No Perfect Princess

by Angel Payne

  Naturally, I followed him on silent feet. Thankfully, Andrea had forced me into all those years of ballet. The stealthy result served me well as an adult.

  His bedroom was all dark wood, clean lines, and Ansel Adams prints, lightened by cream-colored rugs and a pillow-top bed accented by coffee-colored throw pillows—all squares and rectangles, fitted to each other like a Tetris grid. I leaned in the doorway, still clutching my dress to my chest, as he pulled a neatly folded black tee from a drawer.

  The look on his face was priceless when he discovered I’d been watching him. He stopped, tongue working over his lips, feet braced like a kid wondering if the shot was going to hurt.

  Weirdly, I battled the same nerves.

  Ohhh, God. You’ve got his attention now.

  Showtime.

  With the lighting from the living room as a backdrop, I dropped my hold on the fabric. Swish. The dress fell away, leaving me exposed in the underthings I’d taken care in selecting this morning. Karma whispering in my ear? Interesting theory, considering I’d thought my behavior odd at the time—while being unable to stop myself from slipping into the scarlet corset, matching satin panties, and coordinated garter belt, finished off with nude thigh highs.

  He got rid of the uneasy kid right away. Fully embraced his man-beast side again, his jaw constricting, his briefs tightening, his lips moving with heavy, grated words.

  “Holy…fuck.”

  This all couldn’t have worked out better. I reveled in where I had him now—nibbling out of the palm of my hand—though every other second there were two of him, thanks to the bubbles still battling each other in my blood like bitches at a Prada clearance sale. At least the buzz lent more bravado for this saucy little strip act I’d started, yet another first in the name of pursuing Mr. Pearson. I was a tie-me-up-and-do-me-hard girl, not a see-anything-you-like-big-boy girl.

  Suuuuure.

  “See anything you like?”

  Oh, that had to have sounded as ludicrous as it felt.

  “I see a whole lot of things I like.”

  Apparently not.

  Thank God Claire had forced me to watch a few rom coms lately. Borrowing another “sexy” move from Reese, Jennifer, or Cameron—don’t think I even remembered which one—I slid my hand up the molding of the door frame. Well. Guess they called this one a classic for a reason. It actually felt a little sexy—and helped stabilize the spinning of the room, which intensified with every heated sweep of Michael’s stare up and down my body.

  “Then I’m all yours,” I told him. “And I want to make every single second count.”

  He raised a finger. “I’ll second every word of…that.”

  The last of it was nothing but a strangle from him, as I turned and pressed my back to the jamb. The move forced my breasts and hips out in a pose that dropped his jaw—then brought him sprinting close. Closer. Ohhhh, yes. That was it…

  He pressed in, hovering just inches away, staring down with those fantastic eyes of his. When his nostrils flared and his lips parted, the demon turned all man again. All desire. All need and hunger and desire he couldn’t restrain any longer. Thank God. Thank God. Finally. Finally.

  He pressed in more. Our hips formed to each other. The heat beneath his underwear pressed into the wetness beneath mine. He curved one hand to my waist. Raised the other to the jamb over my head. Leaned in. Kissed me. Again. Ohhh, again.

  He began softly, flicking in only the tip of his tongue, rocking gently against me. Pulled back, just out of reach, when I reached for him. Let out the devil’s own chuckle. “So impatient, little one.”

  “Impatient?” I shot both brows up. “Who you working that line on, mister? I’ve waited six damn months. I should be suing you for torture.”

  His eyes glittered—right before he surged back in again, with one word spilling off his lips in a growl. “Torture.”

  No more teasing. Forget about gentle. He slammed our mouths together, opening me up, filling me. It was invasion more than kiss, mind-bending with passion and force. Skyrockets. C-4. Implosions in my blood—and beyond. Every stupid, silly, romantic classifier that I’d ever made fun of now lined up to bite me in the ass. Kind of hilarious, since even my ass trembled. I had no idea how my knees didn’t buckle.

  Ohhhh Christ, could this man kiss.

