Royally Hung

by Anne Marsh

  There’s a call from a nearby table.

  Bethany grabs her dolls, plants a loud, wet kiss on Dare’s cheek as she belts out an ear-splitting thank you, and bolts.

  “Coming in second to cake,” I say lightly. “You’re slipping.”

  I don’t slap my thighs together, though. My ovaries may be losing the battle, but my inner hussy? She’s strong.

  “Cake,” he says roughly. His eyes light up. “Do you know what the best part of cake is?”

  I hold out my hand. “Up, big guy.”

  His eyes darken. “But you like having me on my knees.”

  This is so true.

  I lick my lips, cake forgotten. Hell, I’ve forgotten the entire freaking wedding.

  “I love the frosting,” he continues, answering his own question. His fingers curve around mine and he surges to his feet. Apparently, he doesn’t feel constrained by our very public venue—I recognize that lusty look on his face. “Frosting is sweet, sticky, and my favorite thing to eat.”

  He tows me away from the happy, dancing crowd. The man appears to have a plan and to know his way around a party, so I relax and let it happen. Everything’s spiraled out of control since I met Dare, but there are some definite benefits. My view of his spectacular ass, for example. The sexy rasp of his thumb tracing little circles on my palm as he leads me wherever he’s headed. Or A, B, and C, all of the above.

  Someone steps into our path, and Dare comes to a stop because it’s that or start plowing through wedding guests.

  “You,” our roadblock announces, leveling a finger at Dare. I’d put her at seventy, although it’s hard to tell for certain because an enormous hat shades the better part of her face. The hat looks like a fruit bowl mated with a chinchilla, a fox, and an osprey. Fur and feathers sprout in random directions from an odd collection of plastic cherries and grapes.

  “Bride or groom,” our interceptor barks. She’s wearing a half-puzzled expression on her face—I suspect she recognizes Dare but hasn’t figured out from where. Fortunately, that’s a common occurrence at weddings.

  “Switzerland.” Dare winks at her. “I’m supporting both sides.”

  “Smart boy.” She smacks his shoulder happily. “I’m Bets. Saw you with Bethany, playing dolls. She’s the spitting image of me.”

  Not being slow, Dare bows, pressing a kiss to the back of the old lady’s hand. “Not as gorgeous as the original.”

  It should sound cheesy, but he’s smiling and there’s not an ounce of mockery in his voice—or eyes. He means what he says. He looks at Bets and he sees a beautiful woman. And this right here? This is why women flock to Dare. He’s crass and he thinks way too much about his dick (and of it), but he’s not mean. He genuinely likes us all.

  “You’re good with kids,” Bets says approvingly. “Have any?”

  Swear to God she stares at my stomach as if she either has X-ray vision or she’s horse-whispering my ovaries to release a dozen happy little eggs for Dare to inseminate.

  Bets and Dare are looking at me.

  Someone’s asked a question and I’ve missed it.

  Bets laughs. Hard. Her enormous bosom jiggles with mirth.

  “I run a charitable foundation for kids,” Dare tells her. Somehow while I’ve been mentally lusting over Dare, they’ve got onto the subject of what it is he does when he’s not following me around a ballroom.

  How did I have no idea that he did this?

  “My mother loved children,” he says, and we both hear the note of sadness. Bets doesn’t ask what happened to Dare’s mother. It’s obvious that she’s gone.

  “She’d be proud of you,” Bets announces. I’m not sure what happens to women of a certain age, but it’s like they’re gifted with The Sight or some kind of all-powerful knowing, so when she declares that Dare’s mother would be proud, I believe her.

  “I hope so.” My prince shrugs. For once, he’s not interested in approbation or thumping his chest. “Kids deserve good shit. So I make it happen.”

  Bets looks at me. “He’s a keeper. Put a ring on him and send me an invitation to the wedding.”

  I hold up my hand so she can peer at the enormous diamond and Bets high-fives me.

  “And now you’ll have to excuse us.” Dare winks at the old lady. “We’re still newlyweds and breaking in that ring.”

