Royally Hung

by Anne Marsh

  “What’s your favorite boy part? Please feel free to point it out on my person.”

  “Forearms.” We both look at his. There’s a whole lot of bronzed, muscled skin on display, and yes, my mouth waters. The sexiest movie scene ever is when Captain Jack Sparrow is forced to offer his hand to Norrington and is outed as a pirate when Norrington shoves his shirtsleeve up. Sure my beloved captain could do with a little more soap and a whole lot less alcohol in his life, but his forearm is strong and inked and I get shivers just thinking about the bracelets.

  “You’re not listening,” he whispers in my ear. “And my favorite part is awesome. You should pay attention to me or I’ll make you guess.”

  “I’m a terrible guesser.”

  He sighs. “I’ll give you a hint. It starts with p.”

  “But if I guess, then I’ll be asking a question.”

  He laughs. “Good point. I’ll pick an easier question. Do you watch porn?”

  “Hello. We’re in Vegas. If you stand on the Strip after dark, there’s no way to not watch porn.”

  He grunts. “Evasion.”

  “Truth.”

  “How long was your last relationship and when did it end?”

  “Never. I don’t do relationships, brown eyes.”

  I don’t think he’s lying.

  * * *

  * * *

  Dare snags his tablet from the bedside table and holds it out to me. He’s been browsing various gossip and news sites, all of them full of Prince Dare’s mysterious, impulsive wedding to an unknown woman. My picture is everywhere. Sort of. I appear to be the tulle-wrapped, sparkly blob standing next to the handsome prince. There’s not a single shot of my face, and that’s a blessing. The sites enthuse over his selection of an American bride, calling it bold, revolutionary, and (heh) daring.

  “That’s a good one of you.” I point to a particularly charming shot of Dare grinning. He looks happy. As if getting married to my drunken self in a Vegas quickie ceremony officiated by an Elvis impersonator is the acme of his dreams.

  His smile promptly disappears. “I don’t like pictures.”

  “Really?” My brain explodes, trying to process that one. “I love them. Taking them.”

  “Being in them?” he asks dryly.

  I shrug. “I’m always on the other side of the camera. I like it that way.”

  Wait. My camera! I had it with me yesterday and then . . . I draw a blank. I hop off the bed and look underneath it. No camera.

  Dare drops to the floor beside me. “What are we doing?”

  “Have you seen Mr. Precious?”

  He smirks. “Given my dick a pet name already, have you? Wait until you actually see it.”

  I smack his shoulder companionably. “Mr. Precious is my camera. At best, you’re Mr. Semi-Precious.”

  “Ouch.” He grins companionably at me. Is he never serious?

  “I have to find it.” I never lose my camera. Ever. It’s like my third arm or tit or something far, far more useful. And not only does it contain all my pictures from yesterday, but I simply cannot afford to replace it.

  “Edee. Calm down.” He pats me on the shoulder and vaults to his feet. “We have people for this.”

  “I’m not panicking.” Liar. I’m totally panicking. I’m never without Mr. Precious. Who is absolutely, totally nowhere to be seen.

  Dare hauls open the bedroom door and a pair of dress-shoe-wearing feet steps into view.

  “Little warning,” I growl and contemplate crawling underneath the bed. Great. Now his security detail has seen my panty-clad butt crawling around on the floor. They’ll probably decide I’m into some really kinky sex and then I’ll end up as one of those unfortunate tabloid stories.

  I hear Dare ask Mr. Dress Shoes to put someone on the task of hunting down my missing camera ASAP and then the door shuts. As if it’s that simple. I’ll bet his people have people.

  “Distraction time.”

  That’s all the warning I get before a strong arm hooks around my waist and I’m hauled back against a warm, hard body—right before we both go flying through the air to land on the mattress. Dare proves diabolically talented in the distraction department. His fingers dig into my ribs, tickling and teasing. I squirm, trying to get away, but he simply hooks a leg over mine. And although the majority of the time he’s on top, I’m not going down without a fight.