  But I still needed more. If he was simply using this as the precursor for more “making out” and dry humping, he’d have a full riot on his hands, proudly sponsored by my libido. One flick of my hand and the man would be naked, anyway—but no, too easy, too simple. I wanted to unspool him. Unglue him as thoroughly as he pried off all my moorings. Make him feel every pounding, exploding, hot, horny degree of desire tormenting the River Styx now doubling as my bloodstream…

  I moaned softly into his mouth as our tongues continued to duel. He was winning, but only because I let him. And yes, dammit, I loved letting him. I never—never—let a man take the lead on this end of things. As if any of them knew what the hell they were doing, anyway.

  But Michael Adam Pearson…

  Was different. So beautifully, magnificently different.

  Decadent.

  Decisive.

  Powerful.

  Passionate.

  And God, so arrogant. But self-aware of it. And so openly, brazenly sexy about his promise to deliver on that arrogance. Yeah, his golden gaze declared, you’re going to sample my sinful side tonight, sugar—and you’re going to fucking love it.

  It was a bold promise, and not many had fulfilled it with me. But hell, I wanted to let him try. Craved a thorough, brutal unraveling at his magical hands. Needed him to solve my puzzle, piece by complicated piece…

  He was off to an amazing start. His lips traveled across my jaw, under my ear then against it, suffusing me with the heat of his heavy breaths, his open-mouthed kisses.

  “You want me to do filthy things to you tonight, don’t you?” he snarled at a volume meant only for me…and my throbbing body. “You want me to take this cock out, fit it into your aching pussy then ram it over and over until it hurts? Tell me, Margaux. Yes or no. Now.”

  “Y-yes. Oh hell—yes!” I gasped for air, rocking my head back. Wow. Wow. I’d always known the guy had a wicked side to him, but this was—good. So damn good. Beyond anything I’d dared to dream.

  He scraped his teeth along my jaw again, marking my skin with his stubble as he pulled my head to the other side, clearing my other ear for his dirty, delicious words. “I was holding back, thinking a woman like you needed to be handled like fine china…but you’re the china that likes to be shattered, aren’t you? Splintered into a thousand tiny pieces…then ground up again, until you dissolve into dust.”

  I nodded, but realized that wouldn’t be good enough. Swallowing to get enough air into my throat, I rasped, “Yes. Break me. Hard. Hard.” I’d waited so long to hear these words—from him. Had damn near given up that I ever would.

  Good things come to those who wait. And learn to live with a lover named Hitachi. And take a lot of freezing showers. For six goddamn months.

  No more waiting. This was happening. My head whirled with desire. My body sizzled with awareness. I couldn’t wait for his next words…the next naughty thing my ears could translate straight to my clit, now grinding against his thigh in open, wanton need.

  “I want you on my bed, Margaux.”

  “Yeah,” I rasped. “Bed. Good…idea.”

  “Go there now.” Incredibly, his voice dove deeper with command. “In the center. On your knees. Waiting for me.” He rocked back, scouring his gaze over every inch of me, rubbing his forefingers against his thumbs as if warming his fingers for what he wanted to do to me next. “And keep those shoes on. They’re fucking hot.”

  At first, I didn’t move. Process. Process. Did he really just say…?

  I lifted my head to meet his stare. He’d just questioned if I was an apparition from a dream but now I wondered if he’d invaded mine—especially since I cocked a glare of open
sass, expecting to back him down with it, only to make his eyes narrow and his stance stiffen.

  “What are you waiting for? Do it.”

  Forget the Jell-O knees. Everything south of my navel turned to soup. I attempted recovery by tossing my head and pushing a finger into the middle of his chest. God, how I wanted to just slide it down, between the twin ladders of his abs, following that incredible V of muscle…

  Soon.

  “Fine, fine. Just don’t expect me to call you ‘Sir’ and all that shit.”

  His laugh was warm and full. “Not a chance, sugar. I don’t do all that shit, either. But putting you in your place every now and then will be my thorough pleasure. And yours.”

  “Hmmm. That so?”

  “Yeah.” Without skipping a beat he turned me, guiding me backward until my knees hit the side of the bed. “That is so. Sooner you learn who leads and follows around here, the sooner we’ll get to the fun parts.”

