Dirty Princes: A Standalone MMF Romantic Comedy

by Jo Raven

The call connects and Simone’s bright voice answers. “Simone, how can I help you?”

  I frown. “I called your apartment, right? Not your work?”

  “Yes, it’s my apartment.”

  Huh. “Okay. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be heading over in about ten minutes.” I glance at the document I have open on my computer screen and click save. “Just the time to drive over.”

  “Sure. It sounded urgent. I’m thinking of starting a relationship advise service. Lovesick Hearts.”

  Now I get the strange greeting. “You sure about this? What do you know about love?”

  “You’re one to talk. Last week it was Ryan, and now it’s Riddick, isn’t it?”

  I bite my lower lip. “Riddick is… sweet. And sexy. And good Lord, his body…”

  “Come off it.” Simone gasps. “Don’t tell me you got down and dirty with Riddick. Weren’t you saving your cherry?”

  “We didn’t have sex. Not exactly.” My face is on fire. “But I saw his…you know.”

  “I know, what?”

  “You know!” I bend over to retrieve my purse that’s on the floor beside my desk. “His member.”

  “You saw his dick?”

  Just the word makes me catch my breath. My mind wraps around it—around the word, I mean.

  Dick. His dick.

  “And?” Simone now sounds breathless, too.

  “It’s big.” I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “Really big. And…” The door of my office creaks. It’s slightly ajar.

  “And what?”

  Without replying, I get up and walk there to close it—but someone is there, right outside, and I jerk back with a yelp.

  The person outside the door also yelps—a much deeper, masculine sound.

  “Ryan?” I’m staring at him. “Oh my God, you scared me. Why are you lurking outside my office door?”

  “I’m not lurking.” He scowls at me, eyes flashing. Jeez, he’s even more gorgeous when he’s pissed. “I happened to be standing here.”

  “Outside my door? Really?”

  “Bry? What’s going on?” Simone’s tinny voice whines in my ear. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Why do you keep turning up wherever I am?” I ask him, ignoring her.

  Ryan shoots me an undecipherable look. “I’m not.”

  Of course not, I tell myself. Why would he? I’m seeing things where there’s nothing.

  Again.

  “Is that Ryan you’re talking to?” Simone screeches in my ear. “You’re two-timing them?”

  See? Told you Simone would put me back on the right path.

  “I’m not two timing,” I say, but as I press the phone between my ear and my shoulder, I disconnect the call by mistake.

  Fudge.

  “I’m not asking you to,” Ryan growls deep in his throat.

  Er. “What?”

  “Not asking you to two-time. Are you spending time with Riddick to make me jealous?”

  I squint at him. “Is it working?”

  That’s a good idea. Why didn’t I think of it?

  … because I like Riddick way too much to use him like that. Because… because I’m falling for him, too.

  And because I never thought it’d work. Mainly because to be jealous, first you have to be interested, and Ryan’s not interested in me… right?

  We covered that.

  “Of course it’s not working!” Ryan snaps, and a vein is ticking in his jaw. Golden stubble covers it, and I wonder what it would feel like to drag my tongue over it. “Honestly…”

  I swallow hard. “Good.”

  “Good?” His eyes narrow.

  “Yes.” Why is he looking at me like that? “That’s… good, isn’t it? That it’s not working on you? Since you don’t like me?”

  “Why the hell would you think you know who I like and who I don’t?” He pushes off the doorframe, and let’s not mention how sexy his bulging biceps are because I shouldn’t be paying them any attention, and neither should you. “You know nothing about me.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I know a lot, more than it’s healthy, but all that comes out is, “Screw you, Ryan.”

  “You wouldn’t know how,” he retorts, stepping inside my office, hands clenched into fists, held at his sides. “You don’t even know what sex is, do you?”

  Tears prickle my eyes, and it’s mostly anger. Okay, and partly mortification. “What’s the matter with you? You’re such an ass.”

