Falling for My Dad's Best Friend

by Cassandra Dee

  And when we were done, I was buffed to a sheen, polished, pressed, looking and feeling like a million bucks. I was a whole new Tina, or in this case, Christina.

  “We won’t be using Tina anymore,” sniffed Crikers, “too plebian.” God, she needed to get that stick out of her ass, Tina was a perfectly good name, people had been calling me that my whole life.

  But I didn’t want to argue, so just nodded.

  “Fine, I’ll be Christina from here on out,” I said stiffly.

  “Lady Christina,” Crikers corrected.

  “Lady Christina,” I repeated, giving in.

  And here we were, at my first grand event. It was a cocktail party, a shindig where “all the right people had been invited,” per my parents’ hopes and dreams. In fact, Miss Carroll’s had more than delivered because on the guest list was a billionaire – Prince Georg of St. Venetia.

  “He’s supposed to be really cute,” mooned Millie next to me. Millie was a girl I’d made friends with during my first few days here, a tiny thing, about ninety pounds with a button nose. Of course, she wasn’t actually Millie, that was too common. Millie was Lady Millicent Vonnegut, and here for the same reason I was – to snare a rich guy.

  But honestly, the little blonde was really sweet without a nasty bone in her body, bonding over the beauty treatments, the sad fact that it was all for a future husband.

  So I turned to my new friend and smiled.

  “Who’s supposed to be cute?” I asked.

  “The Venetians,” said Millie, “Haven’t you heard?” she asked confusedly. “They’re coming to the party tonight.”

  Oh right. The family of billionaires.

  “Is Prince Georg really old?” I asked slowly, dreading the answer. That was the thing about wealthy men – most of them were elderly dudes, almost mummies in some cases. I was hoping for someone in his fifties, sixties if I was unlucky.

  “No, not Prince Georg himself,” said Millie laughing. “Prince Kristian, his son. I hear that he’s more than just cute,” she said, lowering her voice, “I hear he’s gorgeous.”

  And now, I raised my eyebrows. More gorgeous than two six-four twins, with imposing builds, charcoal black hair and eyes as blue as the sea? I think not. Because during my time in exile, I’d reverted to dreaming about my encounter with them. It was almost unreal and some nights I lay awake, replaying our encounter in my mind, the way I’d raised my knee to show them my sweet kitty, the way Kato had stuffed me in front while Karl had dominated my backside. Oh god, I felt so full just thinking about it, stretched to the max, languorous and sexy, and yet here I was at Miss Carroll’s primped to within an inch of my life, bait for whichever old rich dude. It was depressing, but that was life and I forced myself back to reality. I sighed heartily. Right, the billionaires from St. Venetia.

  “And what makes him so wonderful?” I asked my friend skeptically. I was expecting to hear something like, “He’s so dreamy, so amazing,” a bunch of really vague descriptors, so imagine my surprise when Millie was startlingly specific. “Prince Kristian is supposedly really tall, six four with black hair and blue eyes, and really athletic too. Doesn’t that sound like an amazing combo?” she giggled. “I always like the mix of dark hair and light eyes.”

  Now my senses were on high alert because Millie had just painted my thoughts aloud, practically word for word. It couldn’t be, could it? It was just a weird coincidence that Millie had just described my twin fling, the two men I’d been lusting after since leaving Andorra. Because there had to be a ton of guys out there who were tall with the black/blue combination, it wasn’t unique or some kind of one-time thing. So I shook my head and scolded myself. No way were my twin lovers here, masquerading as Prince Kristian.

  Saying nothing, I followed Millie as we were led to a set of heavy, oaken doors along with the other girls, perfume heady in the air, a bevy of chattering, female forms.

  “Ladies,” nodded a butler before swinging the door open.

  And my eye was immediately caught by a tall figure. Or rather, all of us immediately saw him because he stood head and shoulders above the rest, his aura unmistakable, penetrating blue eyes flashing as we entered the room.

  It was Kato. Or Karl. One of them, I wasn’t sure which, was here in the flesh.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kristian

  The chattering group of girls was ridiculous, like a cage of hens set free in the crowd.

  “Oohh!” sighed one.

