Dirty Princes: A Standalone MMF Romantic Comedy

by Jo Raven

  He clutches at my arms, his breathing frantic. He smells of cigarette smoke and man, a light musk to his skin when I find my face buried in his neck. We’re embracing like long-lost friends or lovers on the sidewalk as I try to steady him enough to let go.

  Not sure I want to.

  Let go, that is.

  After jacking off to images of him fucking me and kissing me, after the moment I thought my heart would give out when he started to fall, and with his strong body trembling against mine in the falling snow, I don’t stand a chance.

  I might be the one who kept him from falling, but I’m the one who’s fallen.

  In lust.

  “Sorry. Fuck.” He squirms in my arms, trying to stand, rubbing against me.

  It’s getting me damn hard.

  “I’ve got you,” I tell him, and he tenses more, his back rigid like a board under my splayed hands. “Relax.”

  “What the fuck?” he mutters against my shoulder, and then gasps.

  Is it because he felt the boner I’m rocking? “Riddick?”

  “I’m all right,” he breathes and slowly pulls away.

  My arms are still around him. His face is very close to mine, white with shock, his eyes wide. They’re the palest gray, like cloudy crystal, and he has the longest dark lashes I’ve ever seen on a guy.

  He blinks, and they sweep across high cheekbones. “Ryan?”

  Disbelieving.

  “We meet again,” I say and throttle the urge to laugh. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I just…” He tries to step back again, and this time I let him. “Just slipped.”

  “Were you coming to the gym?”

  “Huh?”

  “The gym.” I nod at the sign across the street.

  “No. I was looking for my brother.” He grimaces as if he didn’t mean to speak the words. “I live close by. I just stopped for a smoke.”

  “Smoking’s bad for you.”

  He laughs. It’s dry and a little bitter, but my body reacts to it as if it’s a fist working my dick.

  Jesus.

  “Where is your brother?” I ask, to distract myself.

  “Good question.” He scowls at the street and the swirling snowflakes. “He took off again.”

  Uh-oh. Family trouble. This is something I should steer clear of.

  So I have no clue why I ask, “He does that a lot?”

  Riddick gives me a startled look. “He does.” He looks away. “He’s just turned eighteen and decided I’m fucking up his life.”

  “But you think he’s in danger?”

  Riddick nods and a vein ticks in his jaw.

  “You think he’s outdoors?”

  Another nod.

  I glance in the direction of my car. The snow is falling faster now, fluffy white maelstroms of cold cloud, blurring the world.

  Fuck it. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  “Riddick.” It doesn’t take me long to realize he’s limping. “You hurt yourself when you slipped?”

  Dammit. I thought I’d caught him in time.

  “What?” He glances at me, brows arched. “Oh. No, I pulled something in my back last week.”

  What is it about this guy that has all my protective instincts raring to go? He’s not a small guy. He’s my height, with shoulders as broad as mine. He looks strong. Hell, he felt strong. But there’s something in those gray eyes, in that determined set of his jaw and this mission he’s on tonight that’s not letting me walk away.

  And I don’t like how he limps. “It looks bad. Have you seen a doctor?”

  That dry laugh again. “Oh yeah, I booked a private suite in the best fucking clinic in town. If I pull together all the money I have, it might pay for the valet service, if nothing else.”

  I frown. “This isn’t funny.”

  “No? Shit. You wound me.”

  “A bad back shouldn’t be taken lightly. You need to rest it and use compresses, alternating cold and warm, to alleviate the symptoms. And if after a few days of rest it doesn’t get better, then you—”

  “I don’t have days off.” He looks straight ahead, a stubborn set to his jaw I’m starting to think is permanent. “I’m fine. I got one of those warming gels. It will do the trick.”

  I shrug. “Suit yourself. Don’t be surprised if it gets worse.”

  He gives a shudder. I don’t even think he realizes it, and it makes me wonder just how bad it hurts.

