Dirty Princes: A Standalone MMF Romantic Comedy

by Jo Raven

  God, Brylee. I thought she was pretty before, but it’s even worse now that I have a tactile memory of her body, the way her curves fit to my body, the way her pert ass fit against my dick, her smell, the feathery touch of her hair on my face.

  Stop it.

  Hey, you can jack off. At least that much is permitted?

  Awesome. I’m going crazy, arguing with the voices inside my head.

  Groaning, I get to my feet and carry the dirty container to the kitchen of my lonely bachelor’s pad to throw into the trash. But instead of returning to the living room afterward, I brace my hands on the counter and bow my head.

  I need… something. Something I can’t name. I think it’s been bothering me for a while. It’s not physical, although the hard-on I’m sporting is burning through my pants.

  It’s an ache I can’t place. A void I can’t fill.

  I push away and turn my steps toward the bedroom. At least I can do something about the physical discomfort. It’s true, jacking off is okay.

  Well, as far as anyone can tell. Maybe I should do as my father insists, go and check…

  No.

  Shaking my head, I unbutton my shirt and work on my pants. I unzip my pants carefully, not to snag my dick, and push everything off.

  Naked, I stand in the middle of my room, fisting my cock.

  How’s this for breaking my schedule, huh?

  How’s this for undoing my resolution from earlier today to keep to the rules?

  Yeah. Fuck that. Tonight I need this. I couldn’t stop it if I tried. My cock is trembling in my hand, rock-hard, hot like fire, throbbing in time to my racing heartbeat.

  I should worry.

  I should stop.

  But I can’t.

  Fuck.

  I stumble into the bathroom, turn on the shower. Slam my hand into the wall. Curse.

  My heart is racing faster. My cock twitches.

  I step under the warming spray, place my hands on the tiled wall, turn my face into the water. Try for calm.

  It’s okay. This is fine. I’ve been training for years. I’m in great form.

  You think you are, but you haven’t checked, have you? Not since—

  Shut up, voice.

  Deep breaths, in and out.

  I drop one hand to my cock, wrap my fingers around the fat girth and moan. Fuck, this is good. Just this, the drag of my hand on overheated skin, along my rigid dick, teasing the sensitive spot under the head.

  Again.

  And again.

  My breath puffs out, and I turn my head to the wall, staring at the blue tiles, seeing something completely different.

  Her face, mouth open, taking my cock deep, moaning in pleasure as she pleasures me, my hand twisted in her long hair, pulling with each thrust. I fuck her mouth, hard, and my balls draw up, aching and full.

  Then the image changes to him. He comes to stand behind me, his hands gripping my hips painfully hard, his cock nudging my ass, sliding along the crack.

  “Want it?” he whispers. “Want my dick deep in your ass? Fucking you until you can’t breathe, until you can’t do anything but let—”

  “Oh God,” I groan and come in white spurts, the pleasure washing through me like a hot wave, shooting through my balls and dick, jerking me like a puppet on a string. “Fuck.”

  I’m shaking, but I manage to turn off the water and slide down the wall to sit on the wet floor of the shower before I pass out.

  There. It’s out of my system now. Everything will go back to normal.

  I splay a hand over my chest. Will my pulse to slow down.

  Hey, at least I’m still alive.

  ***

  I think about this as I roll under the covers and grab my e-reader to catch up on news and start on the next chapter of the travelogue I’ve been reading.

  About how I jacked off. To the images of Brylee and Riddick.

  I put down the e-reader. My body is still thrumming, oddly relaxed and yet awake. Ready for more. My cock is half-hard, trapped in my pajama bottoms, and I resist the urge to reach under the covers and jack off again.

  I lick my lips and return to my reading.

  Or attempt to.

  Brylee’s soft lips closing around my cock, those pretty eyes looking up at me, seeking my approval.

  Riddick pushing into me from behind, whispering filthy things in my ear.

  Fuck. My dick is fully hard again, just like that. I don’t know why that last image got me off. I’ve never bottomed for anyone.

