by Ellie Hunt
Table of Contents
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Double Princes
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Love sinfully hot, wickedly tempting stories?
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Double Princes
An MMF Menage
Ellie Hunt
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Two hot mechanics - and they want to share me!
When my car breaks down on the way back to college, I never thought that two hot, young, dominant mechanics would come to my rescue.
And once they take me back to their shop, I definitely never thought they’d both want to take me… at the same time!
Even though I’m untouched and totally inexperienced, I don’t know if I can resist… but can my first time be with two rugged, rough men at once?
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Double Princes
An MMF Menage
I took a deep breath and then hoisted the silver tray on the fingers of my right hand, carefully balancing it over my shoulder before I walked through the penthouse’s kitchen door. The champagne glasses wobbled a little, but I’d been doing this for a long time, and I knew how to properly balance a tray of champagne while I walked through a crowd.
Once in the crowd, I plastered on a smile, even though few of the people in the black-tie gala actually looked at me. That was fine: my job was to be invisible, more or less. I wore a black button-down shirt and black slacks, black shoes, my hair back in a bun.
If you get yourself noticed, you’re was doing something wrong.
That was what I always told my employees when they came in wearing anything but my very strict uniform.
A woman wearing a long, glittering green dress took a glass off of my tray, made eye contact with me, and nodded her thanks. I smiled back.
It was always nice when people acknowledged that I was human.
Across the room I could see Damien Logost, the man throwing the party, and again I felt an envious pang: why should one person be so rich and so good-looking?
Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that one led to the other — after all, when you were the heir to a shipping fortune worth billions, you had leisure time to spend in the gym — but it still just didn’t seem fair.
I made my way around the moneyed crowd, trying to keep an eye on my other employees at the same time. Usually I preferred to stay in the kitchen and oversee everything from there, make sure everything was being cooked and plated properly, run to the wine cellar if they needed something, even down to the liquor store if I’d really calculated wrong.
Today, though, one of my servers - Melanie - just hadn’t shown up. The girl was unreliable at the best of times, and to be honest, I kept her around mostly because she was gorgeous, and my clients appreciated that sort of thing.
But Melanie’s green eyes and plush lips weren’t going to keep her a job if she didn’t come to work. I had called her several times, finally firing her via voicemail and taking up the champagne tray myself.
As I walked around the room, my tray getting lighter and lighter, I was getting closer to Damien himself and his current special guest, Alessandro Ferrari.
Yes, that Ferrari. When Damien had called and asked if my company could cater a fête, he’d casually mentioned Alessandro’s last name.
He’d also casually mentioned that Alessandro was the crown prince of the tiny but wealthy country of San Berino, high in the mountains, bordered by Italy. So, really, he was Prince Alessandro.
Sometimes I, who’d grown up poor in the Bronx, wasn’t sure how she’d gotten to be somewhere like this, even if I was the help.
Then I remembered: lots of sweat, and lots of hours on my feet.
I was jolted out of my thoughts by the sound of someone snapping his fingers at me. It was an older white man, gray haired, just starting to get jowls on his cheeks.
He glanced casually at me, then turned back to his conversation, arm still out as he snapped a few more times.
I gritted my teeth together. There was almost nothing I hated more than being snapped at like that. Yeah, I was a server, but I was still a person.
I’ve been vomited on before. I might honestly prefer that to snapping.
Still, this was my job, and I knew better than to throw a fit in the middle of a party that cost more than I took home in five years. I ground my teeth together, smiled, and walked the two remaining glasses of champagne over to the rude man.
Just before I got to him, I felt the tray on my arm suddenly lighten, another man taking away the champagne glasses, and I turned.
It was Damien, holding a glass in each hand. He nodded slightly at me, glowering, and then turned to the man who’d snapped at me.
“Aiden, we don’t snap at servers in my home,” he said. His voice was technically polite, but I had worked with him long enough, on enough events, that I could hear the rage behind it.
“They’re people, not pets.”
Then he held up his champagne glass, as if in a toast, turned around, and walked back to the group he’d been speaking to. He handed the other glass to Alessandro, who looked over and made eye contact with me.
I booked it back to the kitchen, embarrassed.
Of course it didn’t matter that Damien had stood up for me — he was the one who’d tip at the end of the night, and the one who hired me for all his many events, his gallery openings and gala dinners for charity and even these “simple little soirees,” as he called them, even though they were more expensive and complex than most weddings that I catered.
The other man, Aiden, I thought was some sort of banker, though I didn’t really know him. He wasn’t a regular at Damien’s parties, and judging by the look on Damien’s face, he wouldn’t be invited to any more of them, either.
That was enough champagne for now, I decided, and set my tray down in the kitchen. There were two bars and one more girl out there, handing out glasses — if people wanted to drink, they had more than enough opportunities.
