Royally Hung

by Anne Marsh

  The artist is some kind of Georgia O’Keeffe wannabe who paints huge, lush calla lilies and—I peer at the label closest to me—jack-in-the-pulpits. Lots of white, lots of vulva-shaped flowers. In fact, this particular painting would look awesome hanging above Edee’s new tub, so I make a mental note to buy it.

  My hostess beams at me, any displeasure at my tardy appearance banished. For the next sixty seconds, I bow and smile while she declares herself thrilled, overjoyed, ecstatic, and a dozen other adjectives. She is not, however, at a loss for words. Or silent. The woman definitely requires a mute button—or maybe that’s only an option that comes if I add another zero to my check?

  Eventually, however, she runs out of words, and gives me a coy sidelong glance. “Are you alone, Your Highness?”

  I give her my most charming smile. “Yes, I am.”

  Words come back to her in a rush. Damn.

  “We thought you might have brought your wife,” she says. “Or your brother?”

  I’m not sure why she feels I would enjoy discussing the intimate details of my life with her, or why it’s any of her business where my wife or Nik is. She might as well ask me to produce the king of Vale while I’m at it.

  My hostess hesitates, clearly wanting to pry for more information, but I’m an expert at being charming—and keeping my secrets. I murmur a few noncommittal phrases and then five tedious minutes later, I’m seated and making small talk with my table companions. It’s like having dinner in a beehive—all bzzzz bzzzz bzzz with the occasional stinger thrown in. Rich people in Vegas are no nicer than rich people anywhere else.

  Still, tonight’s fundraiser is for a good cause, one I believe in wholeheartedly, but I’d rather be with Edee and dinner passes slowly. I sit through speeches, waving off the waiters in black tails who clearly believe the best way to get through tonight is with plenty of lubrication.

  My phone buzzes.

  You really have to appreciate a good tablecloth—I’m able to get my phone out, unlock it, and read the message without my companions being any the wiser. Which may be because they’re all texting under the table too instead of listening to the rambling speech tonight’s keynote speaker is delivering—at length—but still.

  Okay. So it’s not actually a message. It’s a picture. Of Edee’s fingers inside her panties. I told her this morning that these were my favorite and she told me I hadn’t seen anything yet. I didn’t know she meant that literally. Because the sight of her fingers stroking beneath the peach silk is sexy as hell.

  Dirty girl. I approve.

  Apparently, she can text one-handed because she sends another picture. I want something besides my finger.

  Christ. The picture of Edee’s finger disappearing inside her hot little pussy? My evening suddenly gets a whole lot better. My fingers fly over my phone.

  Wait for me.

  Nothing. The auction starts while I stare at my phone. We’ve each been provided with a sequined paddle with the picture of an abandoned cat or dog on it. Raise the paddle, bid a thousand bucks. Charities are always big on friendly numbers—as well as large ones.

  My phone buzzes.

  Grab me and kiss me hard

  Edee’s delightfully selfish, isn’t she? I have to hide my smirk behind the paddle. And . . . fuck. I have no clue what I just bought. Doesn’t matter.

  I text: Where r u?

  While I wait, I bid on and win a bottle of Chateau Something Something Something. It’s been resting in some distant, dusty French wine cave for decades and retails upwards of a thousand dollars a bottle. Whatever. Right now I’d take ten minutes alone in the wine cave with Edee. Someone else can drink the goddamned wine.

  My phone buzzes. Hanging with Mr. L. Decided to check out the gardens of your museum.

  She sure as fuck better not be outside. Nobody but me gets to see what she’s doing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Edee

  Dare is one of the beautiful people. His world is a glamorous, golden showcase and there’s zero place for me there. I’m not sure why I’m sitting out here in the garden. It’s just me and Mr. Left. Apparently Mr. Right is busy shadowing the royal ass inside.