  Nor am I planning to.

  And I’m not into virgins. If Brylee is one.

  No idea why I’m getting that vibe from her. I hope for her sake it’s not true. If she’s saving her cherry for her future husband, and he’s a douchebag, she’ll never find out how good it can be.

  Great, and now I’m worried about her.

  Christ, Ryan. As if one wasn’t enough, now I’ve got two people stuck in my thoughts. A certain crazy, funny ginger girl, and a certain mysterious dark-haired guy.

  Resolutely, I pull the covers up to my chin, ignoring the mount made by my hard cock, and do my best to focus on what I’m reading.

  ***

  As the days pass, at work, at the gym, I find myself checking faces, looking for two specific people, and force myself to stop.

  This is ridiculous.

  Brylee is right: I broke my schedule, my habit. I need to get back into it, and there’s nothing like a good hour of punishing exercise to get my mind back on track.

  I don’t need him. Or her. I barely know her.

  Yeah and whose fault is that?

  Hell.

  “What’s up, Ryan?” A tall, blond, muscular guy with silver hoops in his ears nods at me.

  “Rafe.” I nod back. He’s a regular here, like me. In fact, he has a group of guys he trains twice a week. The Inked Brotherhood, they call themselves, a kind of informal gang, but without the drugs.

  I think.

  “Why don’t you come train with us?”

  He’s asked me this before. Can’t remember what reason I gave him.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, “but I’m fine with the machines.”

  “Machines won’t do much for your stamina,” he says, all seriousness. “And won’t help with self-defense.”

  He really is concerned about people being able to defend themselves. I appreciate that, I do.

  “I’m good.”

  Self-defense isn’t my goal. Self-preservation, perhaps. Keeping in shape. Keeping the old ticker going.

  Rafe says something more, but a glint of copper curls from my right catches my attention, and I lose the thread.

  She’s here.

  Rafe chuckles and pats my back. “Well, I see you’re busy.” He winks at me. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Thanks.” I’m so fucking distracted.

  Why am I distracted? And why is my body tensing with arousal, my stomach clenching and my dick hardening as I watch her walk toward the ladies’ locker room, chatting with a pretty, pink-haired girl?

  I rub at my chest. What is this? Jacking off should have taken care of the need, of that strange something that was bothering me.

  It seems it only made it worse.

  Chapter Seven

  Passion Fruitcake Madness

  Brylee

  Ignoring Ryan doesn’t seem to be working so well. He should be reacting, getting conflicted and questioning himself.

  Instead he just laughs at my efforts and walks away every time.

  Results, Bry. We need results.

  I should up the ante. Raise the stakes.

  Only what works with numbers doesn’t seem to work with boys. Darn it. And I’m so good with numbers. I like numbers. They are simple. They do what you expect them to do.

  Unlike boys.

  Simone thinks I should be patient. Wait. Try facial masks. Bake cookies.

  He’s not eating my cookies until he earns that right. Also, I need time. I’ve been practicing my baking skil
ls, but I’m not quite there yet.

  So there’s also that. I’ll learn, though. Practice makes perfect. I’ll get there.

  Ryan and I, we have this in common: perseverance.

  Among many other things, of course. We are so compatible. We were made for each other. I’ve known it all along.

  “Just… talk to him about something he likes,” Simone is saying. “Engage him. Maybe tell him about your work.”

  “Hm.”

  “Tell him about those classes you’re taking.” She opens the locker room door for me. “In literature, right? I have been wondering about that myself. Not happy with your job?”

  “I like my job. But Ryan once mentioned he likes literature, so…” I walk inside and drop my duffel bag on a bench. “Did you see him? He’s dressed in black today. I need to go shopping, match my wardrobe.”

  “You serious now?” Simone mutters.

  Sometimes she sounds just like Candy.

  She can say whatever she wants. I’m losing his attention. I can just feel it slipping away. Measures need to be taken. Drastic ones.

  Immediate ones.