  “Ahhh!” sighed another.

  I could swear I heard a third one chirp, “Peep peep peep!”

  I just shrugged my shoulders and tried to ignore the women. It’s so fucking annoying. As Crown Prince of St. Venetia, I’m obligated to attend a ton of events on behalf of the royal family, all sorts of shindigs that I have absolutely zero interest in, and this one was no exception.

  Sproul, my social secretary cum butler cum personal assistant, had briefed me on tonight’s event.

  “I believe, sire,” he said, looking at me over his glasses, “that you’ll particularly enjoy tonight’s event.”

  I yawned and stretched, looking out the window of our library. Yeah, my ancestors spared no expense building and furnishing the St. Venetia Palace, and the library was no exception. Leather-bound volumes lined the walls, and there were quite a few collectors’ items scattered about, the antique books opened to pages with especially beautiful coloring or calligraphy. In fact, one of the original Gutenberg bibles was a few feet to my right, enclosed in a glass case, the temperature carefully monitored, lighting carefully controlled.

  “Oh really?” I said disinterestedly. “What going on tonight? Wine tasting? Bourbon tasting? Whiskey?”

  Sproul frowned at me. I’d been so bored and disillusioned lately that I’d been drowning my sorrows in Jim, Jack, Johnnie and Jameson. The Four Horsemen had been my constant companions, the hard liquor carrying me through these painfully dull parties.

  But Sproul continued to look me over disapprovingly. He’s been with us since I was a baby, and knew me inside out.

  “Sire,” he said frostily, “maybe you should hold back tonight because there will be young ladies in attendance.”

  Oh that. I slumped in my chair, already bored again.

  “Whoop dee doo,” I grunted, twirling my finger in the air. “What else is new.”

  It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. After all, I’m the Crown Prince of a small city-state, heir to a vast fortune, with every asset at my disposal. You want lands? I got ‘em. You want estates? I got ‘em. You want far-flung mysterious overseas holdings which could potentially be illegal, but assuredly worth billions? I got ‘em. So as you can tell, I’ve been hunted by young ladies ever since I was a baby. Okay, maybe it was their parents doing the hunting at that age, but seriously, as long as I can remember, girls have been throwing themselves at me non-stop.

  “Oh Kristian,” they’d breathe, bosoms heaving theatrically, pushing out their boobs. “Oh Kristian!”

  And I just fucking hated it. I fucking hated these “aristocrats,” the inbred air, the predatory looks, the way dollar signs practically appeared in their eyes, cartoon-like, when they saw me. So I wasn’t excited at all, but Sproul cleared his throat to clarify.

  “Tonight the girls will be from Miss Carroll’s,” he said, shooting me a meaningful look.

  Um, ok.

  “So?” I asked, bored. “What about it?”

  Sproul looked at me disapprovingly.

  “Miss Carroll’s is known for accepting only the most eligible young ladies,” he said with a sniff. “None of the riff raff you’ve been associating with lately.”

  And I rolled my eyes. Of course, Sproul knew what I’d been up to in my free time. It’s not that I hate women, I just can’t stand the type that populate these stuffy society events. They’re always so thin, so skinny with elbows jutting, knees knocking, that sometimes I want to offer them a hamburger out of pity. Yeah, a Big Mac with a large order of fries would be jus
t the thing. The emaciated look doesn’t turn me on, you know? My type is a lot curvier, with ass, boobs, and a sweet, wet cunny. And I’m not shy about bedding them, I just do it on the downlow.

  Take Mama, for instance. Yeah, that’s her name. I met the woman at a bar last week, around 3 a.m. after a boring dinner and drinks at the Austrian Embassy. They were raising money for something or other, I’d already forgotten, and I’d hit the Jiving Rooster for some liquid relaxation afterwards, the seedy dive joint just my style, a place where I could blend.

  “Hey stranger,” a brunette breathed, approaching me as I downed another shot of bourbon. I took a deep breath slowly, inhaling through my nose. Damn, the burn felt so good, my esophagus on fire, a pit settling deep in my belly.