  Bets’s cackle follows us as we escape from the ballroom. Dare drops my hand, falling into step beside me. We still touch as we walk though, our arms brushing against one another. Screw it. I slide my arm around his waist. When I told him that the uniform for today was all black, he said it wasn’t a problem. He’s wearing an open-necked black dress shirt and an equally expensive, well-pressed pair of trousers. I have no words to describe how hot he looks.

  But I need to try. God, I need to remember this. I’m used to sneaking in quick, discreet shots. I hold the camera at waist-level and press the button, capturing my prince. One picture won’t hurt, will it?

  “Do you have all of the pictures you need?” He tugs my camera gently out of my hands and tucks it back into its bag like it’s the most precious thing in the world. He touches me like that, too.

  “We’re done for now. Are we going somewhere in particular?” I’m not adverse to exploring, but I haven’t been given free reign of the place, either.

  “Yes.” He opens a discreet door set into the wall. “Found it.”

  Calling it a bathroom would be like dismissing Julia Child’s Potato Dauphinoise as merely potatoes. This powder room is to loos what her dish is to tater tots. It’s probably some kind of French style, although it’s wasted on me. My life is Target style even if I’m temporarily borrowing a prince’s mansion. This bathroom has been painted a pale gray—or maybe it’s lavender?—and it boasts an actual, honest-to-God, Liberace-worthy chandelier.

  And huh . . . the walls are mirrored because of course I want to stare at myself while I’m using the toilet. I’m thinking that’s a design flaw right there.

  Dare pats my butt. “In.”

  Okay. So we’re not here to admire the hotel’s awesome décor. Good to know. And then his hand returns and his finger clearly has some very naughty ideas because it starts making circles in a place even I don’t touch. And then it presses forward.

  There are two layers of clothing between me and that finger but it feels like he’s laid me bare. Sensation teases me, setting me on fire.

  Since I’m going on record as not being pro the hallway orgasm, I scoot through the door pronto. Dare chuckles. The bastard.

  “Dare?”

  “Hi.” He steps in behind me, locking us in, and the luxe bathroom gets a whole lot smaller. The heated look in his eyes alone seems to suck all the air out of the room.

  My objections to the public fondling fly right out of my head. Instead, I start thinking about bucket lists and my favorite sexual fantasies. Even with the door shut, this bathroom has to count as a public space, right?

  “Hi, yourself.” Real life is not so easily arranged as my fantasies. I’m not quite sure what to do with myself now I’m squashed into a rather small bathroom with a very large prince. Maybe the girls in Dare’s usual circle, the ones with the multipart hyphenated names and the mile-long lineages are taught what to do with their arms and legs when they’re about to have a bathroom quickie. Maybe they know how to play it cool. Me? I’m going to have to ask.

  “Stop thinking so much. Step one.” He hoists me up onto the vanity. My butt connects with the hard marble. I look down. Crap. The top’s sturdy just like me, but the rest of the sink is a bunch of weird, skinny wooden legs and gilt-covered curlicues. I’m sure it’s fantastically expensive, but clearly the designer did not take bathroom hookups into consideration.

  Pixie, twiggy, waiflike, or underfed? These are not words that have ever been used to describe me. Curvy, yes. Abundant, yes. And on one memora
ble night, bombshell (I still have a soft spot for that girl). On any other non-bearing-weight-on-a-spindly-piece-of-furniture occasion, I’d be happy to own my curves. Right now I’m just worried I’ll break the sink.

  “Fuck it,” he growls. “I’ll just kiss you instead.”

  “Excellent—” plan. His mouth slams down on mine. The man is the King of Kissers. I open, he takes, and then he gives. God, he’s such a giver. He loves me with his mouth, his tongue teasing and stroking, exploring and learning. I hear myself moan as he spears a hand through my hair and tugs. Huh. Maybe I have a kink for hair pulling?

  He does it again, and that’s a definite yes. His other hand bunches my skirt up. I lift up because the man needs room to work and I’m happy to oblige. The slow glide of his hand up my leg is a delicious distraction. He’s going for gold, too, because he doesn’t stop. He palms my thigh. And then—

  Bull’s eye.

