Royally Hung

by Anne Marsh

  Her eyes are still suspicious—Edee’s smart—but she doesn’t hesitate. She launches into an extremely detailed set of directions. It’s like she’s had Google Maps implanted into her brain. Unfortunately for her, I’m both a little drunk and a little gobsmacked by her looking into her eyes. Edee has gorgeous eyes.

  So what I hear is Turn right, blah blah blah, go up a hill, cross a dale, blah blah left, stop when you’re in front of my stepmother’s house.

  Oh. And she numbers each step.

  It’s like she’s reading off a huge mental list and her life depends on getting all of the steps in the right order. One thing I’ve learned about my brand-new princess? She likes lists. She’s also a huge fan of numbered steps and multipart instructions.

  And then she just sort of stops midstep. It’s like a wind-up toy just ran out of juice or collapsed.

  “Edee?” I give her a gentle shake, batting her dress cloud out of the way.

  Her eyes drift closed, dark lashes resting against her cheeks. I think she’s asleep. I lean against the elevator wall and assess the situation while the floors flash by. I could kiss her awake. It would totally be like a fairy tale.

  The elevator reaches the penthouse with a speed Usain Bolt would envy and the door slides open with a tiny ping. All hail the conquering hero. I stride past the bodyguards posted in the entryway. I have no idea how they managed it, but somehow they’ve beaten us to the suite. Maybe they have wings—or a jetpack. Mr. Left looks disapproving about my marital shenanigans, but Mr. Right is more stoic. Sucks to be them, but rocks to be me. I dismiss them and they have to go. It’s actually written into their contracts because I refuse to have minders. Queenie—and someday Nik—is the only boss of me.

  I hang onto that thought as I kick open the bedroom door. This place is over-the-top even for me. It looks like the hotel barfed gold and gilt everywhere. The decorator went with a more-is-more strategy in here. The bed alone is large enough to house a small army unit and the duvet I tug down has a higher thread count than some nations’ GDP. This spot is as good as any. I set my armful of bride down on the sheets.

  “We’re here,” I announce. This is her cue to start shedding her clothes and start appreciating our alone time.

  She doesn’t move.

  I don’t need to tell you that is not the usual reaction women have when I take them to bed. Moaning, screaming, gyrating, endless coming—yes, yes, and yes. They rock up on their hands and knees, spread their legs, shove their asses in the air. So many positions, so little time. But Edee?

  She’s sound asleep.

  She’s not even pretending to ignore me. I know this because I’ve played that game a few times—and I’ve always won. Kissing up her neck, letting my fingers do some dirty exploring. That’s a winning hand. This silence and lack of interest? It sucks. I may need to pick a different fairy tale—play Sleeping Beauty and wake her with a kiss.

  “Brown eyes?”

  Shit. That sounds lame, plus I’ve already used it once. I need a better pet name for her. I brush her hair out of her face, or try to. During her crazed dash for the elevator, her hair’s come half-down from the fancy twist thing the stylist wrestled it into and she’s shedding diamond bobby pins like the world’s richest hedgehog.

  While I consider next steps, I wrestle the tiara off her head and send the veil sailing through the open bathroom door and into the tub. Since the tub’s approximately the size of a small island, this is easier than you’d think. It’s a two-point shot at best.

  “Score,” I say out loud.

  Silence isn’t really my thing. Plus, I’m usually the drunken one in the relationship. Over the years, my mates have pointed me in the direction of the trash can, brought me the hair of the dog (or sometimes the entire goddamned pack), and steered me away from any number of ill-considered drunken fumbles. Since I’m a big fan of naked parties, this has led to considerable work for my friends. Still, they also have some fun with it. From the crap that shows up on celebrity gossip sites, they usually pose me for various incriminating photos and then sell the evidence. Queenie’s given up trying to keep any of it quiet, so my drunken photos don’t fetch more than the price of a small car now. The tin can kind, made in former Soviet Republics.

  I jiggle Edee, so I can get her take her on things. “Brown eyes?”

  No response.

