and possibly myself, if I've ruined my career prospects with this crazy engagement.
But it's not any of that. Not really.
It's Prince Asshole. Silas.
The man who won't leave my head when he's the last person I want to see.
I can't stop thinking about his kiss, or the tight, possessive grip he had on me as he carried me out of the palace, protecting me with his very life.
No one's ever fought for me like that before. And I won't forget it, however badly I want to.
I won't stop thinking about his gorgeous, smug, and sinfully dirty highness. I won't do it for all the pain, love, and money in the world.
Even if I wanted to erase him from my mind, I can't. He's in too deep. He's marked me psychically, emotionally, and if I give him a ghost of a chance, he'll mark me physically, too.
And that scares the crap out of me.
“Holy shit. Somebody's been busy.”
My eyes pop open. It's morning, probably early, judging by the golden light streaming into my room through the lovely glass panes leading to my private balcony.
It's Silas. In my room. Hovering over me while I'm wearing nothing but a sheet, dangling the nipple clamps by the chain above his face until they reflect the brilliant light.
Jerking up, I'm careful to keep the sheet wrapped around my breasts. “What the fuck are you doing in here?! Give them back!”
“Checking on what's mine, Princess.”
“Oh? I had a feeling that package was meant for somebody else. Guess those are your nipple clamps.” I stop just short of sticking my tongue out.
He grins and his fist tightens around the little gold chain. I won't let myself look below his waist. I know he'll be hard, imagining what went on here last night.
“Nah. They're custom made to match that little bullet, and it looks like it's gotten one hell of a workout.” He gestures.
My horrified eyes move to my glass nightstand. The tiny ornate vibrator I had between my legs for at least an hour last night sits there, taunting me.
It's already too late, but I snatch it anyway, tucking it beneath the covers. He waits until I'm glaring at him with new hatred to start laughing.
“Get. Out!” I'm so pissed my voice cracks.
“Fuck, love, you really crack me up. I'm just screwing with you because I'd really like to get you to drop that sheet, but I'll take the laughs, too.” He pauses, his smile disappearing, looking me up and down like a hungry tiger. “Seriously, it's going on noon. I thought you were a Type A, up early and often, always put together?”
“No. I'm the type of girl who's going to jump out of bed and scratch your eyes out if you don't leave, Silas.”
“Wha
tever, I'll give you some space to get dressed. Hurry up. We've got a date today.”
Great, I think, gritting my teeth. It isn't much consolation watching him turn his back and step out the door, into the other room, waiting for me.
I take my sweet time with a shower and a fresh set of clothes. The whole time, I'm trying not to wonder exactly what he's got in store for me, for us. After surviving the palace riot and another brutal conversation with dad, a new media shit show is the last thing I need.
If it's another press event, I'm saying no. We can do the damned thing another time.
By the time I come out, he's sitting by the fireplace, toying with a tiny antique tiger statue he's swiped from the mantle. Silas looks up, extinguishing more of my anger than he has any business doing with those damnably deep, beautiful blue eyes.
“I saw these in Pakistan when I served. Almost identical. We'd go out on the town, me and my men, whenever we stopped off at the allied base before heading back to hell. Hard to pull local pussy, but damn if the scenery and the food wasn't out of this world. Lots more of these little icons where this one came from.”
I'm folding my arms and rolling my eyes. Simultaneously.
Has he lived a day on this Earth when he isn't totally full of himself?
“I'd love to show you sometime, Erin,” he says, a sly smile on his lips. “Today, I'm more interested in getting the hell out of here. Let's get out, clear our heads, pretend the last week was nothing but a bad dream.”
“So, wait, you're telling me there isn't a formal meeting with the royal whatever?” He shakes his head, gently setting the tiger statue back down on the stone. “You want to – what? – have a freaking picnic?”
“More like a night of camping, down by the beaches. The bluffs up here are pretty goddamned gorgeous. Don't look at me like I've lost my mind,” he growls. I'm seriously wondering if he has, thinking I'd volunteer to go anywhere with him alone. “You're going to be my Princess, Erin. It only makes sense that you explore more of the island.”
I can't take this. He's acting like nothing happened. I step up and ask him point blank, ready to walk back into my bedroom and lock the door if he gives me any crap.