  I turned to look at her. I wasn’t expecting much, most women at the Rooster are pretty beat-up looking, but this one was better … sort of. She had a tramp tat on her lower back, something big and ugly, but I couldn’t see clearly in the low light. Her boobs were barely held in by a halter, busting out on top, below, and both sides, and her midriff was bare, showing a little pooch, but whatever, that was my thing. I like flesh, jiggly, soft, the kind you can squeeze in the middle of a long orgasm, hold onto as you’re losing it. And this girl had more than a little extra, so I leaned back, appraising her leisurely.

  “Hey,” I drawled. “What’s up?”

  “Mister, you looking for some fun?” she breathed, pushing her chest forward. “For a price,” she smiled sultrily at me.

  Oh shit. A professional. Well, I had nothing against working girls and WTF, maybe that’s what I needed tonight. Maybe that’s exactly what I needed to stir things up, get the donkey going.

  So I wasted no time with small talk.

  I looked over the goods, staring her up, down, up, down, and then a third time for good measure. “Five hundred bucks,” I said peremptorily, “take it or leave it.”

  I guess it was take because the girl shook her hips and shimmied excitedly.

  “Sure thing!” she breathed, practically taking off her clothes right there. “You wanna head to a hotel?”

  I let out a short bark of laughter.

  “Hotel?” I said, “I can do better than that.”

  And I brought the girl back to St. Venetia Palace itself, stowing her in one of the unused rooms in a side wing, among a series of empty maid’s rooms. I fucked that girl silly, forcing her to take it this way and that, bent over and bent double, her shrieks ringing through the empty hallways, her cries of pleasure echoing like alarm bells.

  “Fuck me, fuck me, ooooh, yeeeahh,” she wailed, thrashing her head on the bare mattress. I was only too happy to oblige, so long as she didn’t talk. I’d realized that the woman was a bimbo, without a lot going on upstairs, and wanted to keep any conversation to a minimum. Long wails and drawn-out cries were okay, but no sentences necessary, thanks.

  And of course the next morning, I had to ask Sproul to escort her out.

  “Hold on, my man will come get you,” I grunted, watching as the brunette got dressed. Her lower back tat looked bad, like a squiggly eel that had been done by a child. “What is that on your back? Your money’s by the door, by the way.”

  The brunette giggled and scooped up the cash, stashing it into her cleavage.

  “Oh my son did it,” she said, pulling down her skirt a little to give me a better look in the grey light of morning. “He’s a tattoo artist, isn’t he so talented?”

  There were two things that I got from the exchange. One, that the woman was way older than I thought, if she had a son old enough to be working. Heck, that made me feel good. I had no bias against older women, and if I’d just done a MILF? Sweet.

  But the other thing was that Mama’s son had absolutely no talent. The tat was literally the worst I’d ever seen, random lines curving this way and that on an etch-a-sketch. Shit, she should look into getting that shit lasered off no matter how much it cost. It was worth it, better than going around with a mess permanently inked on your body.

  But Sproul had just arrived in the hallway, his face courteous, impossibly civil, giving nothing away.

  “Madame,” he said bowing at the waist. “May I show you to the exit?”

  “Oh yeah!” she squealed. “Like a butler, cool!”

  I rolled my eyes, stretching in the small bed. The real reason was that I didn’t want a working girl to get lost in the Palace, wander to some restricted area where there was a meeting with the Chancellor or some visiting dignitaries. The Palace was big, but it could happen. Imagine it. Working girl shows up half-naked at a meeting filled with old, cranky white guys talking about accounting or some shit like that. Shits and giggles man, shits and giggles.

  But whatevs. Sproul was here already, bowing and extending his arm.

  And the girl took it, jumping up and down with excitement at the prospect of being escorted. “Bye now!” she sang over her shoulder at me, wiggling her ass one last time. I ignored her, heaving myself out of bed, mentally bracing myself for the day head. What was on the agenda? I’d have to look it up.

  But Sproul was only too happy to remind me, now that he’d finished escorting the woman out, meeting me in the royal library afterwards.

  “How’d it go with Mama?” I asked. “You show her out okay?”

  Sproul didn’t even deign to reply.