  Okay. Tough love time.

  “Your king commands you to wake up.”

  I’m not sure why I need her to be present in the moment with me, except that I like her. Don’t get so excited about it. She’s smart and funny, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t take any shit from me if she were sober. It’s just that I’m a bad influence and she’s had a little too much of my excellent champagne and now here we are. Married in Vegas and ten minutes into our honeymoon.

  I could take her dress off.

  Make her comfortable.

  Sneak a peek.

  She lets out cutest little snuffle-snore.

  I totally need a time-out, so I decamp into the bathroom where I strip off my tux and trade it for a pair of worn blue jeans. Pajamas would probably be the more mature choice, but I don’t own any—so denim it is because I don’t want to freak Edee out by crawling into bed naked. I brush my teeth, run some water over my face. Do all of the normal nighttime things, pretending that this is the most normal night of them all and not my faux wedding night.

  Edee’s still sleeping when I go back into the bedroom. I love the dark—I always have, even as a kid—so I flick off the lights and pad over to the floor to ceiling windows that frame a world-class view of the Strip. Outside and a million miles below my window, people go about their night, drinking, taking chances, hanging out with their friends and loved ones. And while I know that the closer you get to the sidewalk down there, the more obvious the dirt, grime, and addiction issues become, I kind of like thinking that those crowds swarming around are working on their own happy endings.

  Do you believe in happy endings?

  Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I did. That me was young and naïve, however, and his expectations of perpetual, never-ending happiness came to an abrupt end when his parents did. New Me is way more cynical and willing to settle for happy right now. And since this usually involves alcohol, my dick, or acts of insane risk taking and impulsivity, tonight’s wedding works for New Me.

  I leave the curtains open so I can watch the view from the bed and pad over to Edee. I know you think that tonight’s hasty sham marriage wasn’t my best idea ever, but I’m all in now and it’s kind of nice having Edee here. Even if she’s sound asleep and oblivious to my considerable princely charms.

  It’s not that I planned on christening the enormous king-sized bed with multiple bouts of honeymoon sex. I’m a guy. That just means that I hoped sex was on the table. My other favorite positions include up against a wall, doggy style, or anywhere outdoors. Potentially getting caught? Total thrill.

  Edee flops over on the bed, totally not on board with my sex marathon plan. Her wedding dress puffs up around her, tulle tickling her face. She looks uncomfortable.

  I monitor the dress situation for a minute—I can just imagine the headlines if she drowns in all that material—and think. As it turns out, my brain is much more interested in seeing what she looks like underneath the dress than in her personal comfort. Bad brain.

  I’m a yes man. While I love hearing you scream my name, moan, and make wild monkey sounds while I’m loving you, my favorite word is yes. Yes, Dare. Yes, do that. Yes, yes, yes. The point is, consent matters. And Edee isn’t in a position to give it. I’m shit at leading a country or playing political games, but I never, ever cross that one line. Because it’s not okay. Ever. Yes is a gift and it’s so on my Christmas list this year. I desperately want Edee to invite me all the way in.

  But it’s not happening tonight and she’s still trussed up in
her wedding dress, so I need to find a compromise that will make everyone happy. I roll her over carefully and go to work on the zipper. The dress falls away from her front and I discover that the dress designer is wicked. Edee’s wearing a half-corset that laces up her back and cups her tits. Yes. I look. I’m only human.

  Okay.

  So I’m also a gentleman—or near enough. I almost believe myself. Plus, I have my golden rule. Do you hear a yes? Nope. Me neither. I ease her back onto the bed and go hunt in my things for a spare T-shirt. Bingo. A totally unsexy, white cotton number with the name of an animal rescue group plastered across the front. It also has two puppies, which is a cute touch. Unfortunately, the puppies don’t make me want to fuck any less, but I’m trying. I know. You were expecting a prince to own nothing but Fendi and Gucci, but this shirt is large enough to cover up three women and my good intentions need all the help they can get.