  He rubs his finger down the seam of my pussy. Up and down, slow and soft and then deeper until my hands are yanking at his dress-shirt-covered shoulders. Fuck the expensive cotton—I need him naked, mussed, undone.

  He rips my freaking panties off. They were expensive panties, and lots of fun. Of course seeing as how he paid for them, maybe he is entitled to wreck them. Plus, the joy they sparked in me is nothing compared to what I’m feeling now.

  Or maybe that happy sensation is helped along because he reaches between us and unbuckles. Unzips. His hands grip my hips, tugging me perilously close to the edge of the counter and then he’s sliding inside me. So good.

  Almost. Okay, a little more foreplay would have been ideal. I’m totally turned on in my head, but my girl parts haven’t completely got the message yet and there’s a whole lot of prince trying to fit inside me. I grunt, not the sexiest sound ever, but dear God the man is huge.

  His grip on my hips tightens and he tears his mouth away from mine. “You okay?”

  I seize the opportunity to suck in a breath or six. I need to start training for sex marathons. “Your dick is huge.”

  He freezes, his face working.

  “Dare?” I wrap my legs around his hips. I’m going to crease his expensive slacks, but that’s what he gets for dragging me into a bathroom and ruining my panties. Plus I kind of like the idea of marking him. Property of Edee. Hands off. Huh. I should probably also specify no teeth, tongue, or tits while I’m at it. I’ve seen some of the online photos.

  He groans. “Feel free to say that again.”

  “Dick?”

  “That’s a good word.” He thrusts into me slowly. “But I preferred huge.”

  “You are that,” I say breathlessly. I squirm a little, trying to control the angle of his penetration. He licks his fingers and then finds my clit, stroking, making sure I’m ready for him.

  I’ve always thought sex was fun. The intimacy. The getting to know someone beneath his clothes. Even mostly dressed, Dare makes me see stars. Fireworks.

  Him.

  He touches me, drawing small, wet circles around the neediest part of me with his finger, and I melt. The bathroom’s too brightly lit for the way he makes me feel, so I bury my face in his shoulder. He starts thrusting into me faster, one big hand cupping my butt so I don’t smack into the marble countertop.

  He’s such a gentleman.

  Until he’s not, of course. The hand cupping my butt so protectively apparently feels like it’s missing out on the fun stuff because one finger starts exploring between the creases of my cheek. Did you think he only had vanilla sex? Think again—Dare’s into everything. He’s also extremely coordinated.

  When his finger penetrates me, I bite him hard through his shirt and he groans. “Do it again.”

  Think about it. This man is a prince. Panties drop when he saunters into a room, and that’s just because he has a gorgeous face and a naughty twinkle in his eye. Now imagine what happens when women—and yes, plenty of the men, too—learn he’s a prince. A filthy-rich billionaire prince. For me, the Kama Sutra is terra incognita and a fun journey of exploration. For him, on the other hand, it’s a drive-through menu where he orders a large combination number four meal.

  I can’t compete.

  But here’s something I’ve learned: Dare doesn’t want me to compete. Because, for whatever reason, he’s chosen me. I’m his right-now wife, his temporary princess, and so he doesn’t pay any attention to the way the lust in the room ratchets up to DEFCON levels when he enters. He doesn’t notice the disappointment when his gaze skims over the people playing the pick me game and ignores them.

  He only has eyes for me.

  He kisses my throat and whispers against my skin, “Good?”

  He always insists on hearing that I’m with him 100 percent and I believe in telling the truth. “God, yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

  His mouth brushes my ear. “You like this.”

  He’s wrong. I like him. I’m in so much trouble here.

  Dare drives into me harder, his hips pistoning against me until the counter is at serious risk. And his finger . . . his finger’s the cherry on the sexy sundae. It moves in delicious, rough counterpoint to his thrusts.

  I wrap my legs tighter around his hip and I ride all of him—dick and fingers—as I savor the feel of him. And pretty soon there’s no more thinking involved. Dare’s big, his finger is making me think about giving anal a try, and all I can do is hold on and come. Oh my God the man knows what he’s doing.

