Dirty Princes: A Standalone MMF Romantic Comedy

by Jo Raven

  What you do to me…

  “I have one last question,” I manage, eventually releasing my spent cock and letting my hand drop to my side.

  She blinks at me. I don’t know if she’s shocked at how I jacked off, or at the amount of cum I spewed out. My chest is covered. “Yes?”

  “Will you go out with me?”

  She stares at me.

  Then looks away without answering.

  Fuck. I may have to fight Ryan for her. Never had to do that. Never wanted a girl like this. Don’t know what’s up with me these days.

  Today.

  Tonight.

  I like her way too much…

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hot Sugar Snakes

  Ryan

  I’m kissing Brylee, and she’s writhing underneath me, her copper hair bright against my dark sheets, her body creamy and soft. Her legs open for me, and I break the kiss to draw up and gaze down at her curves. Black lace with pink bows, and the dark crescents of her nipples just visible, just enough to make my mouth water.

  “Ryan…” she whispers, my name a breath. “Ryan…”

  I rip her panties off, and they crumble into black sand, blown away by the wind. A gust, and she’s naked, sprawled on my bed, her bra gone, too, her tits round and perfect.

  An urge to laugh takes me, laugh with happiness. I grab my dick and plunge into her, deep, so deep I start coming just from that. She trembles around me, her pussy gripping my cock in a vise, and she cries out.

  I wake up with her cry in my ears and my cum all over my hand.

  Rolling on my back, I blink the images from my eyes. My ears are ringing, my body still trying to come down from the high.

  My heart is hammering way too hard. I place a hand—my other, clean hand—over it and count its beats.

  Then I throw my legs over the side of the bed and take a few deep breaths before getting up.

  Stop being paranoid, I tell myself. You’ve been fine. A wet dream won’t kill you.

  I splash my face with cold water. Open the bathroom cabinet, look at the bottles of pills.

  Close it again.

  I’m fine.

  “Your mom would have wanted you to have a full life.”

  Christ. Why can’t I get my father’s words out of my head?

  Or the memory of kissing Brylee. It’s been playing on a loop since that day, threatening my sanity. She tasted of chocolate and sexy woman, and what she said…

  “No one has kissed me.”

  I was her first. The thought shouldn’t get me all worked up every time it echoes in my head, shouldn’t get me all hard and possessive.

  But it does. It seems I have no control over the caveman side of me. I want to be her first, the first to kiss her, touch her, fuck her, claim that sweet pussy as my own.

  I wonder if I’d be Riddick’s first, too.

  I bow my head and groan. “Listen to yourself, Ryan. Jesus Christ.”

  Maybe it’s the stress at work and no sign of a day off.

  My supervisor mentioned something about a promotion, but first I have to prove myself, apparently. More than usual. I have more cases than ever, work has been piling up, and the weekend is looming like a nightmare instead of an oasis of relaxation and rest.

  And I haven’t talked to my father since our argument last time. He called me a few times. I found the missed calls. I never called back. In fact, I texted him to let him know I wouldn’t make it to our weekly lunch this week.

  What the hell am I doing?

  My heart starts pounding again, and I curse as I grab the razor to shave myself. My hand is shaking.

  I put the razor back down.

  I’m okay. Everything’s okay.

  Half of the battle is believing. Hey, I’m working on it…

  ***

  I’m out of the office a lot, in meetings and more meetings. Once, when I get back behind my desk, I find a small cardboard box decorated with hearts under some paperwork in front of my computer, and my heart misses a beat, thinking it might be from Brylee.

  Stupid reaction.

  Inside are little black things that look like charcoal—or maybe fossils? I sniff one, and am surprised to discover there’s a faint scent of cinnamon to them.

  That reminds me again of Brylee, and I resolve to ask my often-absent office-mate if he saw Brylee bring this box in, but then I get buried under a ton of work again and besides, he doesn’t come back.

  Later, as I pass by, I find a note stuck to his keyboard: “In meetings.”