  “You have an event tonight at the Sant Ambroes Hotel,” he sniffed. “Miss Carroll’s girls will be there. Much better than what you’ve been indulging in lately,” he added darkly.

  “Oh you mean Mama,” I drawled, laughing when I saw the butler’s indignant look. “Mama’s her name, and hooking is her game,” I grunted. “Don’t ask me, I have no idea why she’s called that.”

  Sproul looked miffed.

  “Miss Carroll’s girls are the highest quality,” he said, looking at me down his nose. “You’ll see,” he intimated. I just ignored the comment. I’d allegedly been meeting the best girls in Europe for years now, and I’d never heard of this Miss Carroll’s place.

  But now that the ladies were here, I could see what set them apart. Food, it was the food. Again, I hate starved-looking females, so thin that they’re almost transparent, rope-like with brittle arms and legs. Miss Carroll’s girls, by contrast, were healthy and fit, curvaceous and voluptuous. Sure, they gasped and tittered like women all over the world, but at least I could see real womanflesh, and not emaciated bones.

  So I perked up, feeling a little more awake. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so painful, I’d be able to relax a little, enjoy myself. I was reaching for a second glass of champagne, congratulating myself for attending the event, when I caught sight of her. It isn’t often that the blood rushes downward making my dong stiffen, but that’s what happened when Tina stepped into the drawing room.

  Curly brown hair, big hazel eyes and a heart-shaped face, she was a looker and then some. Wide hips bracketed a tiny waist and juicy ass, all of it topped with gazongas that had to be Double Ds at a minimum. I felt my heart hammering, blood pumping hard in my groin, a rushing sound in my ears.

  And of course, she and another girl were headed my way. In two seconds flat they were by my side, the tiny blonde grabbing my arm.

  “Hi, you must be Prince Kristian,” she chattered. “I’m Millie, I mean Millicent, and this is the Lady Christina.”

  The brunette let out a genuine smile, and my heart caught in my throat. God, she was beautiful, I could almost feel warm rays caressing my skin.

  “Everyone calls me Tina,” she said throatily. Oh shit, that voice was like dark velvet, a full-bodied glass of merlot that I had every intention of downing sip by sip.

  “Tina you’re not supposed to!” giggled her friend. “We’re supposed to go by our given names remember? Miss Carroll said.”

  But Tina just rolled her eyes and shot me a half-smile. “Sorry but Millicent and I are real girls, and we go by Millie and Tina, not Lady Anything.”

  By now, I’d gotten my body under some control and r
eached for Tina’s hand. Her fingers were long and elegant, her wrist like a swan. Pressing a kiss on the inside, I growled, “Pleased to meet you.”

  Tina’s eyebrows flew up at the intimacy, her pulse pounding under my fingers, beating like a butterfly.

  “Do you always kiss ladies’ wrists when you first meet them?” she asked archly, looking at me through their lashes.

  “Only if they’re as beautiful as you,” I rumbled, with a half-smile on my lips.

  Her friend, meanwhile, had finally caught on to the vibes between us, some serious shit that didn’t include her.

  “Um, should I go get a drink or something?” she twittered, “or do you guys need drinks too? I can get something for all three of us.”

  “No, stay,” said Tina, but I interrupted.

  “Yeah, that’d be great,” I said loudly, “whatever they have, thanks.” I didn’t mention that there were servers circulating even now with flutes of bubbly, I just wanted the brunette all to myself.

  “Oh sure,” giggled Millie, running off, “Have fun you two.”

  Hopefully that meant she wasn’t coming back, she’d give us a little privacy, and I turned back to the brunette.

  “So what brings you here?” I growled, expecting some casual banter, some slick story about how she loved vacationing in the Mediterranean on her private yacht, the skies so blue, the sea so calming.

  But instead, the girl didn’t really say, instead dodging the question.

  “Just wanted to see what this is about,” she murmured, not meeting my eyes. “You know, mix and mingle a little.”

  Odd. Usually people love talking about themselves, it makes them feel important. But evidently this brunette was more circumspect.

  “You been to St. Venetia before?” I asked casually. My country is like another Monaco, with Formula One racing, fashion shows, and casinos galore. But the girl looked away in the distance again.