I unbuttoned my sleeves and rolled them up.
“You need me to plate these desserts?” I asked Stefan, my chef.
“That would be perfect,” he said.
I lost myself in the soothing rhythm of plating, wiping the plates, and then squirting sauce and brandy-infused whipped cream onto the tiny plates.
Eventually, I wasn’t furious about being snapped at any longer.
The rest of the soiree went off without a hitch, and I barely remembered it, like usual — there was so much running around, giving orders, and smiling politely at incredibly wealthy people that it all blurred together.
At some point, I knew, Damien had made a speech and talked a little bit about Alessandro. Alessandro had deferred properly, and Damien had possibly asked his wealthy friends to take up a cause.
That’s what usually happened. I suspected that Damien felt a little bad about his immense wealth, so whenever he wanted to throw a party, he came up with some cause for his equally rich friends to donate to.
I vaguely remembered something about clean drinking water in Africa, but to be honest, i’d been more concerned with a totally different cause — making my rent money.
Finally, the guests all left, except Alessandro. I was in and out of the service elevator, taking my crew’s supplies down to the van via the service elevator.
With their help, it only took around an hour, and then they could get out of there. We put the leftovers in Damien’s industrial-sized fridge, left the kitch
en sparkling clean, linens all in giant bags, ready to be laundered.
At least they didn’t have to clean the other rooms. Damien had cleaning people coming the next day, he’d told me, so I shouldn’t worry about that.
I stood in the middle of the grand room, looking out the windows at the New York skyline.
Damien and Alessandro were on his enormous patio, sipping brandy and smoking cigars, chatting about something or other.
Damien saw me, standing there, surveying the scene, and waved me over.
“Go home,” I called to my employees. “Good work, everyone.”
They didn’t need to be told twice, and headed up. Through the service elevator, of course.
I pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped into the cool summer night air. The patio of the penthouse overlooked Central Park, dark except for the streetlights here and there, and the other lights of the city spread out before them.
If they’d been facing a different direction, I probably could have seen my own neighborhood, far away and across a bridge.
“Yes?” I asked Damien.
“Sit for a spell,” he said. “Have some brandy. It’s very good. You deserve it. Sandro, this is Cora, the best caterer in the city.”
I sat, blushing.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Cora, this is the Crown Prince of San Berino, Alessandro Ferrari,” Damien said, already pouring the golden liquid into an empty snifter.
“Please, Damien,” the other man said. “I’m Sandro,” he said, holding out his hand to me.
He was also very good looking, I couldn’t help but notice, though I wasn’t exactly surprised. After all, he was very rich, had time to spend at the gym, allthat.
He had nearly-black hair that flopped over his forehead in a very European way, tanned skin, and light brown eyes.
Damien handed my the brandy, replaced the bottle on the table, and we all sat back against the plush outdoor furniture.
I couldn’t help but notice that Damien rested his hand on Sandro’s knee. I also noticed that Sandro rested his own on top of it, lightly lacing his fingers through the other man’s.
I took a sip of the brandy and looked out over the city, my suspicions confirmed, finally, after all this time. Damien was what my mother would call a “confirmed bachelor,” and even though he flirted with me all the time, had never had a girlfriend or anything that I knew about.
Apparently, Alessandro, Crown Prince of San Berino, was the reason why.
“That caviar was excellent,” Sandro was saying. “On those light crackers with a drop of crême fraiche. Exquisite.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You really must tell me where you get it,” he said.
I laughed.
“That’s a professional secret,” I said.
“Oh, come on,” said Damien, smiling at me. “Just between friends?”
“I considered stealing the plate from your young man and running into the bathroom with it so I could have it all to myself,” Sandro admitted.
“That would have been a sight,” said Damien.
Sandro sighed. “I can see the gossip column now. ‘Royal grabs tray, sprints to W.C.!’”
“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.
I took another sip of my brandy, relaxed now that I wasn’t working any more.
“My lips aresealed,” said Sandro.
“It’s all from a Russian deli up in the Bronx,” I said. “They have this tiny little hole in the wall, and if you don’t speak Russian, they tell you they’re closed as soon as you walk in.”
Both men watched me attentively.
“My grandmother was friends with the family who owns it before she died,” I went on. “They all came here from Russia around the same time. Anyway, the stuff I get for you is technically an illegal import. I think the owner brings it back in suitcases whenever he visits his family.”
“So it’s suitcase caviar,” said Damien. “No wonder it’s so good.”
“I’ve always said the best caviar is suitcase-aged,” teased Sandro.
He took another drink of his brandy, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat. I couldn’t help but admire it, my own brandy humming and warm in my stomach.