  I hummed again. Longer. Silkier. “Oh, I like the fun parts.” Now this was familiar ground. Or as it were, mattress. No matter what the surface, I could do this—and I did. Like a self-sure cat, I crawled across the bed, swaying my barely covered ass, feeling the lusty weight of his stare on every inch of my movements.

  When I finally got to the center, I kneeled as he instructed, though not without a slinky stare over my shoulder.

  “Having fun yet, Mr. P?”

  He paced to the foot of the bed, steps even, eyes hooded. “Wow. You really can play nice.”

  “When I’m rewarded.” My gaze dipped to the swell in his briefs. Holy shit. “And it looks like I’m going to be very well rewarded.”

  So there I was in my full Agent Provocateur glory, in the middle of the bed, in the hottest stare-down of my life, with Mr. July himself. His ink. Those muscles. That bulge. And his eyes, brilliant and feral, taking me in like I was his next meal. Ohhh, the planets were finally aligning, and I was going to enjoy every last drop of their spectral kindness.

  I wriggled a little, unable to help myself. Things were so good up in this girl’s panties. I went with the flow, deciding to try crooking a finger at him, already missing his huge, hard heat pressed up against me. But dammit if Michael wasn’t onto my game. He slipped around the bed, graceful as the demon-god he was, shaking his head at me with every perfect, smooth step.

  “Patience, sugar. Let’s make this right. If get near you now, I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

  “Responsibility is really overrated.” I chuckled as he did, arching, then bowing my back, damn near clawing the comforter in my growing need.

  He didn’t budge. Instead, said, “I love it when you laugh. When you really laugh. It always makes me harder.”

  “Always? You mean it’s happened before?”

  “All the damn time.” He had the nerve to stand there and stroke himself through the Ralph Laurens. I let my knees drop and sat up, licking my lips, yearning that they could join his fingers. He must’ve activated his special mind meld thing, because his cock surged against the fabric in direct response to my thoughts. “But if I started listing everything about you that makes me hard, we’d be here until dawn.”

  I slid my gaze up to his face. “And I have other ideas about what we can do until dawn.” Major understatement, given how he stole my breath again with his shirtless glory, his eyes piercing deeply into me. I’d never bought the hooey about being able to see another’s soul, but now admitted to a mental overhaul on that one—especially when he reflected something back that scared the shit out of me. Something so raw…and real…

  “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He finally hiked one knee up on the bed, his thigh sliding a few inches outside mine. I vacillated between scooting closer to get more of his addicting heat, or diving for the ravine of self-consciousness his compliments always opened inside me. It was even more intense now. Every syllable penetrated even more deeply, rendering my usual crutches of snark and cynicism utterly useless. Worse, I felt him watching me again, keenly interested in every move I made.

  Without thinking, I started twirling the delicate gold ring that never left my right pinkie. The habit only reared when I was nervous, and even then, only when I trusted someone. Except for Mother. She didn’t just know about the pattern, but every painful incentive behind it.

  Pain that strangely lessened at once, as Michael wrapped his hands around both of mine. He stilled my fingers by intertwining his with them.

  “Tell me about this,” he prompted, caressing the ring himself.

  I shook my head. I’d signed on tonight for mind-numbing sex, not heart-ripping psychotherapy. “It’s…just a thing. Just jewelry. Good luck charm, maybe.”

  “No kidding. You never take it off.” He kissed my little finger, followed by each one in turn while I watched, mesmerized by his lips on my skin.

  His adoration…his patience…they wrenched at me. Clawed my chest open.

  Unspooled me.

  Exactly what I’d asked for.

  Dammit.

  “It—it was a gift when I was a little girl,” I croaked out. “That’s why it only fits on my pinkie now.”

  “From who?”

  He rubbed his cheek from my knuckles to my wrist, still clasped together with his. Every rasp from his beard shot lightning bolts up my arms, through my breasts, even along the sensitive ends of my nipples. I knew my core would feel the effect next, and it wouldn’t be so subtle. How could his prying questions be turning me on so deeply?

  You know why.