  I tug the cotton over her head until her tits are all covered up. I don’t touch the danger zone. I don’t look. This way Edee’s comfortable and my virtue stays intact. Given my success at impossible things, I should probably work on world peace or global warming next. I reach under the acres of fabric as carefully as if I’m performing brain surgery and am now waltzing around the cerebral cortex or some other delicate area. The corset unlaces easily—damn that dressmaker. It falls away into my greedy hands, the fabric still warm from her skin.

  Yes. I smell it. I lift that goddamned corset up and rub my face in it. It’s the little pleasures in life. Trust me. Plus, Edee smells fantastic. The corset, however, is merely the beginning. I ease the dress down underneath the T-shirt.

  Fuck. ME.

  She’s wearing thigh-high stockings. I make a mental note to send the designer a major tip. Possibly enough to purchase a small island in Fiji. And since she’ll end up with red marks and no circulation if they stay put, I roll her stockings down.

  I’m a total fucking saint and the golden rule sucks.

  I lob the dress toward the monster tub in the bathroom. It floats through the air for a brief moment before deflating onto the floor. Edee sighs and rolls over onto her side. See? She looks more comfortable already. I pull up the sheet and tuck the duvet in around her. Just call me Nurse Avalioni.

  Married life is much closer to sainthood than I anticipated, I decide, as I settle down in bed beside her.

  Chapter Seven

  Edee

  “Good morning, princess.”

  The sexy baritone rumbling in my ear is . . . unexpected.

  For the last eighteen months, the only male I’ve woken up with is my stepmother’s five-year-old Siamese, and he doesn’t even qualify as male since his snip-snip trip to the vet way back in kittendom. The poor guy never stood a chance.

  Usually, the first thing I want in the morning is coffee. Waking up is made tolerable only by a liberal application of java beans. Instant, Arabica, Robusta, served up in a paper cup from the Golden Arches—I don’t care as long as there oceans and oceans of it. Right now, however, I’m willing to trade up.

  For him.

  I crack an eye and frown. The details of last night dance somewhere in the back of my head, eluding me. They’ll undoubtedly come flooding back in embarrassing detail once I down that coffee but for right now . . . I don’t care that the bed I’m in is completely, entirely unfamiliar. It’s also fabulous. I’m no expert, but the thread count of the sheets tangled around me has to be a four-digit affair and the duvet is a big, puffy cloud of comfortable white.

  “I’ve died and gone to heaven.” I blurt the words out because thinking before I speak is also a post-coffee activity.

  “I get that a lot.” I can practically hear the smirk in my companion’s voice.

  His voice doesn’t get any less sexy, either. I’m in so much trouble. On the Richter scale of arousal, I’m hovering around an eleven, ready to detonate. If I’m lucky, he’ll be up for crooning the collected works of Shakespeare at me. Heck, I’d settle for listening to him read the phone book. My panties get wet.

  I suppose it’s a plus that I’m even wearing panties.

  I think.

  Did we have sex? Have I popped my one-night-stand cherry and can’t remember it? The warm weight behind me shifts as my bedmate moves. My sudden headache makes yesterday’s seem like nothing. I have just enough time to decide that morning afters suck before big, rough, capable male hands press an Advil against my mouth and urge me to drink.

  I do.

  Huh. Those words seem familiar and yet . . . I can feel the memories lurking, waiting to pounce and go I told you so, but it’s way too early to confront any demons or slay dragons. I hit the mental snooze button on my brain and give it up to the mattress. Big hands tug me gently downward until my cheek is pressed against a bare chest. This is an awesome improvement on my usual pillow but I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be doing this. In another minute I’ll remember a baker’s dozen of reasons why not.

  “Did we?” My words come out all sleepy slur.

  The chest beneath me rumbles with laughter.

  “You got a list, princess?”

  He has a pet name for me.

  “Yeah.” I always have a list. It’s both the bane and the blessing of my existence.

  “Save that thought and tell me about it later,” he suggests. It’s possible he brushes a kiss over my hair, but that’s not one-night-stand material. Even I know that, so I must be mistaken. I add it to my list of things to figure out later and let myself go.

