The Proposal Problem: A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance

by Natalie Knight

  “Fuck,” Scott groans at the same time, and he stops moving all together, an expression of pure bliss taking over his face as he comes inside Kayla’s ass.

  We remain like that for what seems like forever, the three of us surrendering to the way ecstasy has blanketed us. Only when I feel my knees buckling under my weight do I allow Kayla to climb down from my body.

  We slide our cocks off her and, moving as if the three of us are in sync, we lean back against the wall and slide down to the floor.

  Sitting down on the floor of her office, all of us trying to catch our breath, I realize something I had never understood before.

  Love isn’t about feelings, chocolates and roses. It isn’t about music, poetry, or any of that bullshit.

  Love is about a connection, a mingling of souls. And it’s rare…very, very rare.

  I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I found love now.

  48

  Kayla

  “Hurry,” Brad calls from the living room. “You’ll miss it.”

  I roll my eyes and stifle a yawn.

  “You want coffee don’t you?” I call back and press the button on our new shiny beast, the latest and greatest coffee machine money can buy.

  “Food?” Scott comes into the kitchen and turns on the oven.

  I shrug. It’s a bit early to be thinking about eating and I will need at least one strong caffeine hit before I can make decisions of importance.

  “Voila,” Scott produces croissants from somewhere.

  “Yum.” My stomach now growls even though only a few minutes ago I could have sworn I’m not hungry.

  “What are you two doing?” calls Brad from the living. “You better not be doing something I should be part of.”

  We giggle.

  “Don’t worry Brad,” I reply. “We’re just getting food.”

  Just at that moment Brad’s head appears in the kitchen.

  “Just checking,” he grins.

  Several minutes later we are all huddled around our new oversized extra large television screen.

  “Turn it up.” Scott complains. “I can’t hear anything.”

  “You don’t need to,” Brad gives him a friendly punch in the upper arm. “It’s not like you’re going to win anything.”

  “Shh,” I say to both of them as the announcer of the Emmy Awards welcomes everyone to what she says will be a night of surprises, or early morning for us since for some reason it is being held outside the USA, somewhere exotic, somewhere where the time zones don’t match ours.

  We smile at each other.

  Our show - it has become known as our show in the last few weeks since…well, ever since I took over, really - has several nominations.

  Scott is nominated for outstanding supporting actor and Brad for outstanding lead actor. None of us are sure who determined Brad as lead and Scott as supporting actor, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is, they both are nominated.

  The show itself is nominated for outstanding daytime television drama. I, together with my writers am nominated as outstanding drama series writing team. And best of all I’m personally nominated as outstanding producer of daytime television drama.

  The last few months have been amazing. Life has been kind to all of us.

  With my talented team of writers and supporting lead actors, the show has gone stronger. I have even been approached by a couple of other network heads to write for them.

  I have been headhunted.

  A month ago Scott, Brad and I decided to move in together and since we each owned small apartments it was time to upgrade.

  House hunting was fun. Some of the agent’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates when they saw me walk up with two blokes. The women seemed to take it better than the men.

  The lawyer who had to draw up the paper work was priceless. It took him quite a long time to work out we were a threesome.

  Our house is in the hills alongside some of Hollywood’s other super stars. On our first night Scott stood on the balcony and raised a toast to everyone.

  “This is where we belong.” He announced to no one in particular.

  “More coffee?” I ask and look at Brad and Scott.

  “I know what I want more of,” Scott’s hand reaches under my flimsy nightdress.

  My pussy instantly responds, like it always does when either one of them touch me.

  “Not now,” it takes all my strength to resist. “We don’t want to miss the announcements.”

  Scott pouts. “What about a quickie.”

  I leave him without another word.

  Once I’m in the kitchen I hear yelling. I poke my head back into the living room.

  “Quick,” Brad shouts. “Supporting actor is about to be announced.”

  I hear just the tail end of nominations and Scott’s name.

  With three quick steps I’m next to him and hold his hand. Brad is holding his fists tightly shut.

  Drum roll. The announcer smiles and pulls the name out of the envelope in snail’s pace.

  “Hurry up,” I urge him, bouncing up and down on my seat.

  “Scott from The Kings.”

  We hug and cry with each other, almost missing the announcement of lead actor.

  “Shush,” I hold my hand over Scott’s mouth. We listen to the nominations and again my heart is beating so fast I feel as if I’d just run a marathon. With Scott having won an award it would not feel right if Brad didn’t.

  The camera zooms in on the announcers face. She holds the paper in front of her eyes as if she needs glasses. I can see she’s reading silently. Come on, just say it, I mouth.

  “Looks like our new show is going to be cleaning up tonight,” she says and I’m already squeezing Brad’s hand.

  “The winner of outstanding lead actor is Brad from The Kings.”

  I can’t believe it. We hug, we kiss, and we hug again. I’m crying and laughing at the same time.

  When they announce our writing team as winners of outstanding writing I feel as though I can’t take much more.