  Looks like I’m not the only one getting overworked around here.

  Despite the endless tasks piled on top of me, I take off to the gym later in the afternoon, and won’t admit to myself that it’s not just for the exercise.

  That I hope to see Brylee, or Riddick.

  And what will you do if you see them? You kissed her and freaked out so badly you locked yourself up in the bathroom.

  Yeah, okay, so I fucked up.

  Doesn’t change the fact that it was the best kiss I’ve ever had. The strongest desire I’ve ever felt. The only girl I’ve gone caveman over.

  Of course neither of them is at the gym, and I go through my exercises with such fury that the trainer comes over to tell me to take it easy.

  Easy for him to say. But I slow down, sip at my water, and tell myself not to be an idiot. There’s nothing to be angry over, except myself for breaking my own rules all the damn time.

  I’m done with this, with my obsession, with wanting them both, with allowing myself to feel things I hadn’t let myself feel in years.

  This is it. I’m done.

  So it makes no sense why I find myself half an hour later outside Riddick’s door.

  I’m worried about him, that’s what I tell myself as I ring the doorbell. I’m just gonna inquire about his back, about his brother, and be on my way.

  I’m prepared. I’m steadfast. We have nothing else to talk about anyway.

  Nothing happens, though, and I ring one more time, already turning to go.

  Then the door opens, and I reach for the frame to steady myself.

  Because he’s only dressed in a towel and a smile.

  Christ, the man has dimples. Not fair play. And that’s apart from his ripped, tattooed chest and those corded arms… Holy fuck. Wet, dark hair falling into gray eyes, scruffy jaw, muscles rippling in his stomach and abs when he lifts a hand to push the black strands out of his face…

  “Hey,” he says, that light smoker’s rasp in his voice I noticed the last two times, and I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth with an effort.

  “Hey yourself. I…” I’m lost for words. This isn’t like me. I frown. “I was just passing by.”

  A silence follows this statement.

  “Wanna come in?” he asks, glancing behind him as if unsure about the state of his apartment.

  Or maybe he has a lover waiting in the bedroom? Or even the bathroom?

  “Didn’t mean to disturb,” I say, heat gathering in my dick at the thought of Riddick naked, moaning in pleasure. Fuck. “If you have company…”

  He laughs—not his usual, sharp bark but a softer sound. “Nah, no company. Except you, if you wanna step inside. That is, if you don’t mind the mess…”

  I step inside.

  I know I told myself not to. His bare chest is short-circuiting my brain. I can’t even remember what I came to do here.

  Except fuck him.

  Not sure he’d agree to that.

  Or have him fuck me.

  Not sure he’d want that, either.

  I could convince him.

  Jesus.

  When he indicates the sofa, I automatically sit down and stare at him as he comes to stand across from me, leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest.

  My mouth is dry. I can’t look away. I find myself hoping that towel falls to the floor.

  I’m so fucked…

  ***

  “Last time you ran out of here as if you
had fucking hellhounds nipping at your heels,” Riddick says, pale eyes watching me carefully, though without anger.

  I swallow. It’s hard to think, let alone formulate sentences. “Well, I’m here now.”

  “Looks like it.” His lashes lower, hiding his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

  Oh sure. I keep my hands on my lap, trying to hide a hard-on that’s like a ramming bull. “Yeah, fine. I just came by to ask how you’re doing.”

  Those long lashes lift, as do his brows. “You did?”

  “Hey, don’t look so surprised,” I say, my brain finally kicking in. “I’m not an asshole.”

  “Yeah, no, I just…” Now he’s the one who seems to be lost for words. “Thanks.”

  He walks over to a threadbare armchair and sinks down in it. His wide-eyed expression tells me he’s genuinely shocked at this show of concern—and I’m shocked to find my concern is genuine, not just a pretext for seeing him.

  “How’s your back?”

  “Better.” He shifts, his movement betraying him, or at least telling me he’s not one hundred percent yet.

  “And your brother?”