  We check a small park, then a few alleys. The spark of hope in those gray eyes is dimming, and although I should get home and eat dinner, watch my usual programs and settle in to sleep as my schedule says, I stay. And look some more.

  Finally he fishes out his cell phone and tries calling his brother a few times. Nothing happens.

  “I’ll get back home,” he says, and the weariness in his voice is painful to hear.

  “Maybe he’s staying with a friend,” I say, not sure why I’m trying to console him.

  “Maybe.”

  “Is there anyone else who might know where he’s gone? What about your parents?”

  A snort.

  Okay, got it.

  “He’ll come back,” I tell him and stay by his side, walking him home.

  ***

  He stops at the entrance of a non-descript building, a few blocks away from the gym, and puts the key in the lock.

  Then he stops and turns to look at me, as if he’d forgotten I was there.

  What’s with me and being attracted to people who ignore me? At least in Brylee’s case it’s a running joke.

  “Wanna come up?” he asks.

  I open my mouth to say no, but his gaze has lit up, a glint of emotion dancing in the gray like a tiny flame, and I’m transfixed.

  “Sure,” I hear myself say as if from a distance.

  Once again I find myself doing something that isn’t part of my plan, something I shouldn’t. Brylee would have a good laugh with me over this.

  And why am I thinking of her as I follow a handsome guy up to his apartment?

  This is it, I’m officially off my rocker.

  We ride up in the elevator in silence, and I try not to stare at the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks or the way his pants hug the package between his legs.

  Licking my lips, I tear my gaze away and keep it on the fucking doors.

  They ding open, and we step onto a dark landing. Riddick produces a key from his jeans pocket and lets us inside an equally dark and cold apartment.

  My first thought is that I don’t blame his brother for leaving.

  And then I wince, because that’s stupid. It’s obvious Riddick hasn’t been in all day, and that’s why the heat is off.

  Besides, it’s his brother. Can’t say I know much about brotherly love as I’ve never had any siblings of my own, but family ties are strong, that much I know.

  “Sorry for the mess,” Riddick says, starting to bend over to gather a sweater from the sofa and stopping mid-motion with a gasp. “Fucking ow.”

  “Dammit.” I grab his arm to steady him. His face is white with pain. “You need to lie down.”

  “Yes, Mom,” he has the audacity to mutter, and it shocks a bark of laughter from me. I’ve never been described as the maternal type in my life.

  “Want me to spank you, too?”

  He gapes at me, and I also have to wonder at myself. What’s gotten into me?

  “You’re supposed to laugh,” I inform him.

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “Because I don’t spank injured men.” I guide him out of the living room toward what I’m guessing are the bedrooms. “Bad for the back.”

  This time he does laugh, then gasps again. “Christ, stop.”

  His bedroom is small and messy, the covers bunched up on a narrow bed. A chair stands in a corner loaded with what can only be dirty clothes.

  My father would have had a fit entering the room. My bedroom has always been an example of military order. Even when Mom was alive he’d been in charge of insti
lling the principles of tidiness and discipline in me.

  And after she died, well… It felt even more imperative to keep to those principles, for all kinds of reasons.

  I help a pale Riddick lie down on the bed, tugging the covers to the floor, from where I intend to pick them up and fold properly later.

  It’s not until I’m helping him unzip his jeans and pull them down I realize what I’m doing and the risk I’m taking.

  If I got so hard just from holding him in my arms to stop him from cracking his skull open on the sidewalk, how much more trouble am I gonna be in now?

  ***

  I have my hands covered in self-warming gel, the naked ass of a guy underneath me, and he’s moaning as I spread the gel over his warm flesh.

  Lots of ways this scenario could go, most of them resulting in me fucking him into the mattress until we both find relief.

  Only I don’t think he’s interested, not when his back hurts this badly. So I slide my hands over his muscular ass cheeks and down his legs, over the fine hairs there, and try not to think about my urgent hard-on.