  Music spills outside. It reminds me of how we used to go sit on the lawn at outdoor concerts because those were the cheap tickets. I half-expect Mr. Left to break out a bottle of strawberry Boone’s. I’ve never seen a museum quite like this. The architect either has a tiny penis or aspirations to own a castle—and in another place (or time), it might be fine. But this is Vegas, we’re surrounded by desert, and a faux medieval stone castle housing modern art is just wrong. Especially when tonight’s soundtrack appears to be Strauss. Stupid one-two-three, one-two-three has given me an earworm.

  Think about something else. Anything else.

  “Do you do this often?” I nudge Mr. Left in his suit-jacket-covered ribs. Ow. I think he’s concealed carrying.

  He straightens his jacket. “Wait for His Highness?”

  I nod. “It seems like it would get old. Plus, who’s going to jump him in an art museum?”

  “You’d be surprised. Prince Nikoloz got weekly death threats.” He scans the darkness around us as we talk. When I decided to ditch the house and check out the museum, he insisted on driving me—and then stuck to my side like a burr. Apparently now that I’ve married up, I could be a target. Or a bargaining chip. Right. This would be like when your neighbor sneaks into your yard and poaches your Christmas decorations or maybe the Easter eggs you’ve laid out for your kids.

  “There are always threats against the royal family,” he continues. “Kooks. Overeager fans. So many people who literally want a piece of Dare and his brothers.”

  “What’s your real name?” I’m a little embarrassed I haven’t asked before.

  “Mr. Left,” he says.

  “That’s what your mother put on your birth certificate?”

  He winks. “No.”

  “So why the nickname?”

  For a moment I think he’s not going to tell me. “Because nothing’s more important than the job,” he says finally. “And because Dare gave it to me.”

  “So is it a reminder—or penance?” I think he actually smiles, but it’s more of a grimace, here and then gone as he stands up and melts back into the shadows.

  Big, warm hands slide around my waist.

  “Are you waiting for Prince Charming?”

  I lean back into Dare.

  “I hear he’s a little busy these days,” I say breathlessly. “What with chasing after random girls he meets at balls and absconding with their footwear.”

  “Just one girl.” He squeezes gently, and for a moment we just stand here, me staring at the stars overhead and him . . . I’m not sure what he’s doing, but it definitely involves turning me on. He’s wearing a fancy dress uniform, complete with sword, and it turns out military dress is even hotter than kilts or bare-assed naked.

  “Nice outfit.”

  The corner of his mouth tips up. “I missed you.”

  Wow. My brain shuts down.

  “Tell me you missed me, too,” he whispers against my ear.

  Given how much I enjoy jumping him, I’m going to miss him way too much when he goes back to Vale, but I don’t want to think about that tonight. Tonight’s about having fun and spending time together. About getting to know each other better and letting Dare lead in this relationship because I’ve already done enough rushing in. He’s pretty unforgettable, my Dare. And not just because he’s a prince, although that certainly makes for a great story. He’s more than the title. He’s funny and crude, and he rushes into life wholeheartedly. He likes waffles in bed, really big bathtubs, and flying helicopters—and he’s one of a kind.

  Crap.

  “Dance with me?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  And that’s my problem right there. One ye
s leads to another and then another. First I’m exchanging I dos and then I’m dancing in a moonlit garden with a prince. My life’s turned into a freaking Disney movie, and since the credits aren’t rolling yet, I know it’s all going to go wrong. Things always do. Guys come and they go, and in my life, they tend to do it in a spectacularly public fashion.

  Dare swings me into a waltz—or its less elegant, bastard stepchild. Because I promptly trip on his feet. Waltzing is not a skill I’ve ever had to acquire.

  “Wait.” I slap a hand against his chest. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “A waltzing virgin.” He grins down at me. “I promise to be gentle. Thorough. Fast?”

  Is he even capable of being serious? And does it matter? Because I’m suddenly hot and bothered even though we’re standing still. He studies me for a moment, broad shoulders filling out that damn uniform jacket to perfection. At some point during the night, he’s untied the bowtie and it hangs loose around his throat. His dress shirt is partially unbuttoned and hair tumbles around his face, escaping from the ponytail he’d slicked it back in. He’s strong and lean and so here.