  His steps falter, and his brows shoot up. “Bry…”

  “You’re unbearable.” I jab a finger in his direction, taking a step back. “I can’t stand your attitude anymore. You’re a—”

  His body slams into me, and his mouth lands on mine, hard and hot, his hands on my face, big and strong. He holds me still as he kisses me, swallowing the words I’m still trying to speak. I struggle a little, mainly from momentum and reaction—and because what in the world?

  He walks me backward until I hit the wall, and his whole body presses into mine. It feels delicious, every hard plane and angle molding to my curves, his stubble scraping my skin, his soft lips a counterpoint of pleasure, his hands sliding to the back of my neck to cradle my head as he eats me up, every thrust of his tongue a bolt of fire straight to my core.

  I shouldn’t… my brain is desperately struggling to catch up, trying to tell me to stop, but I’ve fed on the memory of his kiss so many times, it’s impossible to be rational about this. The memory pales in the face of this kiss. It’s so much better, so much hotter than I remembered. His taste… like dark rum and liquid gold.

  His leg nudges between mine, and I let them part, letting him in. His muscular thigh presses where I need him, and I moan in his mouth. He slides his hands down to my waist, lifting me and rocking me on his thigh, the friction between my legs igniting a spark inside me.

  Out of the blue, pleasure tears me apart, and I writhe, a moan bursting from me. His mouth crushes my lips, bruising—then the kiss turns unexpectedly sweet, a caress.

  And the reality of what just happened crashes on me.

  I let him…? What am I doing?

  I put my hands on his chest and shove. He stumbles back, his eyes snapping open—why were his eyes closed?—and stares at me as if waking from a dream.

  “Bry…” he starts, but I shake my head.

  Stepping around him, I grab my purse and coat and make a beeline for the door, annoyed at the lingering ripples of pleasure deep inside me, the burn of his kiss on my lips.

  My vision blurs as I storm out of the office, out of the building, going faster and faster, as if running for my life. It feels like that’s what I’m doing. Running for my sanity, perhaps.

  Nobody before had both the power and the opportunity to shatter me like Ryan does. Reeling me in just enough to make me open up and then slapping me away until I’m doubting myself, only to hook me and drag me back in. A vicious cycle.

  I’d better break it before it breaks me.

  Chapter Twenty

  Candy Dicks

  Riddick

  As the days pass, I start to get used to the quiet of my apartment and the vise of worry around my heart. The vise of fear.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  Get used to it, Rid. Accept it. It’s the only way to keep alive.

  My mom got discharged from the hospital—free to go back home to her stash of pills and bottles of booze, the fights with my dad and the next overdose.

  Meanwhile, Xavier has shown no sign of life—or death. Or anything, really. He’s vanished from the map of my life, and I’ve closed his bedroom door, not to see its emptiness every day.

  Should I go to the police? Can you go to the police if a person doesn’t want to be found?

  What the hell am I supposed to do? Wait until he turns up in the ER, like Mom? Or in the morgue?

  So much for accepting this shit and getting on with life, huh, Rid? Jesus Christ. Breathe. Nobody’s dead. They’re adults.
r />   They’re not your responsibility.

  Then why do I feel like bashing my head against the wall or drowning in a bottle tonight? Or any night, lately. Dragging myself to work, then to my second job, and then back home is a torture. All I wanna do is sprawl on my sofa and drink until I don’t care anymore.

  Dangerous.

  Too easy.

  I could slide down the hill like Xavier, like Mom. It’s in my blood. It’s a family tradition. Letting go of the rope and dropping into oblivion.

  I’ve fought the pull so far. And I fight it again tonight as I look at the bottle of Scotch, forcing myself to put it away. My back is bothering me again, and I pop two painkillers, over-the-counter medication that probably won’t do me any good, but I’ll be damned if I pop anything stronger, anything addictive.

  But it hurts, and I don’t mean just my back. It hurts in my soul, like an old scar in the cold damp. It’s a pain that’s ripping me apart slowly, and I don’t know how much fucking longer I can bear it.