  I press my thumbs into the thick muscle of Riddick’s ass, and I’m rewarded with a deep moan that makes my dick twitch and weep.

  “Right there,” he mumbles into the pillow, his hands clenching on the bed. “Fuck, yeah.”

  Jesus, he sounds like he’s having an orgasm.

  Swallowing hard, I press harder, and the new sounds he makes… I swallow a groan, forcing myself to keep up with the massage.

  He doesn’t need to be fucked. He needs painkillers and some bed rest to get back on his feet. He also needs his brother to come back so he doesn’t go out again on his own in the night, in the fucking snow, looking for him.

  And what? Will you hold his hand every time he goes out? Make sure he doesn’t slip in the snow again?

  Massage his ass and his muscular legs? Tease more needy sounds from him?

  Jesus, Ryan. And then what, you’ll fuck him? Or let him fuck you? Suddenly you think you can do this? That it’s not dangerous?

  And on the heels of that thought come images of him and Brylee, together, and with me, a tangle of bodies, mouths meeting, and tongues licking, and…

  Enough.

  I climb off the bed and draw a deep if unsteady breath. “All done.”

  He turns his head on the pillow, looks at me with glazed eyes. “Thank you, man.”

  “Just try to rest,” I say tersely, stepping into the tiny bathroom to wash the gel off my hands and get myself together.

  Time to go. I should never have come inside. Never should have broken my rule and changed my schedule.

  Yeah, I’m going crazy. For years I haven’t given a flying shit for anyone, didn’t think about any guy or girl twice, and now I have two of them living inside my mind.

  How do I kick them out?

  Chapter Ten

  Princess Cake

  Brylee

  I’m in doubt.

  This is bad. I can’t be doubting myself and my mission. To clarify, I’m not doubting that I want Ryan, and that I’m the best match on earth for him.

  No, the problem is Riddick.

  He shouldn’t interest me. Shouldn’t be on my mind. The dimples in his cheeks when he smiles that sexy smile. The glitter in his eyes. That powerful body.

  Hot.

  I know what you’re thinking. And you’re right.

  I shouldn’t want two guys.

  I’m turning into my best friend Candy! The one I advised strongly against going after two men. I remember explaining to her that one man is hard work, let alone two.

  But she went ahead and snagged them both with a bow on top. And they are happy. All three of them.

  It’s her fault I’m confused. Before that, I’d never entertained the notion of wanting two guys at the same time.

  It’s ridiculous. I know everything there is to know about Ryan.

  I know nothing about Riddick.

  That’s easy to fix. Much easier than it was with Ryan. I can just march up to Jethro, who is Riddick’s cousin and one of Candy’s beaus, and interrogate him.

  Beats the sacrifices I made to gather intel on Ryan. I mean, I had to bring my famed cookies to one of our secretaries at work to make her sing.

  She had to leave work afterward because of stomach problems. That was quite strange. Also, she won’t speak to me.

  Some people…

  Anyway. I can’t stop thinking about Riddick. And that interferes with my thoughts about Ryan. Unacceptable. How am I going to focus on my objective when I find myself wishing Riddick had asked me out?

  And God, that sounds like I’m still in high school, like he didn’t ask me to the prom or something, but I wish he’d made a move on me. He’d had interest in his eyes when we first met.

  Then I told him about Ryan, and okay, why would he show any interest after that, right? I killed that bud before it bloomed.

  Or whatever.

  So I should stop thinking about him. I wish I could. The thing is… he’s not just handsome. Because he totally is. Gorgeous. Totally swoonworthy.

  He’s in pain. And people in pain have a pull on me. I want to take away their pain, take care of them.

  Not everyone, of course, or I would do nothing else all day. But the combination of his hawtness and the sorrow in his eyes just about killed me last time we met. His mother was in the hospital. And he seemed so broken over it.

  You’ll ask, then what about Ryan? He’s not in any pain. How come you fell for him?

  I didn’t fall for him. I chose him. Big difference, see?

  With Riddick, I have no choice.

