by Lexi Whitlow
King Size
Lexi Whitlow
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Deleted Scene
Rancher’s Second Chance
Rancher Daddy
PowerBall
Guarding Her
Excerpt from Muscle
Excerpt from Wild
About the Author
More By Lexi
© 2018 Lexi Whitlow
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.
Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented are 18 or over.
Print Edition
Cover Design:
Mayhem Cover Creations
Photo Credit:
Wander Book Club
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Created with Vellum
For all the NICU moms and their little princes and princesses.
Prologue
Owen
A fucking art opening, Duncan?”
“Why, yes sir. It’s the kind of thing you said you liked to do in Paris.”
“When exactly did I say that?” I grab a martini—or whatever they’ve named the martini style drink of the evening in this overwrought, annoyingly trendy Paris gallery—and down several gulps. The vodka is mixed with something else—melon, grapefruit—and it’s surprisingly refreshing.
“Well—sir—this morning.” Duncan puffs up, and I give him a wide grin. Normally I don’t act too terribly princely with my ever-patient bodyguard, but I can’t quite help it. Duncan glances at my face and gives me a long-suffering sigh.
“I like art. And art galleries.” And the artists themselves, sometimes.
I survey every face and figure in the room as I walk through and take in the art. There are tall black-and-white photographs of the city, initiation impressionist paintings with modernist flair, and some interesting sculptures in a style I don’t entirely know how to describe. The women are usually the more interesting aspect of gallery openings and big events like this one.
Even last year, I’d find a girl to take home in a heartbeat, but this gallery is full of women of a certain sort… I should have known before I even had Duncan drive me here. In the corner, I spot three towering goddesses, each on stiletto heels. Beside them stands a creature built for the Paris runway—a doll. Her figure has been starved for the benefit of designers and photographers who prefer the look of a young child to the figure of a grown woman. Her lips are full and puffed with restalin or collagen or whatever people are using these days.
“Go home, Duncan,” I say, waving him off. “I don’t need any company.”
Duncan gives me an appraising look. He’s been told to accompany me on this trip to Paris as a protective measure. He doesn’t want the type of paparazzi reports from my last trip to Amsterdam to visit my cousin Matthias. And he doesn’t want to bear the weight of responsibility if I take off on my own.
“Seriously,” I urge him. “I just need to find some art for the new apartment here. Just… go.”
I feel the need to be overly formal with Duncan—my princely self. I’m not really that person. And this whole art event isn’t what I had in mind. Come to think of it, I don’t quite know what I wanted. Not one of the long-haired goddesses, or one of the Paris fashionistas. Maybe—as my mother told me many long years ago, I simply need someone to have a decent conversation with.
Funny idea, Mother. That’s not exactly who I am.
I laugh at the idea as Duncan hesitantly leaves me. I watch as he walks out into the cool Parisian night. I know he’ll sit in the car, waiting for me a block or two away.
I wait for him to round the corner, and then I take a step outside myself, taking one of the contraband cigarettes out of my jacket pocket and putting one between my lips. I breathe in the smoke, cognizant of the fact that I’m probably actively taking thirty minutes or so off of my life with just one puff, but that’s the beauty of it. I’m doing something just because I want to.
I glance over my shoulder at the women inside, each one more beautiful than the last—and all of them “acceptable” dates for a man like me.
“Boring,” I mutter. And even more boring if they know who I am.
I fish around in my jacket for my iPhone, and I open up the screen. There’s one app I’ve been meaning to try—Sparc.
It’s for dating—well, fucking, primarily. I’d certainly be banned from doing something like this, which is why I want to. I have a dead profile with the fake name “Collin” on the thing I set up months ago, but I open it up anyway.
“The whole of parliament would have a fit,” I say, laughing. “And the tabloids…”
I type a few words about myself as I smoke the last of the cigarette and stub it out against a tree. I don’t expect to find anyone intriguing as I scroll through the profiles with the little green circles attached to them. Since it’s based on location, a few of the women inside the art gallery opening pop up. Apparently the girl with the collagen lips is “ready to party.”
That might have been appealing at one time in my life. But, as I stand out and face the glittering Paris night, I can’t help but feel that I’m done with all of that. Done with models and stiletto-heeled goddesses of all kinds. I’m about to close the app when a new green light pops up, a couple of blocks away.
I click on her profile, and there’s a picture of a girl with sandy-blond locks of hair, cascading around her shoulders. She’s standing next to a painting, and her whole shirt is smeared with the paint.