  “And now ladies and gentlemen, viewers,” a handsome face says from the television “we come to outstanding daytime television producer.”

  Brad and Scott crowd around me. Both of them hold me as tight as possible. If they squeeze any more I won’t be able to breathe.

  “It’s a tough field this year,” says the blonde assistant to the announcer smiling broadly into the camera.

  “Like every other year,” agrees the announcer. The names are read out. Goosebumps crawl up my arms and back when I hear my own name. It feels surreal.

  I close my eyes and put my hands over my ears. I don’t think I can listen.

  “You’ve won!” shouts Brad.

  “You’ve won!” shouts Scott and both of them kiss me.

  I fall back on the couch. They pounce. Their hands are all over me as are their mouths.

  Oh my gosh. This is amazing.

  Almost at the same time both of them pull back.

  I sit up.

  “What?” Suddenly all feelings of happiness disappear. They look so serious. Do they have bad news? Are they leaving me?

  “Kayla,” Scott takes my hand.

  “Kayla,” Brad takes my other hand.

  Has someone died?

  “We want you to know,” Scott starts.

  “That you mean the world to us.” Finishes Brad.

  They are leaving me. I can tell from their faces. I brace for what comes next.

  “Kayla we love you and we want to spend the rest of our lives with you. Will you marry us?’

  I blink. What? Did I hear correctly?

  “Will you?” they repeat and now I start to cry.

  No words pass my lips and so I simply nod.

  We melt into each other’s arms and Scott kisses me. Brad’s mouth is traveling downward where my wet pussy waits for him. And both my hands are busy with needy dicks.

  I can’t believe it, but this is my life now.

  I
’ve been blessed.

  Taste

  A Bad Boy Chef Romance

  Natalie Knight

  Copyright 2017 by Crimson Vixens

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

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  1

  Palmer

  I finger the steak, tracing the marbled flecks of fat.

  I observe it with steady concentration and follow each streak as if it were a roadmap, pointing me home.

  A well-marbled steak is a beautiful thing.

  It's perfection.

  It's redemption.

  Is it also salvation?

  My mouth moistens as I think about the silky texture of melted fat.

  The depth of flavor. The tenderness. The way it transcends a moment in time.

  I grind salt and pepper over one side of the steak, and then flip it over to season the other side. Then I heat a cast iron skillet, and when it's at the desired temperature, I drop a pad of butter into its center. I watch as the butter circles, spins, and sizzles around the pan until it's a melted puddle.

  Then I place the steak on top, listening to the hot skillet kiss the raw slab of red meat, slowly caramelizing it.

  I've made my fortune in the restaurant business.

  Flipping food. Perfecting my craft.

  Making a name for myself.

  But I want more.

  I want to elevate the culinary landscape of New York City…and the clock's ticking faster than Julia Childs chopping an onion.

  This restaurant here—The Pearl on Park—is a longtime dream come true. I've made my fortune through high-end cuisine—you know, the kind of food that requires three spoons and three forks just to eat? The kind of food accompanied by waiters in suits and white linens. I've become one of the most famous chefs in the world, running a chain of high-quality, extremely fancy restaurants.

  You've probably seen me profiled in publications like Bon Appetite, Saveur, Food and Wine, Cooks Illustrated, and The Art of Eating.

  I've made food that'll give you an orgasm as soon as it hits your tongue: beautifully crusted baguettes, fresh meat that'll make you moan, and warm cakes gooier than a woman begging for more.

  But this restaurant is different.

  I'm still creating dishes that are good, orgasmic good, but now I'm pushing boundaries. Salty, fatty, sweet—the kind of food that makes you want to sink your face in and say Fuck it, I'm eating this.

  Maybe I'm stubborn, or stupid, or both, but truth is, you have to be all of those things and more to make it in the restaurant business.

  You see all of these tools in this kitchen—the vacuum machines, the pH meters, the liquid nitrogen? I'm debunking cooking myths. I don't care what any other chef in this city is doing. If it's working for me, just get out of my way.

  Watch me run my restaurant the way I want to run them.

  I have no interest in what the chef is doing next door, or across the street, or even across the fucking globe. Why? Because the only thing that matters is my kitchen.

  And this place here—these stainless steel appliances, the swanky Park Ave vibe, the top of the line table linens and décor—it's a longtime dream come true.

  I look down at the steak, and spoon brown butter over it, basting it. It's now crusted and cooked to perfection, and I remove it from the skillet. The steak is caramelized around the edges with a beautiful brown crunch that I can't wait to place between my teeth.

  If you visit The Pearl on Park, this'll be one of the best steaks you've ever had, I promise. It's one of the new dishes that I’m going to present.

  I plate the steak and carefully slice a chunk of meat off with a serrated knife. There's a crisp char on the outside and rareness in the middle that feels like butter on my tongue.

  "Fuck, that's good!" I can't help but yell out and slam my fist down on the countertop.