  I come so hard that I’m pretty sure I blank out for a minute. My heart’s pounding in my ears and other parts of me are clenching or quivering. When the white noise and bliss has dulled enough that I manage to pry open my eyes, my cheek is squashed against his crumpled dress shirt. From the rough pounding I can feel, his heart is racing every bit as hard as mine.

  Good.

  He deserves a reward. I can see my sated smile reflected in the bathroom’s mirrors, so I look at Dare instead. His arms tighten around me. He’s still inside me. See? He’s in no rush to leave me, either. This is how I like my sex, fast and furious followed by some sweet for dessert. Fool, my brain warns me. This is a temporary gig. His hand skates up my back and tangles gently in my hair.

  And since I’m living dangerously, doing things I’ve never done before, I look up at his face.

  He’s intent. Sexy.

  Happy.

  I did that.

  Someone knocks on the door. I start and nearly break Dare’s stupendous dick off (which would be a waste). He groans and mutters something obscene.

  “Occupied, mate,” he hollers to the doorknocker. “Find another loo.”

  Yeah, because this one deserves to be immortalized. A shrine to the sexual magnificence that is Dare. He pulls out of me and sets me gently on my feet. And when I wobble, he catches me with a chuckle. He’d never let me fall, although he’d definitely tease. Wet drips down my thighs. Bathroom sex is apparently messier than straight-up bedroom sex.

  Dare finishes zipping and buckling—and curses.

  I ask the obvious. “Something wrong?”

  “No condom.” He’s staring down at the front of his trousers as if that’s the origin of the no-condom problem. Which I guess it kind of is, if we’re being honest. I can’t tell if he’s horrified because he has a general no-bareback rule, if it’s because we’re supposed to be a temporary gig, or because he believes I might use the lack of a condom for leverage to get something out of him.

  Frankly, the answer is likely C, all of the above.

  I shove my skirt down. “It’s okay.”

  His gaze hardens, his eyes going all remote on me. “No. It’s not.”

  I shrug. “I’m on the pill, Dare.”

  He exhales roughly. “I’m never careless.”

  Careless.

  That’s one word. A word that means not now or not us or just not you. I’m not ready for kids, but se
cretly I love the possibility of creating a dozen Barbie-playing, pink-wearing flower girls with this man.

  “It’ll be okay,” I tell him. “I’m on the pill.”

  It’s true, although he still insists on using a condom. He says you can never be too careful.

  Too bad I didn’t get that memo.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dare

  A few weeks after our wedding, I attend a charity gala to raise money for a cause I believe in. Although Queenie’s still ringing me multiple times a day, demanding I return home, and I’m still resisting, I’ve ignored my charities for too long. It feels good to get back in the saddle and do something useful for once. Edee doesn’t come. I invited her but she declined, at which point I felt the need to point out that if you look up introvert in the dictionary, you’ll find her picture there.

  “Ha-ha,” she’d said, clearly unimpressed with my wit. She’d volunteered that her late-night plans included our brand-new master tub, a good book, and possibly her fingers when the book got to any interesting parts. And as much I applaud her love of reading, I’d promptly felt the need to impress her with something else (you’ve met my better part, right?), so now I’m horribly, unforgivably late to tonight’s do. Let’s hope an impressively large check works whatever magic my good looks can’t.

  “No Mrs. Dare?” Mr. Right asks as I ghost through the door.

  “She wanted a night in,” I mutter under my breath. “Claims I’ve worn her out.”

  He gives a bark of laughter and then slips back into bodyguard mode. He’ll dog my steps for the rest of the night, keeping evil at bay. I can take care of myself, but it never hurts to have someone watching your back. Loyalty should always be nurtured—and rewarded.

  Tonight’s hostess rushes toward me. The dinner is being held inside an art museum. In exchange for writing obscenely large checks, tonight’s diners can stroll the exhibits without crowds and then glut themselves at tables set up in the lower atrium. Fortunately, this is not one of those exhibits where the artist is trying to punk us by moving his toilet or other equally unsanitary things into the gallery space and then slapping obscene price tags on his shit (literally).