  Turns out, Dare’s ticklish in more than a few places, too. The side of his neck is particularly sensitive, as is the back of his knee. We play wrestle, rolling around on the bed. I laugh so hard I almost pee myself, which is definitely not the kind of impression I want to make on a prince of the realm or whatever he is. Eventually, I’ve had enough.

  “Off,” I shove at his chest and he obediently flops onto his back beside me.

  “Dare?” I stare up at the ceiling. It’s really great. Some kind of fancy trompe l’oeil depiction of a nighttime sky.

  “Question, brown eyes?”

  “Why are we married? Really?”

  Because I’m not Cinderella. I didn’t show up at his glamorous ball in a magical gown and I didn’t dance my way into his heart. He hasn’t chased after me, hanging on to hope and a single glass slipper. He has a reason—he just hasn’t shared it with me.

  “It’s a joke.” He stares up at the ceiling as if he’s never seen it before. And of course maybe he hasn’t. This is a hotel room. He could—

  Just my luck.

  I meet a prince. He offers to marry me—and it’s a joke.

  “Marriage or me?” My voice sounds way too soft. It’s freaking embarrassing. But here’s the thing. I may not be married, engaged, or even seriously looking, but I’ve always known that someday I do want to find Mr. Right. And when I do, I want to make him those promises. To have, to hold, to honor—I want it all. I know that my track record and wedding vows are no guarantee of forever, but I want that chance. My Mr. Right will be so Team Edee that he’ll want to be a member forever, he’ll be willing to stand up and say so in front of the whole world, that I’m his everything and all he wants. Forever. It’s a lot to ask, but I do plan on asking. Someday. When I meet a guy who doesn’t run straight out the door if he’s asked to commit to so much as a dinner choice.

  “Edee.” Dare groans my name and rolls over so he can look down into my face. “Marriage. Not you, brown eyes.”

  He has to say that, my brain points out.

  It’s time for Step Two in my plan. I need to go.

  Growing up, I knew that life was at best perfectly imperfect. Guys came, they went, but that didn’t deter me from dating. My parents’ divorce was a speed bump in said dating life, but I got over it. My dad died—and I got over it. I got over a whole lot of people, and somewhere along the way, the road of life got a little bumpy. My romantic life either picked up speed or came to a dead halt (depending on your perspective), men coming and then promptly doing a U-turn and leaving me stranded by the side of the road. Once is a mistake. Twice might be poor luck. The third, fourth, and subsequent times? Public humiliation galore. Ever since, I’ve made a point of being the person who does the leaving in a relationship. It makes everything so much easier. So much safer.

  As fun as the adrenaline rush of getting to know someone is, the letdown is a thousand times worse. The kind of worse that feels like you’ve just shot off the road and gone crashing down a mountainside—only to realize at the bottom that you’ve forgotten your seat belt. Dare’s undoubtedly fun. He’s a hot prince and we could have fun together—but eventually, he’s going to leave me, and because of who he is, the whole world will hear about it. I’ll be the punch line, the bad joke—and I won’t be the one laughing.

  I stare up at his gorgeous face, the dark red hair tumbling around those mischievous eyes, and I know I have to be the one to do the leaving. And I have to do it now.

 
Which is why I say what I do. “Divorce me.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dare

  I’ve never woken up next to a woman before.

  You doubt me?

  I’ll explain. Sure I’ve drifted off for a couple of seconds after, but I don’t sleep for real next to any of the girls I pick up for the night. Sleeping is personal. You have to let down your guard to fall deeply asleep, and I don’t do any kind of falling for women. I stay in control. Orgasms for all, shut-eye for her if she wants. I may only be Prince Charming on the surface, but even I don’t kick them straight out of bed. I just get up. Go somewhere else. Find a new party, a new bed, and a new girl. I can sleep when I’m dead.

  So this whole waking-up-next-to-a-female activity is pretty unfamiliar. But I’m certain this isn’t your usual morning-after pillow talk. Edee sounds downright unappreciative. That’s okay. I’ll win her around to my new plan. What is that, you ask?