Artist-adventurer-thrill-seeker. That’s all it says.
I click the yes button on her profile and wait. After several minutes of staring off into the night, the phone buzzes again. She’s seen me, and she’s clicked yes as well.
I tuck the phone inside my jacket—along with the pack of cigarettes. And I step off into the night towards the slightly seedier part of Paris downtown, just a few blocks away. The galleries there are nothing like this one. And Duncan wouldn’t mind—after all, I am just going to look at art. I keep my pace brisk and my head down. I don’t want to be seen by the people from the opening I was just at.
When I reach the gallery—it’s more of a bar turned into a gallery—I look behind me to see nothing and no one. The bouncer lets me inside with a fee of twenty euros. I give him a tip and tell him not to let anyone know I came in. He shrugs.
The floor is cement, painted red, and the t
ables are the kind of dark, old wood that always looks sticky. But each and every surface is covered with some kind of art—small sculptures on each table, paintings and graffiti covering the walls and countertops. And there’s some kind of experimental dance troupe performing on stage as people mill about, laughing and talking and actually having fun.
I order a beer without the bartender recognizing me, and I take off my jacket, rolling up the sleeves. Even if she’s not here, this place seems like it’s a good time, and not a total snooze.
Then, I turn, and I see her. My cock stiffens at the very idea of meeting a woman like this. So long, I’ve suffered through arranged dates, boring ballets, overly fancy dinners, and all sorts of palace theatrics.
It’s not just that.
She’s different.
There’s nothing painted or artificial about her—her beauty is genuine. She doesn’t have puffed lips, and she’s not tottering on heels. Her blond locks are wild with curls, gathered in a messy bun. She’s dressed in clingy black leggings, Doc Marten boots splattered with paint, a fitted undershirt, and a wispy, thin tunic concealing just enough curve and silken skin to render her fascinating—and far more beautiful than any woman I met at that gallery.
Duncan would be horrified.
Her eyes meet mine, and I give her a genuine smile—no artifice there either. There’s something mischievous about how she looks at me, like she’s undressing me with her eyes. She leans over to the man she’s been talking to and quickly departs, walking my way with a wide, un-self-conscious stride.
“I’m Collin,” I say.
“Norah.” She absentmindedly pulls her hair out of the bun, and it spills over her shoulders in a sunny cascade.
“Artist, adventurer, thrill-seeker?”
“All of the above.”
“And you’re… American, I take it? What brings you to Paris?”
“Getting away from old habits… and looking for new stories.”
“Found any yet?”
“No, but I’m still searching.”
“Maybe I can be part of a good one,” I say.
“Maybe.” She grins at me. “But I already have an exciting night planned. Just wanted to… meet someone afterwards.”
“You’ve already met him. And he already likes you.” I can’t help it—the words come out of my mouth unbidden. Maybe it’s the couple of drinks I’ve had, but the words definitely feel right.
“Don’t make such a quick judgment. You’ve been talking to me for about thirty seconds.”
“Hopefully more. I’d like to stick around longer than…” I take out my phone and tap the screen. “Just one date.”
“You say that now.” She steps closer to me, and I smell the tropical scent of her hair—floral and coconut. I do want to know this girl just a little bit better, I realize. But my position as prince doesn’t often afford me such opportunities.
“Let me get you a drink.” I signal the bartender and walk over to the bar with Norah. She gets whiskey—straight. I like watching her drink it, and I feel something tighten deep inside me as her lips pull upward into an enchanting smile.
“I, um, haven’t used that thing before. Sparc. Not to meet someone for—” She shrugs and raises an eyebrow.
“The app?” I take a swig of beer. “I haven’t either. But I’m glad I did tonight.”
“Me too. My ex—er my sometimes stalker—Eric—has been following me around. He’s going home next week, and he just ditched me here at my art show.” She pauses. “Not that I’ve been sleeping with him or anything—he’s just been following me around.” She looks around nervously, like I’m going to judge her for finding me on the app.
“Glad he’s gone. I’d like to get to know the artist-adventurer-thrill-seeker for myself.”
She laughs. “Okay, well, you want to stay for my painting? Then we can…”
I nod. “Your painting?”
“Consider it foreplay,” she says cryptically.
God, yes. Uncomplicated. No strings attached. I look her over. Her breasts are round and full beneath her tunic, and her ass is a work of art in and of itself. I let her lead me over to the stage, near where she was standing.
There are stage hands clearing away the hippie-style dancers and rolling out canvas all over the stage and behind us. Stage hands are bringing out buckets of paint.