  ***

  “What’s that smell?” Simone asks as we enter the gym. She sniffs at me. “Oh my God, it’s you?”

  “Is it good?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  I sniff at my arm. “My mom said that when you cook you smell delicious afterward, attracting men.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t speaking of cooking garlic sauce,” Simone mutters and hurries into the locker rooms, presumably to escape from the smell.

  I sniff my arm again. Surely she’s not talking of my new Male Attraction Elixir? Its results are guaranteed. The lady at the little corner store told me a whole tear-filled story of how a distant cousin of hers got her husband like that.

  Could it be because she knocked him out with the smell first? She never gave me the details. I should have pressed her for more info.

  But I had a moment of weakness. Of despair. I ran into Ryan a few times at work these past few days and ignored him with all my might—and made sure he knew it—but he showed no signs of recognition.

  Maybe he hit his head and is suffering from amnesia?

  Nah. I’d have known, through my gossip network.

  So he is ignoring me for real. And here I thought I’d had a breakthrough with the shower. I saw all those huge penises for nothing. Now I am scarred for life.

  Ryan’s was bigger than the others’, though. And his body was so much more muscular and beautiful and…

  Uh-oh. Trouble. The heat between my legs is maddening, as is the blush rising up my neck. How am I to keep my cool when my face is red and every step is torture?

  I change and head to a machine with good view of Ryan. If nothing else, I can ogle him. Simone is sweating beside me on her treadmill.

  “Any luck with him?” she asks.

  I press my lips together and start my own treadmill.

  “Maybe you should ease up on him a little.” She wipes sweat from her forehead. “As for me, I’m off men.”

  “Off?” That catches my attention. “What, for good? Forever? You’ll become a nun?”

  “I won’t be a nun.” She rolls her eyes. “I just don’t want men.”

  I brighten. “You want girls?”

  “No, Bry. I just don’t want anyone.”

  “You’re asexual?”

  She sighs. “Currently, yes.”

  Oh.

  “I�
��m not,” I inform her.

  “I realized,” she says drily. “Though you’re not getting any, are you? Since you’re saving your cherry.”

  The guy next to us suddenly seems interested. He leans in a little.

  I push him back distractedly. He’s obscuring my view of Ryan.

  “Hey,” I say, “what do you call it when you keep thinking of a man’s body and getting all hot and bothered?”

  “Lust?”

  “Yes, that. I have that with Ryan. But this can’t be!” I wave a hand in frustration toward the man in question. “I’m not in lust with Ryan. I’m keeping my wits about me and my rational mind in charge. It’s the only way to win this race.”

  “Maybe you should stop looking at him like a goal and more like a person?” That from the guy next to me.

  “Seriously?” I turn to him. “Like a person? He is a person.”

  He blinks. “Yeah, but—”

  “I can’t let physical attraction ruin my plan.”

  “Bry, are you even listening to yourself?” Simone mutters and sighs. “What about love?”

  Lots of sighing going on when I explain my ideas to my friends. They don’t get it.

  “Love has nothing to do with a good marriage. Lust has nothing to do with a good marriage.”

  “But then where’s the joy in that?” the guy next to me asks. “How can you be happy with a man without these two things?”

  I open my mouth.

  Close it.

  Open it again. “It’s a relationship based on respect and… and good cooking.”

  “Good luck with that.” Simone laughs.

  What? I glare at her. “My cooking is improving.”

  “Very slowly,” she replies.

  “You’re learning how to cook?” the guy asks.

  I ignore him. “You don’t understand how this works, Simone. My mom explained it all to me many times.”

  “Do tell.”

  “You catch the right guy’s attention. You cook for him, show off your home. Make him yearn for it. Yearn for you.”

  “And then?”

  “There’s no then,” I say, irritated. “Then you get married, have children and live happily ever after.”

  It sounds so simple when my mother explains it.

  So I don’t understand why it’s not working—and why my thoughts are in such a jumble.