  "You made me jump!" I look over to see my sous chef, Brit, walk into the kitchen. She's working overtime with me to get a few dishes perfected before our soft opening.

  Any other day, and this late at night, it wouldn’t be Brit here with me. Maybe some actress with one of those fake smiles, too eager to have a taste of the Chef—but not today.

  I can’t waste my time. Not now.

  "Taste this!" I say, looking at Brit over my shoulder.

  She walks over, and leans against the counter. I place a forkful of steak into her mouth. I watch as she chews slowly, and then closes her eyes, throwing her head back.

  "My God," she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "You weren't joking. This is the best steak I've ever eaten."

  I'm glad she agrees, but I can't help but want to make sure.

  "Don't pull my leg—tell me the truth," I say.

  "I'm serious! It's that good," she says. "This'll put The Pearl on Park on the map."

  The way she drags her hand over her throat tells me that she means it.

  But suddenly, I can no longer think about that perfectly caramelized steak.

  Instead, I close my eyes and remember the doctor’s appointment I had last week. The one where my dreams of cooking the best food in New York were born.

  It's an appointment that haunts me and drives me in equal measures.

  The sanitized talk. The fluorescent lights. The sterile smell of it all.

  Something showed up on the MRI, the doctor said, as I sat back in the hard plastic chair. He pointed to a white, walnut-shaped mass, and the rest of the appointment was a blur. I left, vaguely agreeing to a follow-up appointment, and ultimately making myself a promise to cook the best fucking food New York City's ever tasted.

  "This is the best steak the Big Apple's got," Brit says, bringing me back to what’s in front of me.

  That's exactly what I want to hear.

  It's true; I'm a multi-tasker. I can juggle a dozen restaurants, and even more women, and still find time to scuba dive my way through St. Thomas.

  It's what I do. And I'm good at it.

  I'm not interested in half-assing my way through life.

  I'm living large, and I know it. But I'm just getting started.

  If you can handle the heat, go ahead…turn the page, and jump into the fire.

  My name is Chef Palmer, and I'm going to give the world something they'll never forget.

  2

  Nicole

  "Where are the vegetables?"

  WHACK! THWAP!

  Two line cooks look up at me. One shouts back, "We can't hear you, what?"

  "I said, where are the—" but my voice is again cut off by the overhead noise.

  WHACK!

  WHACK!

  THWAP!

  The noise of construction workers a floor above us has put me on edge.

  I can't think. I can't cook. I can't sear a piece of chicken without hearing what sounds like a dozen drag cars moving full throttle above my head.

  The line cooks shrug their shoulders.

  "THE PRODUCE—WHERE IS IT?" I say, struggling over the noise.

  Danny, one of the two, finally understands what I'm asking. "Oh that. The driver mumbled something about a missed payment and took off."

  I look around the kitchen and see that he's right. We haven't received our fresh produce this morning. Beyond a few stray onions, we have nothing.

  How am I supposed to cook today?

  I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair.

  Stay calm, I repeat to myself.

  "Okay, thanks. I'll give him a call."

  "Sorry, I figured you knew."

  "It's fine," I say, even though it doesn't feel fine at all. In fact, it's taking everything in me to not lose it today, but I have to keep my cool. "I'll get it
sorted."

  I walk out of the kitchen and into the main dining room. I look around at the tables, at the blue gingham table linens, at everything I've worked so hard to build.

  Blue.

  The color reminds me of my grandmother. I can almost hear her whispering into my ear, “A woman with no wrinkles is a woman without a story to tell."

  I remember sitting on top of her knees, looking into her pale blue eyes as she hummed some old song from the forgotten 50s; in my memories, it’s always Doris Day and Dream a Little Dream of Me on her lips, and then she’d just wrap her arms tight around me and cradle me against her chest.

  I’d close my eyes, surrendering to the warmness of her embrace, and the world would feel like a dream—blurry at the edges, but bright and comforting all the same.

  She's the reason I started this restaurant. She instilled in me the love of food and the notion that anything is possible with enough hard work.

  And believe me; none of this was easy.

  In fact, it was the hardest thing I've ever done.

  I washed dishes, I waited tables. I worked double shifts, and I saved every single penny I could get my hands on. I once worked through a fever of 104º, and I honestly thought I wouldn’t make it through the day.

  But there was that dream.

  A dream that burned hotter than any fever ever could. That unrelenting need to do something, as small as it may be.

  Then one day, I simply made it happen.

  All those pennies, the long hours, the exhaustion...I just threw them all into the pan and stirred. I added a lease to the mix, a healthy dose of anxiety, and then I just closed my eyes and bet it all.

  It’s been a year now.

  That anxiety remains, along with all the penny counting. The dish washing, table-waiting, and frantic cooking are all part of the process as well. But now I do it all in a place I can call my own.

  The Old Tale is my restaurant, and it's huddled among New York's high rises. You can almost feel the way time bends once you step inside.