“Cora came up from nothing,” Damien said.
I blushed. Damien tended to do this after he’d had a couple of drinks. He’d start recommending my services to his friends, which I was always grateful for, but he had a tendency to really get into my life story.
“Her grandparents came here from Russia,” he went on, speaking to Sandro. “When they were what, sixteen? They settled in the Bronx, where her grandfather was a butcher and her grandmother took in the washing. Dirt poor. She was born there, her father’s a butcher also, and she worked kitchen and waitressing jobs, put herself through culinary school.”
“Wow,” said Sandro. “That’s most impressive. I can barely make a grilled cheese sandwich.”
Well, you have people who do it for you, I thought.
When I’d landed my first big job, with another incredibly wealthy household, doing their daughter’s wedding, I was furious that this girl had everything I could possibly want while I was in the kitchen, sweating over some canapés.
I got over it eventually. Life is the luck of the draw, and even if I won’t ever be fabulously wealthy, I was doing pretty well. Nothing to do but accept and enjoy it.
“Have you ever been to Russia?” Damien asked.
I shook my head.
“I’d love to go, but it’s a pretty big deal,” I said. “I’d have to take a few weeks off, for one thing, and there’s no way I can afford to just leave the company alone for a couple of weeks.”
“That’s a shame,” Sandro said. “It’s really something. I was lucky enough to take the trans-Siberian railway once, and it was a remarkable few days.”
“I’ve love to do that,” said I.
I knew I’d never get to. At least not before I retired, and that was a good thirty or thirty-five years away, if ever.
I drank the last sip of my brandy and set the snifter back on the table, then stood to go.
Both men stood as well, watching me as they did. I could sense something odd in their gaze — something that certainly wasn’t business as usual.
“Thank you for the brandy,” I said, suddenly nervous.
My eyes flicked to Sandro, standing a bit behind Damien, and I could feel them both looking at me, caressing me with their eyes.
I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling out of my depth.
“I should get going,” I said quickly.
“No need to rush,” said Damien. “I’ve got a 1998 Côte du Rhone with your name on it.”
My eyebrows went up involuntarily.
That was an expensive wine — and also supposedly a very good wine.
And Damien was going to waste it on the help?
I began to shake my head.
“I can’t—“
“Come on,” said Damien. “I want to drink it with people who will enjoy it.”
He was standing close to me, closer than he’d ever stood before. I realized he smelled clean in an expensive way — like sandalwood and linen, just hints of each, not overpowering.
Sandro put one elbow on Damien’s shoulder and leaned over him, casually.
“Let’s have some wine.”
“I have to take the van back,” I said. “I shouldn’t have another drink, I’ve got to drive.”
“I have a guest room,” said Damien.
He acted as though asking a caterer to stay the night was the most normal thing anyone could do.
“You’ve got three guest rooms,” Sandro said.
“You can take your pick,” Damien said to me.
I’m about to say yes to a billionaire party, I realized. My eyes flicked from Damien’s unfairly handsome face to Sandro’s.
A party with an actual prince, I thought.
When am I gonna get this opportunity again?
“All right, you’ve talked me into it,” I said.
I held my hands up as if to say, I surrender.
“Perfect,” Damien said, grinning. He walked back into the penthouse, through the huge living room and then into the kitchen, opening the temperature-controlled pantry that he used as a wine cellar.
Not even billions of dollars could buy a wine cellar below a building in New York, he’d told me once, not when that space was already taken up by sewers and electricity and subways.
There were some things money really couldn’t buy.
I already had the corkscrew in my hand when Damien came out, holding out my other hand for the bottle, but Damien held it away from me.
“I think not,” he said, taking the corkscrew. “You’re off work.”
He decanted it into a large, wide-bottomed glass container, swirling it around. “We’ll let that breathe for a while,” he said, and leaned against his granite countertop.
Both of them were watching me again, and when I looked back, I saw them exchange a quick glance. Nervously, I drummed my fingers on the counter and looked at the entrance to the kitchen.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Sandro. “Something we could do to kill the time.”
Damien turned his head and looked at the other man.
“What’s that?” he said, a smile in his voice.
Without missing a beat, Sandro kissed him hard on the lips, leaning into him, pushing Damien back against the counter.
I gasped, a tiny noise of surprise that echoed through the kitchen. Damien’s hand was in Sandro’s hair, his fingers grasping and pulling at the thick black tresses.
I covered my mouth with one hand as I watched the two men make out, their mouths moving against each other. They turned until their bodies were facing each other, pressed together from shoulder to knee.
Even though I tried, I couldn’t bring herself to look away, no matter how rude I felt staring. I should leave, I knew, and go somewhere else — clearly, these two men were much drunker than they’d seemed, and wanted a private moment.