  Because he hadn’t automatically assumed the ring was from Andrea. Because he knows you that well. Because it feels damn good to have someone know you that well.

  But it was damn terrifying, too.

  “Why are we going into this now?” I grimaced and tried to pull away. No-go on that front, with Michael enforcing uber talon grip with the hold. Okay, different tack. I leaned forward a little, weighing down my gaze with lust. “Can’t we just kiss some more? That was some good shit, Michael.”

  “Couldn’t agree more. But it’s also good shit to know more things about you. And now that I know there’s a real story behind this ring, I’ll guess that whoever gave it to you must be very special.”

  “She was.” And just like that, he opened the tap on my tears. And all the memories, good and bad and joyous and sad, behind them. Damn alcohol. My desire dissolved beneath a flood of feelings I hadn’t visited in a long, long time…and the beautiful woman’s face that always accompanied them. “Yeah…she was.”

  The bed trembled as he climbed fully on. His chest pressed to my forehead as he disentangled our hands then wrapped his arms completely around me. “Hey, hey…I didn’t mean to upset you.” His biceps flexed as he hauled me right into his lap. My first reflexes urged me to struggle away—shit this good could never be trusted—but I decided to give him a second. Then maybe another.

  This was…really good. Warm. Secure.

  Sort of what I’d imagined home should always feel like.

  Danger zone. Danger zone.

  I had too many fronts exposed. Too much of my “real thing” busting out at the seams. But I let the alarms peal on, surrendering to an embrace so full and protective, “fight or flight” became nothing more than funny words. I sank against him, sniffling like a child while he rocked gently, stroked my hair, and ordered my sadness away with the power in his soft shushes.

  “Tell me,” he finally prodded. “Please.”

  Panic heaved up again. I couldn’t even consider the request. No, no, no. What had Mother always exhorted into me? Tears for the past are tears for the mud. Wasted weakness, darling. Wasted weakness.

  And look where trusting her had gotten me. Alone. Afraid. Hated by most. Feared by everyone.

  Not everyone.

  Not this man, who’d been courageous enough to see through it all. To believe in someone different. To call her the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen…

  I didn’t dar
e believe that it would last. But as long as Michael was offering, maybe it would be nice to cave in. To buy into the fantasy for a while longer.

  “When I was a little girl, I had a full-time nanny.” I began it tentatively. This “sharing myself” shit was so new…and kind of weird. “Her name was Caroline. She—we—did everything together. She was the one who took care of all the little stuff, you know?” I smiled a little. “Potty training. ABC’s. Tying my shoes…”

  “You wear shoes that tie?”

  I whapped him before going on. “We were pretty inseparable. I loved her dearly. And she loved me. I always felt like she loved me more than my own mother did. I know that probably sounds horrible, but it’s true.”

  Michael cupped my cheek. “Not horrible. I know your mother just a little, remember?”

  I gave him a watery laugh. It was irreverent and probably wrong, but was I really picking now to feel crappy about that? Because he was wonderful that way, Michael laughed with me—until my mirth gave way to a shiver. Shit. My emotions were tearing down my buzz faster than I wanted, bringing on a pirate boot kick of a headache, along with a few crazy sweeps of the spins.

  Without a word, Michael pulled the comforter up around us both. Urged me to lie down, cushioned by his arm and a couple of the pillows, with him spooning perfectly into me. His linens smelled divine, like they’d been washed in a concoction of cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves. I was officially surrounded by him on all sides, and it was heaven.

  “Tell me the rest,” he encouraged then.

  Despite everything, tension snuck back in. I sniffled again. Good God, what was wrong with me? I hadn’t lost it like this since—well, since the last time I’d been able to bawl in Caroline’s arms. Definitely nothing wrong with the waterworks tonight. It was getting to be embarrassing. Freaking champagne. I bet if I checked the MyPeriod app, that would be right around the corner too.

  “So you were saying?” he urged. “About loving Caroline?”

  “Sheez. You’re like a dog with a bone, Pearson. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Once or twice.” There was a smile in his tone. “Was the ring from her?” He wrapped his arm around me and rubbed a thumb over the jewelry again.