  So when the doorbell rings at some point in the night, rousing me from my sprawl on the sofa and from dark dreams, I’m not in the best of moods.

  At first, when I open the door and find a scowling Ryan standing outside, one side of his face bruised, one eye ringed with black, I’m concerned.

  “What happened to you?” I ask, and am rewarded with a growl of rage.

  “You bastard.” He charges on me, shoving me back a step before my brain engages. “You goddamn bastard.”

  Whoa.

  And my mood just got worse. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” He grabs the doorframe as if otherwise he’ll topple over, and a cloud of alcohol hits my face.

  Jeez. I may have avoided the booze, but Ryan didn’t.

  He puts his hand on me, shoving me again, but this time I’m ready for it and shove him right back, a hand on his firm pecs.

  He staggers back, a look of surprise flashing over his face. “Fuck.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. You got shitfaced and thought you could come here and fucking push me around? Fuck you, man.”

  “You selfish son of a bitch.” He throws a punch, catching me on the jaw.

  I punch him right back, sending him back a couple of steps, and somewhere at the bottom of my misery, a spark of glee comes to life. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  He wipes blood from his split lip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “For fuck’s sake, stop pretending you don’t know.” I rub a hand over my aching face, too damn tired for this. “Go the fuck home, Ryan.”

  I prepare to close the door in his arrogant, handsome face, annoyed at the sting in my heart, an organ that should by all rights be bulletproof or else shattered by now. I wonder how it’s still beating.

  “Rid, wait.” He’s breathing hard, his gaze to the floor, his cheekbones flushed, his short blond hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

  “What for?” I ask coolly. Bitterly. “Find someone else to bully, asshole.”

  He laughs then, a sharp bark of laughter that doesn’t sound entirely sane, and that’s what stops me from closing the door all the way.

  “You’re not the only one who’s called me an asshole today,” he says.

  “Maybe you should take the hint.”

  He grunts. Then he looks up, his eyes dark and furious and desperate. “Brylee is in love with you.”

  …what?

  I stagger back a step. “You’re bullshitting me. Get out.”

  “I’m fucking serious.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Bry isn’t…”

  In love.

  Certainly not with me. With him, maybe. With him for sure, and if he doesn’t know it…

  “Riddick.” He comes again at me, and this time I let him, dazed. Open my arms, because I’m fucking done with fighting tonight, done with pretending I can take any more.

  Too much.

  Let him beat me over a lie, because Brylee doesn’t love me. I’m not the one she really wants.

  But the punch doesn’t come. He doesn’t hit me. He grabs my forearms and hauls me against his long, hard body, sending us both in a kind of spiral, heading into my apartment.

  I find myself gripping his lean hips as much to steady him as myself as we spin like a planet out of orbit. We hit a wall, or rather he hits a wall, and I crash into him.

  And then we’re kissing, aggressively, violently, more violently than the way we threw our punches or our words at each other a few moments ago. Teeth clacking together, tongues thrusting, we fuck each other’s mouth, hands tearing at clothes and groping body parts with punishing force.

  I push his jacket off his shoulders, he rips my sweater and T-shirt off. I tear his shirt open, buttons pinging as they fly, and he yanks my sweats down. By the time I fasten my mouth on one of his small nipples, he has his hand on my cock, tugging hard.

  It hurts so damn good. This is better than drugs, better than booze.

  I bite on his nipple, and he hisses. I undo his belt and shove my hand down his pants, finding him rock hard and wet.

  Releasing his nipple from my teeth, I straighten. Our cocks rub together, and I wrap a hand around the back of his head, finding his mouth again, sucking on his tongue as we rock together.

  He unglues his mouth from mine, panting for breath. “Rid… I want…”

  “What?” I growl, gripping his hot, hard dick so tightly its imprint will probably show in my hand tomorrow. “What do you want?”

  “To suck you off.”

  The words take a few seconds to sink in, and then a bolt of white-hot need hits me straight in the balls. “Fuck.”