  “I’ll teach you,” he decides.

  “I’ve never been much of a dancer,” I say dubiously. “I didn’t do cheer or the dance team.”

  “No pom-pom shaking?” His eyes darken. “Because I bet you could learn.”

  “Dare?”

  I have feelings for you.

  ABORT.

  “I’m pretty sure it starts like this,” he whispers roughly.

  Yes, yes, it does.

  I slide my hand up his arm and rest it on his shoulder. Dancing is a lovely excuse to fondle him and I take full advantage. How can I not touch? His arm is nothing but hard, lovely muscle.

  “Move your feet apart.” He nudges my legs apart.

  “Are we waltzing or—”

  “Waltzing. For now.”

  “Okay.” Focus.

  “Now we count to three and take a step for each count.”

  “One step, two step, three step. Got it.”

  “Spine straight.” He draws his hand up my back. “Shoulders back, tits out.”

  “Obligatory waltzing posture?”

  “Absolutely.” He regards me with mock seriousness.

  I’m almost certain he’s playing with me.

  One big hand curls around my waist, the other clasps my right hand. “And then we go left, right, left. Pause. Right, left, right.”

  Dancing requires some fumbling and a whole lot of laughter, because God was not generous to me when he was passing out grace. Or rhythm. Or hell, even balance. I step on Dare’s elegant boots more than once, but then I start to get the hang of it. Or maybe it’s because I decided to fuck it and let go. I stop worrying and trust Dare to make this work.

  And he does. He spins me in a slow, luscious arc, his hands guiding me carefully through the turn.

  “History lesson,” he rasps.

  It’s his fault that I’m breathless, so I just look at him and wait for him to continue.

  “The waltz was an eighteenth-century scandal. All the rebellious teenagers were doing it. Like dry humping on the dance floor. All those women in skimpy party dresses throwing themselves into the arms of their young men made the waltz super popular.”

  And . . . he’s not wrong.

  Like I told him, I’ve never waltzed, not for real. Yes, I’ve danced on my dad’s shoes at weddings but this . . . this is different. This is everything. My sundress flies out around me and there’s gravel getting in between my flip-flop and my foot. It’s awkward and I totally suck at ballroom dancing and I also want to do it all night. It feels like flying. Like magic. Like we’re spinning faster and faster, but it’s still safe because Dare’s got me, got us.

  And even when we stop dancing, the world continues to spin because I don’t think I’ll ever not be off-balance around this man. I brace myself against a convenient piece of statuary and suck in much-needed air. He grins at me, but he’s not moving away. Instead, he moves in closer, bracing his hands on either side of my head and fitting his front to my back. It’s cozy, and safe, and so not safe at the same time.

  “Where did you learn to waltz?” I make no effort to move away. Why would I? This is my new favorite position and I think Dare agrees with me. There’s no missing the hard-on he’s got for me. His mouth brushes my ear.

  “I learned to dance in a garden.”

  “Dancing instructor?” I can’t hide the amusement in my voice. Any dancing I learned, I mastered in tap class as a five-year-old or I figured it out on the fly at prom. My brand of dancing is Kool-Aid to Dare’s Dom Perignon.

  His mouth retreats. “My mom.”

  Oh.

  “She’d ask me how big the circle should be, big, bigger, or best, and then she’d waltz me around the garden on her feet and we’d both hum the tune at the top of our lungs.”

  I turn in his arms. His face has that happy-sad look you get when you’re remembering something that was wonderful but that you can never, ever have again. And while you’re glad you had it even once, you can’t help mourning its loss. Her loss.

  As he pulls back, I grab his hand and hold on. Because right now I’m the one who’s got Dare and I’m the one who’ll make sure he’s okay. Just for a minute I let myself pretend that I’m a princess. Dare’s princess.

  “Let’s go home.” I pull gently in the last direction I saw Mr. Left. He’ll know where the car is and how to get us out of here.