  * * *

  * * *

  When I wake up for real, yesterday evening seems like a dream. A very detailed, very Technicolor, extraordinarily embarrassing dream. I haven’t quite stripped down and walked around in public, but it feels like it. I mentally list what I know for a fact. One, I came out to the Royal Palace Resort and Casino for a photography gig. Two, instead of snapping pictures of the happy prince and princess, I hung out with the prince. Who, three, asked me to marry him (or possibly I asked him—I’m going to need to consult an English teacher on that one). Four, I did it. Which brings me to . . . five.

  I’m married.

  I’m a Mrs.

  I run through the list again just to be sure, because holy impossible shit, Batman.

  I run my index finger over my so not bare ring finger—a finger sporting a metal band and a stone the size of a ring pop. Since I need immediate confirmation of the impossible, I carefully crack one eye. I’m no jeweler, but there certainly appears to be a megawatt diamond wedding perched on my finger. Freaking hell, it’s probably some national treasure worth more money than I’ll ever make in my life. I’m married. OhmyGOD.

  I give up playing possum and sit bolt upright. I need to get out of here, wherever here is. The duvet sags to my waist as I take a closer look at my surroundings. I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore—and even though this room is all gold and gilt, it’s got nothing on the man sprawled out on the ginormous bed beside me. He’s not wearing a shirt. Naturally, that’s the first thing I notice because muscled chests are my Waterloo and my early morning companion is perfection. He’s chiseled and eminently lickable. Does he always hang out bare chested? Am I really complaining?

  He sets the tablet he’s holding aside and winks at me. “Let’s try this again.”

  I look at him. Nope. Lusty thoughts I’ve got, but words? Not so much.

  “Good morning, princess.”

  “Ummmmm.” Yes, I’m super-suave like that. I have morning breath with a side of bedhead. Now is not the time to jump the poor man or whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

  “How do you feel?” He leans forward, his beautiful, beautiful face inches from mine. For one crazy moment, I consider throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing. Maybe rubbing my boobs on his chest. His bare, muscled chest. Naked is such a good look for him—and it seems to be his favorite. First the strip show by the pool, an
d now this. Clothing is entirely optional around this man. Wait. Am I wearing a shirt? I’m pretty sure my face goes up in flames as I hastily check out my own front.

  I’m dressed. Sort of.

  I’m wearing a wash-worn white T-shirt with puppies on it. Presumably, it belongs to Dare, making me responsible for his near nudity. I’m a genius. While he stares at me, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, I do a quick inventory. Beneath the T-shirt, I’m mostly bare. No bra. No pants. And from the uncomfortable tugging on my lady bits, I’m still rocking my wedding thong.

  I tackle the first problem on my list.

  “I have no pants.”

  He grins. “You’re welcome.”

  “I need pants.” I weigh my options. This is a hotel, right? So there’s bound to be a bathrobe hanging in the closet or the armoire or whatever gigantic dressing room this minipalace comes equipped with. I’d still have to do the walk of shame through the lobby, however, with bare feet. If I could find my purse, I could buy pants. I mean, it’s Vegas, right? They’ve seen everything here, so my pants-less self waltzing into the cheapest, non-designer store I can find should shock no one.

  Dare’s grin gets wider. God, he’s trouble. “Not on my account.”

  “I had pants yesterday,” I accuse.

  Anyone else would be taking advantage of my pants-less state, and part of me (the part usually concealed by said pants) feels sad he’s not already leapt across the bed to appreciate my loss. Wait. Stupid brain.

  Dare grabs a cell phone from the side of the bed and his fingers fly over the screen. It looks suspiciously like a phone prototype that was splashed all over the news a month ago when an employee leaked the design to the media. Clearly, Dare doesn’t wait for anything.

  He gets exactly what he wants, when he wants.

  I’ve always refused to do the pick me dance, but today might be the right day to make an exception. If I were really feeling brave, I’d strip off my borrowed shirt and jump up and down on the bed. I’m bra-less. Dare appears to be a boob man. I could . . .