  The light in his eyes dims. “Hasn’t come home in a while. Haven’t been able to find him, either.”

  Fuck, that sucks. I tell him so.

  “Yeah, it fucking sucks,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m so worried I can’t sleep at night.”

  And that’s when I notice for the first time the dark circles under his eyes and find a new meaning in the scruff on his jaw. Like he hasn’t bothered, too tired, too worried.

  I scratch at my own jaw, and think of my own reason for not shaving this morning—my shaky hand, because of a weekend buried in work. Because of my father’s missed calls. Because of—

  “Want a drink?”

  I start to shake my head—alcohol can raise your blood pressure and triglyceride levels, bad idea—but I hear myself saying, “Sure. What do you have?”

  He reaches under the scratched coffee table that’s covered in magazines—astronomy and tattoos—and pulls out a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.

  “This okay?” He pours the amber liquid and passes me a glass.

  I take a cautious sip. I haven’t eaten since lunch and haven’t had a drop of alcohol in years. “Yeah, this is good.”

  He takes a long swig and leans back in the armchair. He scratches at the tattoo on his chest—it looks like a constellation—and my gaze trails down his tight abs to the small blue towel and his long, muscular legs.

  He’s tall, like me, his shoulders wider than I remember. His physique is impressive, obviously the result of hard work at the warehouse and not long hours spent at the gym.

  I wonder how we’d fit against each other. Who’d be on top. What noises he’d make if I blew him. If I fucked him.

  Christ, what am I doing?

  I put down my glass and discover it’s almost empty. “I should get going.”

  “Running away again?”

  I stop in the process of standing up. “Excuse me?”

  “You run from me, run from Brylee. Kiss and run, is that your style?”

  I freeze. Inside and out. “Who I kiss and what I do is none of your goddamn business.”

  “That so?” He’s on his feet, too, wavering, and belatedly I realize he was probably drinking before I arrived. “What if I make it my business?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “What do you think?” He walks around the low table, glass in hand, the towel riding perilously low on his hips. His eyes flash. “I wanted to talk to you, too.”

  So close, he smells of soap, and whiskey, and sexy man. “About what?” I whisper.

  “About Brylee.”

  That breaks the spell. “What about her?”

  “Why are you jerking on her strings? Pretending you don’t notice her, then bring her here, all but push her onto me, then kiss her…” He scowls and jabs a finger at me. “Man, you’re one sick motherfucker.”

  “Fuck you.” I turn toward the door, but he grabs my arm, stops me.

  “She’s a sweet girl. Clever, pretty, sexy. Kind. Stop giving her hope if you don’t plan on dating her.”

  “Giving her hope? Are you fucking kidding me?” I shake his hand off me. “I never gave her hope.”

  “And kissing her was, what? Office routine? Finish the report, have a coffee, kiss a girl?”

  “You know nothing about me.” I shove him backward, and he staggers. My pulse is roaring in my ears. “So fuck off.”

  “I can’t.” He finds his balance, straightens. “You can’t do this. Not to this girl.”

  He’s… He’s in love with her. When did this happen?

  I should have seen it coming. Because he’s right. I practically shoved them together, left them to have fun together, so why am I surprised?

  Surprised, and disappointed, and fucking pissed off.

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do, asshole. What did you do? You kissed her, too, didn’t you?” Oh hell. “Did you fuck her?”

  “And if I did?”

  A red haze settles over my gaze. “You piece of shit.” My heart is banging against my ribs, going way too fast, but I don’t fucking care. “She’s mine.”

  I shove him again, and this time he crashes against the shelves and barely manages to catch himself from falling. A grimace twists his features.

  That’s when I remember his back. “Shit. Riddick.” I reach for him, and he recoils.

  “Fuck you,” he all but spits in my face. “I’m just worried about her.” Another grimace.

  Hell. “Did I hurt you? Riddick. Let me help you.”

  But when I step closer, he plants a hand in the middle of my chest, stopping me. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you near me.”