  We go out to the machines, and I grab one that has a direct line of sight to him. It’s an elliptical, and I hate those, they’re just too much work while spying, but it’s in a prime position.

  Simone grumbles a little but takes the elliptical beside mine and puts in her earbuds, shutting out the world.

  She may.

  I’m the one on a mission, not her. Although she should really start looking for a man. I don’t know what she’s waiting for. Husbands don’t grow on trees. Choosing one and then winning him over can take years.

  Obviously. Case in point.

  Ryan moves from his machine to grab some dumbbells and starts doing squats.

  Mmm…

  “I’m gonna head over, grab some water,” I tell Simone who doesn’t seem to hear or see me as she sweats and pants on her machine.

  I get down, wipe my face and head off. I shiver a little, as déjà vu from the Incident at the water cooler at work hits me.

  Ryan pressed to me, his hands on my arms, pinning them to my body, his breath hot on my neck, his spicy scent wrapping around me as he clutches me to his muscular body…

  Granted, he was trying not to fall.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I’m drinking from my plastic cup of water, watching him sideways from under my lashes, and crap, I end up spilling half the water down my boobs.

  It feels like an emerging pattern every time he’s around.

  Checking the wet stain isn’t showing too much on my pink top, I approach him. Be like a lion in the grass, I chant to myself, stepping lightly and circling him from behind.

  Be like a lion on the hunt.

  He’s focused on lifting the dumbbells parallel to his sides while squatting, listening to music, and I take a long moment to appreciate the strength in his back and thighs, and well, his ass.

  Nice ass.

  I didn’t know I liked men’s asses until I saw Ryan’s. Tight. Muscular.

  Woo.

  I shouldn’t focus on that. On this. This ass. I have higher goals. And he’s much more than a fit body.

  Or a handsome face.

  Okay, back on track. Let’s do this.

  Chucking my plastic cup in the trash, I grab two small dumbbells and go to stand beside him. I squat and lift them to my sides, focusing on the wall in front of me and letting out my breath.

  The dumbbells I chose are quite heavy, but nothing to do about it now. I’m here, and am not leaving until he notices me.

  That takes what feels like years. He’s really into his exercise and the music he’s listening to, and I find myself distracted again by his bulging biceps and broad shoulders.

  Suddenly he sees me. I know because his movements falter and he jerks sideways, staring at me with wide eyes.

  “Brylee? What are you doing?”

  “Dumbbells.” I lift them so hard I almost punch him in the face.

  Oops.

  He’s still staring at me.

  “Don’t stop on my account.” I lift the dumbbells again. God, getting this guy is hard work. “I didn’t even notice you were here. I just happened to stand beside you.”

  I glance his way and catch a grin lifting one corner of his mouth. Damn, he’s sexy.

  He huffs out a laugh. “You just happened.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re ignoring me.”

  “Damn right.”

  He bites his lower lip, as if to keep from laughing out loud, and I wonder if he’d bite mine like that if he kissed me.

  “Hey, careful with that—” He gasps and stumbles backward, folding over my hand.

  Oh man. I really did manage to hit him with the dumbbell. Oopsie.

  “Sorry!” I drop both dumbbells to the floor to rush to his aid, and he dances away from them, hissing.

  “You’re a public hazard, woman.”

  “I do what I can. Are you hurt?”

  He steps away from my touch. “My manly pride, only. You should be more careful with those things.”

  “My hands?” I snatch them back.

  “The weights.”

  Oh.

  “So you don’t mind my hands on you?” I ask.

  His eyes narrow.

  Score for Brylee. I barely resist a fistpump.

  Then his expression blanks.

  “Excuse me,” he says, a little bit too coolly. “It’s time for me to go home. Have fun.”

  I open my mouth, then close it as he turns and walks away.

  See? I knew it. Told you I’m losing him. That cold parting shot?

  Bad sign. Really bad.

  Time to bring out the big guns.

  ***

  I head toward the locker rooms, hurrying after him.