  It doesn’t take us long to find Dare’s bodyguards. Or more accurately, they find us. Mr. Right looks cross because Dare apparently slipped away without a heads-up and it’s understandably hard to protect your man when he’s pulling ninja stealth moves on you. He reads Dare the riot act as we all head to the car, and Dare lets him. Or more accurately, Dare doesn’t bother making it a conversation—his head’s somewhere else and he’s checked out.

  He’s sad and I hate that.

  As we make our way into the limo, I plot fix-it strategies and Dare strides alone pretending nothing’s wrong and he’s king of the world. He’s such a guy. Missing an arm and a leg? No worries. Duct tape that shit back on and pretend it was all part of the plan. That you feel fan-fucking-tastic. No hint of vulnerability here, no sir.

  The car is waiting for us when we reach the drive. I’d say it’s like magic, the way whatever he needs appears—poof—out of thin air, but I suspect either Mr. Left or Mr. Right gave the driver a heads-up when Dare moved out. Mr. Right goes around to the front passenger-side door, while Mr. Left opens the back door for us. Dare gives him a brief nod of thanks.

  Limos are a tricky business. They’re big, but all that swanky space actually makes getting in and out difficult if you’re not in the mood to flash the world your panties or land on your face. Dare steadies me as I lurch inside and then awkwardly slide down the seat since walking like a hunchback doesn’t seem romantic.

  Dare pulls off his jacket and unbuckles his sword, tossing them onto the far seat. God. I almost come on the spot. I had no idea swords were so sexy.

  “Don’t be sad.” I straddle him, cupping his face between my hands. “I won’t let you.”

  “Edee—” He groans my name.

  “Shhh. Names are allowed. Groaning and moaning? Also okay. You can call out directions or requests if you must. Nothing else.”

  I can feel him, thick and hot beneath me. My dress is bunched up around my hips, which leaves my panties, his dress trousers, and possibly a pair of boxer briefs between me and seven minutes in heaven. I stroke myself down his length but there’s too much in between us.

  “Stay,” I tell him and stand up just long enough to wiggle out of my panties. The limo starts moving, so I let the momentum propel me forward and onto Dare’s lap. It’s like the car is in total cahoots with my plans for the night. Fuck staying saf
e. Fuck doing the careful thing.

  “Edee.” He groans, hands flexing on my hips.

  “Let’s make you another memory, ’kay?”

  “Sure.”

  He makes another, rougher sound as I run my hands over his shoulders. He’s so strong and muscled. I can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of his dress shirt as I lean in and kiss the column of his throat, lingering where the pulse beats heavily. He inhales sharply. Score one for me. No. Wrong word. This isn’t a contest. It’s a gift. From me to him. Or maybe from me to myself because he’s beautiful, man beautiful, all hard lines and muscles. Someone should carve a statue of him. I bet it would be the most popular thing in the museum and they’d raise a million bucks for orphan cats and dogs.

  “Smile for me,” I say.

  He went somewhere back there in the garden, somewhere I couldn’t go. I don’t like being shut out and I won’t let him do it.

  So I kiss him, coaxing and teasing, and his mouth curls into a smile beneath mine. See? Kisses really do fix everything. Or maybe it’s the way my hips roll against his, my sex making his penis my own personal hobbyhorse. The limo picks up speed; we must have hit the highway. We’ll be home in no time.

  Dare reaches over his head and slides open the little pass-through window to the front seat. I freeze because Mr. Left and Mr. Right do not need to add any visuals to their knowledge of me.

  “Keep driving,” Dare growls. “Don’t stop until I tell you to stop.”

  He slams the window shut without waiting for an answer.

  I don’t care if Mr. Left is parked in the front seat.

  It’s a turn on, if I’m being honest, but I’ll examine that new personal kink later because Dare curls one big hand around my neck, pulling me down to him so he can kiss me. Talking time is over. His mouth owns mine, nipping and licking and doing a dozen dirty, wonderful, fabulous things that inspire me to do a million more.

  I finally tear my mouth away from his because I need oxygen. “We’re going to have to drive across the country.”