  His collarbone is strong, and beads of water speckle his square shoulders. A droplet runs down his temple, down his strong neck.

  Fuck… I push against his hand. “Riddick.”

  “What? What do you…?” His eyes turn uncertain. A vein beats fast in his neck. An urge to bite into his flesh, mark him, takes over my body.

  I push him again, and the resistance falters. I fall against him, pressing him into the shelves, pressing my mouth to his, tasting him for the first time.

  And we kiss.

  ***

  Salty, warm with a hint of oak-matured whiskey, he opens up when I lick at his lips and his tongue fights with mine for dominance. His hands grab my shoulders, bruising, and I pin him against rows of books and knick-knacks, knocking a few off. They crash to the floor.

  I barely notice.

  He gives as good as he gets, kissing me back with tongue and lips and teeth and an urgency that mirrors my own.

  At some point, he pushes on my shoulders, gasping, and belatedly I remember his back. Steering him away from the shelves, still kissing, I walk him backward to the sofa and wrapping an arm around him, lay him down.

  We break apart as he settles on the cushions. Those pretty, long-lashed eyes are wide, his mouth reddened, his chest rising and falling with each harsh breath. I reach for the knot in the towel, and he licks his lips as I undo it, letting the terry cloth fall open.

  Fuck, his cock is big. Hard. Beautiful. It juts upward, not forward like mine, and a piercing glints under the flushed head—a silver bar.

  I touch the metal, and he shivers, his stomach clenching into a mouthwatering six-pack. His cock hardens more, lifts off, pushing into my hand.

  Grinning ferally, I oblige. I stop toying with the piercing and wrap my hand around his thick length, giving it a hard tug.

  He hisses a curse, his hips lifting. He’s magnificent, his body all harsh lines and flat planes, thick muscle and pale skin. I brush a hand over his chest, and his small nipples bunch up into tiny hard points. His tattoo shifts as he lifts his arms to put them around my neck, and I realize it trails down his side.

  Why a constellation? Does it have any meani
ng for him? He doesn’t strike me like a man who’d ink himself out of vanity…

  But then he’s kissing me hungrily, his cock thrusting against my fabric-clad one, and I lose my train of thought.

  I don’t think as we rock against each other, kissing and biting and rutting like animals. At some point I reach between us for my zipper, and he beats me to it, shoving my pants down my hips and pulling out my dick.

  He pulls my head back down, eating at my mouth as we rock together, dick against dick, a hot, silky slide of hard flesh on hard flesh, and it feels so damn good I can’t stop, can’t slow down, racing toward the finish line.

  He comes first, ripping his mouth from mine to moan long and loud, his cum shooting between our bodies, painting his chest—and my sweater.

  Not that I care about that right now.

  I grunt as I rock faster, my dick sliding in the slick between our bodies, one, two, three exquisite thrusts before I spill, too, my mouth open on a choked cry.

  God. Oh God.

  Fuck.

  I brace myself with trembling arms over him, riding the waves of pleasure, my lungs seizing with the force of it.

  Then my heart does this weird thing it does sometimes, skipping a beat, then doing a triple, sending a ripple of ice through me. Pain hits my chest, cutting off my breath. I press my hand to my ribs, as if that will fix it.

  Calm down, I tell myself. It’s nothing. You’re okay.

  Riddick is gazing up at me, a question in his eyes. I wait.

  Another skipped beat. Another triple pulse.

  And another.

  Another spike of pain.

  Hauling myself up, I stuff my limp dick back into my pants. “I have to go.”

  “No shit?” Riddick lifts himself up on one elbow, sexy and pissed off like some ancient god washed up on a worn sofa and into my reality. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  Fuck. “I’m sorry.”

  That’s all my panicking mind can come up with and then I’m out of there as fast as my feet can carry me.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Buttered Cookie Dough

  Brylee

  “Did you know that in the Middle Ages unicorns were thought to be so pure they could only be captured and tamed by a virgin maiden?” Joel, the nerdy one of Candy’s two boyfriends, points at my chest.