  Hot honeymoon sex.

  We have a bed, the penthouse suite, and nowhere to be for the next hour. I’ll just woo her a little. A few dirty compliments, some light touching. Everywhere. Thanks to all the practice I’ve had, I’m really good at morning sex. It’s the easiest way to slip back into bed and pretend you never left.

  Edee’s got me beat, though. Mentally, she’s already out the door and it’s going to take my very best tricks to convince her to stay. My brain derails from her bombshell, considering the best way to convince her. For example, we just mainlined a plate of room service waffles—and waffles come with whip cream. I could paint her sweet pussy with the sugary treat and lick her until she sees things my way. Too soon? Yeah, I’m betting she’ll be shy this first time. I can eat her for breakfast tomorrow.

  I can be very convincing.

  “Dare.” Edee thumps her hand against my chest, interrupting my fantasy. I take a moment to admire her new diamond. I give the best gifts and there are so many ways she could thank me for her present. A back massage. Her mouth on my dick. Her legs wrapped around my . . .

  Focus.

  “What’s up?” I’m going to make the best husband ever. I’m so sensitive and attuned to her feelings.

  My princess glares at me and repeats what she just said. “Divorce me. Right now.”

  Married for less than twelve hours, and she’s already got the knack of issuing royal commands. Too bad for her that I’ve had a lifetime of practice. I’m also the best at ignoring shit I don’t want to hear and I have no intention of letting her go just yet.

  But I play it cool. I shrug and pretend that it’s no BFD. “We had a deal, sweetheart.”

  She shakes her head, as if her words weren’t perfectly clear. Her hair dances around her face. Her hair is the color of honey. Or wood. Fuck knows, she’s giving me morning wood. It falls in a curtain around her face, hiding her from me. Little strands tickle my nose as I lean in. Oblivious to my predatory intentions, she keeps right on talking.

  “This isn’t going to work. We need a divorce. An annulment.”

  Annulling anything would be a pity. This regret on my part may be partly attributable to the fact that Edee’s wearing my T-shirt—and not much else. Removing her wedding dress was just sensible. My bed’s enormous, but it would be asking too much to fit Edee, myself, and that tent of a dress on it. So the dress had to go. And once I got started removing things, it was hard to stop. She’s lucky I let her keep the panties, but I figured I’d be rushing our relationship if I stripped those off her.

  I love panties. They’re like gift wrap or sundae toppings. No matter what you’re hiding under all that lace and cotton, it’s worth taking the time to find out. Sometimes I rip it off because I’m too excited to wait—and sometimes I take my time.

  Edee starts listing all the reasons why our impulsive marriage won’t work, but my mind’s not really on her words. Although I’ve been raised to be polite, she’s mostly naked. So while she plans the demise of our marriage, I plot how best to get her entirely, gloriously, all-the-way naked. It’s important to have goals in life.

  “Are you listening?” She glares at me suspiciously. Too bad she hasn’t heard the one about catching more flies with sweet than sour. Not that I’m a fly. I’m—

  Listening.

  I have a thing about lying. I don’t do it. Evasion, however, is practically a social necessity.

  “You’re distracting, sweetheart.”

  She huffs. “Really?”

  “Absolutely,” I tell her. See? No lies. Everything is so much easier this way.

  “How?” She cranks the suspicion up to DEFCON 2.

  “You’re wearing my shirt. And have I mentioned how much I like your panties? I’m working on a list of all the reasons I like them. I’d be happy to share as soon as you tell me how you’d like to hear them—from dirtiest to flirtiest? Rank-ordered? Alphabetical?”

  Edee turns tomato red in an instant. It’s cute and I should probably back off. I’m pushing and she didn’t know she was signing up for a pretend marriage with Prince Horny last night—she still thought she was getting Prince Charming. She’ll have to think of think of the horny as a free gift with purchase.

  She doesn’t stay embarrassed for long. It’s one of the things I like about Edee—she bounces right back and swings.

  “My panties are none of your business,” she hisses.