“What is all this?” I start laughing. “Are you going to…”
She nods. “I’m a broke artist.” She leans into me for a second, eyes sparkling. “And I don’t intend to be wearing any of these clothes later.”
I watch her as she helps the stage hands prep. She hasn’t recognized me yet, and if she hasn’t, she won’t. Perfect for one night together.
Her eyes glint and crackle as she gets up on stage, and they’re fixed on me. There’s a sexual, sensual energy pouring off of her as she arranges the paint cans. A bucket of red sloshes up and spills onto the edge of one black boot, and she laughs, letting it ring out long and loud. Everyone in the entire place turns to her, eyes locked on her pristine clothes and her body.
“Merde.” She looks around the bar and grins. “That’s French for ‘Oh fuck, I spilled this paint.’”
There are laughs all around. She kicks another can over. Green this time. And then orange. The colors swirl together in a rainbow sea. My heart beats faster as I watch her. It’s madness, and her boots are utterly covered in paint. She slides as she walks, tracing ridged lines over the canvas in all manner of colors.
“Is this artistic enough for you?” She yells through the din of the bar.
“Not quite!” Someone yells from the back. She takes her white tunic off, revealing the tops of her perfect, round breasts, poured into the tight black tank-top she’s wearing. She throws the tunic at me, and I catch it. I drape the gauzy fabric over my arm, but I don’t move. I’m mesmerized, watching her.
The lights in the bar dim, and a purple spotlight falls on her.
I can’t quite remember her name from the app. Was it … Cora? Something old and Gothic. Dickensian.
Paint pours from the ceiling, one can after another—purple, blue, green, iridescent black. It splashes like waves hitting the shore, natural and unstoppable.
She raises her arms in celebration, kicking the paint and letting it splash on the canvas, on the floor, into her hair and all over the untouched black of her outfit. It’s an explosion of color and sound. She stomps, dances, turns—and then she lies down in the middle of it, rolling and moving her body over the canvas.
My eyes are locked on her. It seems like hours have passed when her performance ends, and the weirdos in the bar clap wildly for her. I do the same, like I’m in some sort of erotic trance.
When she stands again, her nipples are hard, pushing through the lace of her bra and camisole. Green and blue paint trickles over her breasts in tendrils. Her hair is a mass of red and ochre and silver.
As the canvasses are cleared and hung to dry, she comes and stands beside me.
“What did you think, pretty boy?”
“I’m a pretty boy?” I grin wickedly. “I came to this bar and watched you do… whatever that was.”
“You did. I guess that gives you some credit.” She pauses. “I don’t really know how this works. But I live right on this street. It’s… Not much.” She shrugs like it doesn’t matter where she lives, like nowhere is really home. And she’s talking so fast, I’m not sure if she’s asking me back to her place, or if she’s just making conversation.
“You asked me what I thought,” I say slowly. I pause, and she looks up at me with those glinting eyes. “I think you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
She takes my hand in hers, getting green paint on my skin, and she pulls me down towards her, kissing me. Her body collides with mine in the middle of the bar, and I’m covered in color. Consumed in it.
I have the passing thought that I won’t know how to explain this to Duncan, but I’m not sure I care.
“We’r
e going back to my place,” she whispers. She pulls me through the bar and out onto the street in a mad dash. I nearly forget to grab my coat, but the bartender throws it at me at the last second, and I catch it, smearing it with paint.
It’s so unlike the art opening I’d attended earlier this evening that I have to laugh. Norah laughs too.
“I’ll be moving on in a week,” she says, the wind whipping through her sandy blond, paint covered locks. “It’s not much but…it’s enough for right now…”
I take her then and kiss her, my tongue glancing off of hers. “Don’t care,” I murmur. She walks with me along the dark Parisian street, arm in arm. Like we’re lovers, old friends. But we barely know each other—and even better, she has no idea who I am.
She practically drags me up the stairs to her place. It’s a bohemian hole-in-the-wall, and she probably has at least five other roommates. Thankfully, they seem to be absent—though there could be one lurking behind one of the Turkish wall hangings or behind the clearly broken cappuccino maker.
But we don’t pause for a tour of her living arrangements. Inside the apartment, she barely manages to turn on a lamp before I lift her and carry her over to what I assume is her bed. She squeals in delight and kisses me again as I hold her, suspended in midair like some paint-covered sprite.
I throw her down on the bed, and she kicks off her boots. They land in a wet thump on the floor and she laughs. “I don’t think I’ll be getting back the security deposit.”