  A hand on my arm jerks me back.

  “Where are you going?”

  I blink. “Simone? You’re still here?”

  She huffs. “Where else would I be? We came here together, remember?”

  Crap. Right. “Look, there’s something I need to do, and then we can go.”

  “Go? We only just arrived.”

  “Or stay if you like, I don’t mind.” I wave a hand at her. “Told you, there’s something I need to do.” I stare pointedly at her hand that’s still clutching my arm.

  “Bry? Why does it look like you’re about to enter the men’s locker room?”

  I open my eyes as wide as I can. “The men’s? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. It says Men’s on top of the door.”

  “Oh. I, um, I left something there.”

  “How? You haven’t been inside.”

  “Oh, come on, use your imagination!” With that, I jerk out of her hold and slip inside the Men’s.

  Seriously, I have to even fight my own gender to get things done around here.

  A guy is staring at me. He’s sporting a blue Mohawk and piercings in one of his eyebrows. His eyes have an exotic tilt. They widen when he sees me.

  I wave at him and smile.

  “This is the men’s locker room,” he says. “Get the fuck out.”

  “I won’t be long,” I assure him and head toward the showers.

  Someone shouts something behind me, but I ignore everything as I zoom in on my target.

  Drastic measures, baby.

  I open three stalls, startling naked men—one of whom was clearly masturbating, I mean, my God that penis was huge—until at last I locate Ryan.

  “What the fuck?” he hisses, then his eyes widen in recognition. A disbelieving snort leaves his lips. “Brylee?”

  “Oops. Sorry. Totally thought it was the Ladies’ showers,” I say cheerily, before my brain catches up to what I’m seeing.

  Good Lord, he’s gorgeous, every naked inch of him. His chest is muscular, and droplets glide over strong pecs and a tight stomach, thick thighs and calves.

  And his penis.

  Christ, if he’s a grower, tha
t thing will be like a torpedo. As it is, he’s hung like a—

  “Like what you see?” he asks mildly, and it takes me, like, a full minute to comprehend the words and pull my gaze from between his legs.

  Um.

  Stick to the plan, Bry. “I’m not looking. Not interested. At all.”

  “Ah-huh.” Amused. His mouth curves into a wider grin. Gah, so sexy. “Need directions to the Ladies’ showers, then?”

  “The what?”

  “Ladies’ showers? Wasn’t that where you were heading?”

  “Oh yes. Yes. I mean, no. I don’t need directions.” I give him a little wave. “Wash up, you’re full of… suds and stuff. I’ll be going now.”

  Why is he still looking at me like that, all amused and sexy?

  Turning around with a huff, letting the shower door swing closed, I stalk out of the Men’s and take a moment to compose myself.

  Because this boy… Ugh. Way too hot.

  I might have shot myself in the foot with this one. I may be saving my cherry, but it’s not like my body can’t get all hot and bothered, the throbbing between my legs maddening. Not like I haven’t had orgasms by my own hand.

  Lately more than ever.

  It won’t be easy to erase the image of him, all wet and perfect, smiling that lazy grin at me, as if inviting me to look and maybe touch, and—

  God.

  Ah well, I hope this got his attention like it did mine.

  Chapter Eight

  Brown Butter Rum Cannoli

  Riddick

  Okay, when I crowed about beating Monday, it wasn’t a fucking challenge, Saturday. So cool your guns.

  My back is killing me.

  And Xavier is yelling at me where we’re standing in our kitchen like a crazy person.

  “You have no fucking right to control my life. I’m a goddamn adult!” He punches a dent into the counter, and I flinch back instinctively. His eyes are bloodshot, and he doesn’t look sane. “I do my own fucking thing, and you stay the hell out of it.”

  “I only asked if you’re going out today, man.”

  “Fuck you. Fuck your fake concern and your fake ideals—”

  “The hell you say.” My heart is pounding hard against my ribs, and my stomach twists in a sick knot of fear and misery. “Are you high? Or low? What are you taking, X?”