  “Are too.” I’m sure I should be a gentleman and agree with her, but everything about Ms. Edee Jones is now my business. The fingers resting against my chest are suddenly way less restful. Edee digs her index finger into my pectorals as if she’s drilling for my heart. Good luck. I haven’t had one of those in years.

  “Marriage is not a joke.”

  No. It’s not. Not only do we both like books and waffles, but we agree on this. Marriage is really fucking serious, which is why I’m temporarily borrowing the state.

  “We had a deal, love. You were willing to be my princess of convenience in exchange for a certain number of zeroes on your parting present. There’s also the very lovely NDA that you signed for me. It’s like leasing a car—there are horrible, terrible, no good penalties if you try to return it early.”

  Edee frowns. “Am I the car in this analogy? Or are you?”

  “I know what the problem is,” I say with a theatrical sigh.

  “You do?” She doesn’t look any less suspicious, which just proves how smart she is.

  “Absolutely,” I nod. “You’re not a morning person.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Am too.”

  “Then you’re disappointed.” I sigh even more loudly. Edee’s so much fun. Being married to her is going to be awesome. Queenie will stroke out the first time she gives him any of her lip.

  “About what?” She sort of flaps her hands around while she says this, which means she loses her death grip on the duvet. And since her loaner T-shirt has visited the laundry at least a thousand times, there’s not much of a barrier between her nipples and my gaze. Removing her corset was pure Christian charity on my part.

  “Being married to me.” I drag my eyes away from her chest and wink at her. “And that’s because I haven’t shown you what an awesome temporary husband I make.”

  She makes a little growling sound, her hands flying up to tug at the T-shirt as if she can somehow coax more coverage out of it.

  I lean closer. “It’s okay to think dirty thoughts about me.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut tight. Briefly. “What’s the penalty for regicide?”

  “You don’t want to kill me.” If I move any closer, my lips will be touching her cheek.

  She nods her head enthusiastically. “I do. I really, really do.”

  “Don’t.”

  She cracks an eye. “I’m pretty sure Elvis didn’t grant you sovereign rights to what’s going on in my head.”

  Pity. I’d be happy to plant some of my dirtier fa
ntasies there. As it is . . .

  Time for some show and tell.

  “Let me jog your memory.”

  I can move fast when I want to, and right now I’m highly motivated. I drop on top of Edee, rolling her beneath me. She feels so good. Possibly, this is because our new closeness smashes her tits into my chest. Also, her thighs rub against mine when she starts wiggling indignantly. Sucks that I’m wearing jeans, but I didn’t want to give her a heart attack, either. I’m a total fucking gentleman.

  “Prince Darejan.” She snaps my name just like an old nanny used to do, and for a moment my hard-on threatens to deflate. Except then she wriggles and squirms some more and the arousal comes roaring back. “How is this helping?”

  “You like me,” I tell her cheerfully.

  Her lips part. Probably in indignation, but I’m not going to pass up the opportunity. I lean down and kiss her. And since her mouth is open, it’s not a sweet, casual kiss at all. My tongue ends up in her mouth, and I groan. Then I run my hands through her hair, sifting the silky strands through my fingers as I wrap them around my wrist and angle her head backward.

  So I can kiss her deeper. Harder. However the fuck I want because this is so damned good. She tastes like sugar and coffee. She tastes sweet and like herself. I don’t know how to describe it, but I’d know her anywhere now. I need her to let me in, let me have one more kiss, one more—

  She bites me.

  “Not sexy,” I say reproachfully. “Now you have to kiss it better.”

  I point to my lip where she bit me.

  And she does it. She fists my T-shirt, yanks me toward her, and kisses the ever-loving fucking out of me. She owns our kiss, her mouth devouring mine roughly as she brings her lips, her teeth, her tongue into play.

  The knock on the door to our suite is a cock-blocking deal killer. Removing my mouth from Edee’s is hard. I’d like to say it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’d like to say that I don’t stop kissing her, that I ignore the insistent pounding and pull her under me.