  He’s already dropping to his knees, his blond head level with my crotch, and I have a moment’s terrible doubt—Brylee, is this cheating on her, am I anything to her at all, no matter what Ryan says?—and then his mouth closes around the head of my cock and my brain implodes.

  I’m faintly aware of groaning out loud and slamming a hand to the wall to keep from falling, the impact radiating up my arm to join the ache in my back—my other hand dropping to his short, silky hair as he takes me in deeper.

  Rough and sweet, his tongue dragging along the underside like fine grain sandpaper, like a cat’s tongue, his lips soft, his strong hands gripping my hips as he starts sucking me in earnest, deep drags as if he’s thirsty, and I’m a long drink he found in the desert.

  I’m not making any fucking sense.

  And right now I don’t care, not when the guy I haven’t been able to get out of my mind is going down on me with an intensity that’s caught me off guard.

  As if he’s been wanting it, too, craving it like I have.

  Which is bullshit, but ah fuck…he’s good.

  It’s good. So damn fucking good.

  My body gives a great shudder, my hand tightens in the short strands of his hair. My hips rock of their own volition, thrusting into his mouth, the pressure in my gut killing me, my balls heavy, my dick unbearably hard.

  “Ryan,” I gasp, not sure if it’s a plea or a warning, and I forget to be embarrassed for not lasting for more than two minutes as I come, struggling with pleasure sharp like a knife, slicing through me. “God.”

  I slump over him, fighting to catch my breath, and he licks me clean, every sweep of his tongue sending aftershocks through my overloaded system.

  It takes me a minute to realize he’s dropped one hand to his own dick and is stroking himself. Fascinated, I stare down at him as he sits back on his heels, jacking off, his fist moving up and down his thick cock in hard, long strokes.

  Fascinated by his unconscious sexiness, his golden lashes resting on his flushed cheekbones, his muscular chest rising and falling as he works his dick savagely, pumping furiously, his thighs trembling with the strain through the fine fabric of his pants, the contrast of his long, pale length against the black pants transfixing me.

  He hunches over, groaning, his cum splashing on
the floor, cords standing out in his neck as he comes in long, wrenching spasms.

  I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until it goes out in a gasp.

  That was hot.

  And this is all so fucking wrong.

  Pushing off the wall, I pull up my sweats, tucking myself in. “Get out.”

  “Rid.” He’s getting to his feet, leaning against the wall, stuffing his dick back into his pants. His eyes are so very dark, still high on the pleasure of his release.

  God, the man’s so fucking beautiful.

  “You said it yourself before. This was a mistake.”

  “Was it?” he asks.

  The hell. “We can’t just fuck every time we fight.”

  “I know.”

  “And it doesn’t change that we both want Brylee. Nothing changes that.”

  “I’m not letting her go,” he says, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, and it comes away bloody. Shit, I almost forgot about our earlier grapple.

  I mean it was, like, five minutes ago.

  Feels like a lifetime.

  “Newsflash for you: you don’t have her,” I snap.

  And this is pretty much only my anger talking, since we’ve established she’s in love with him, so I do a double take when he hangs his head and nods.

  “I know that, too.”

  “Then what are you—?”

  He slams his hand into the wall. “You’re right, this was a mistake. She’s better off with you, anyway. I don’t know why the fuck I came here.”

  “Jesus, man, make up your mind. We all need someone to—”

  “I don’t need anyone.” He storms out, slamming the door behind him.

  It echoes all the way to my bones. Deeper still, to where my soul might be lurking.

  If I have a soul.

  “Keep telling yourself that, cupcake,” I mutter at the closed door and Ryan’s long-gone back. “We all need someone.”

  More depressed than before, I head to bed.

  ***

  “I brought you cookies,” Brylee says, entering my apartment, shaking snowflakes off her dark coat. She smiles brightly at me and waves a small cardboard box around.

  It has red hearts on it.

  “Thanks.” I’m touched, genuinely touched by her visit, by the cookies, by her smile, but since Ryan showed up here two days ago, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling of unease. Of incomprehension.