Arousing Her

by Tia Siren

  Cain rammed into me a few more times and then blew out a long breath. He looked at me and smiled. I sighed happily and smiled back.

  “Thanks for making me famous, Mr. Bohannon,” I said, rubbing my cunt against him. “It feels amazing.”

  “It’s been my pleasure, Miss Poole,” he said, giving me a soft smile. He let my legs drop around his waist and leaned down to kiss my lips. “And just think, we’ve only just begun.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed.

  Yes, my darling, we’ve only just begun.

  ***

  END OF THIRD STORY

  BIG BAD ROYAL - A Billionaire Romance

  Does one royally hot night count as happily ever after?

  REBECCA MONROE:

  Who the hell does this guy think he is? He stumbles into my bar in the middle of a snowstorm and tells me he’s going to kidnap me, knock me up, and then take me back to his country to be his queen. Seriously?

  But if he really is who he says he is, then I’m in trouble.

  Billionaire prince? Check.

  Ruthless playboy? Check.

  Muscles and obviously huge package in his pants? Check.

  There is no way in hell he’ll get me to be his princess. Not even for one night.

  Because if he does, then happily ever after will be over before it even began.

  PRINCE NIKOLAY “NICK” ROSTOV:

  When my father, the king of Kosnovia, told me I must kidnap and marry an American girl to save his crown, I told him he was insane.

  But time’s running out, and here I am stranded in a blizzard in upstate New York, and the only decent woman around is standing behind the bar.

  A barmaid? I’m a freakin’ prince. I date actresses and supermodels, if you can call that dating.

  But little Miss Can-I-Get-You-a-Drink makes the big prince in my pants want to come out and play.

  So I’ll turn on the charm and make the barmaid my queen.

  Just for one long, royal night.

  ***

  CHAPTER ONE: Rebecca Monroe

  I glanced at the neon Budweiser clock hanging over the bar when I saw Carl Wilson coming in the door. Carl was as regular and dependable as that old clock. It was nine o’clock on the dot; the same time he’d come in every night for twenty-five years ago.

  Carl was one of a handful of locals left who frequented The Snowcap Bar & Grill on a basis so regular that you could set your watch by it.

  The Snowcap, as it was called (because saying Bar & Grill required too much effort, I suppose), was a little dive bar - slash - greasy spoon my dad opened here in Snowcap, New York the year before I was born.

  Dad told everyone that mom gave birth to me behind the bar. It wasn’t true, of course. I was born at the Snowcap Clinic, the only medical facility within a hundred miles at the time. Telling everyone that I was born inside the bar made my dad happy, so I never said otherwise.

  I started helping out in the kitchen when I was just ten; flipping burgers that contained more cracker crumbs than hamburger meat. Over the years I bussed tables, washed dishes, swept the floor, cleaned the only bathroom (DISGUSTING!), and started tending bar when I was eighteen.

  I grew up in the bar business. It was all I knew. I had even planned to go to community college to study hotel management after high school, but that thing with Charlie happened, and then my dad died the day after my twentieth birthday.

  My world suddenly became the ten-by-three foot stretch of floor behind the bar. All thoughts of going to college were laid to rest with my dad.

  Dad had a massive heart attack and died on the very spot where I now stood swiping a damp rag over the bar.

  His pals said he died doing what he loved: pouring drinks for the locals and shooting the shit about Jets football. That was bullshit, plain and pure.

  He died doing what he had to do to keep food on the table and the lights on in the little apartment where he and I lived upstairs. Mom left us when I was just two. Ralph Monroe was the only parent I ever knew. That’s why I’ll never left Snowcap and will never close this ratty old bar. This bar was the only thing of my Dad’s that I had left.

  Carl was going to come in for his nightly three mugs of beer come hell or highwater. Not even an early winter snow storm like the one that was kicking up out there now would keep Carl away. I looked through the big front window that had Snowcap Bar & Grill painted on in fading letters. The window was starting to ice over. The weather man was predicting a foot of snow. It would be an early night; and that was just fine with me.

  I filled a cold mug to the rim with draft and set it on the bar in Carl’s spot so it would be waiting when he got there. Carl didn’t move too fast these days. He was an old man when I was a young girl. I had no idea how old he was now because he had looked the same for years.

  He had been driving his snow plow and pulling people out of ditches in these mountains for thirty years. Storms like this didn’t frighten Carl. He said every snowflake sounded like money falling from the sky.

  Carl stood at the door for a moment to stomp the thick snow off his rubber boots. He took hold of the lapels of his hooded parka and shook off the heavy flakes that had gathered there. He tugged the thick mittens from his gnarled hands and shoved them into the parka’s pockets, then hung the parka on the wall to dry.

  He moseyed toward the bar, pausing to say hello and ask the guys who were shooting darts who was winning. He nodded at the pool players and blew out a long breath as he hoisted his boney frame onto the bar stool. He gave me a smile that was missing its front teeth and asked the same question he’d been asking me every night for ten years.

  “How’s the world treating you, Becca Boo?”

  “The world is treating me just fine, Carl,” I said with a smile. Old Carl had called me Becca Boo for as long as I could remember. I had no idea why he called me that and he couldn’t remember the reason. I set the beer in front of him and nodded at the pass-through behind the bar that looked into the kitchen.

  “The usual, Carl?”

  “I might try something different tonight,” he said, grinning at me as he brought the beer to his lips. When he smiled, his eyes disappeared behind a single line of bushy white eyebrows. He took a long drink and smacked his lips. “I was gonna order fries and a burger. But on second thought, burger and fries will do.”

  “That’s good, since that’s all we sell,” I said, winking at him.

  I stuck my head in the pass-through and yelled at Pete, the old black gentleman who had been the fry cook at the Snowcap since the place opened. Like Carl, Pete had always looked old to me. He stood at the grill with a greasy spatula in his hand, always at the ready, and waited for me to yell out the orders. And I do mean yell because Pete was as deaf as they came.

  I cupped my hands to my mouth and yelled, “Burger and fries for Carl!” Pete gave me a slow nod and saluted me with the spatula, then reached into the freezer for a hamburger patty and dropped it on the grill. The meat immediately began to sizzle.

  I picked up the bar rag and started wiping down the vacant end of the bar. As I swirled the damp rag over the Formica bar top, the little voice inside my head returned. It came every night about this time to taunt me. The little voice always said the same thing.

  Welcome to your life, Becca Boo. You’ll die behind this ratty old bar. Just like your dad.

  I never bothered to argue with the voice, because I knew that it was right. It would take a miracle to get me to leave this place, and miracles weren’t doled out to people like me. The Snowcap would be my home until the day I died.

  The place was small, with just enough room for a half dozen tables and a couple dozen chairs; a ten-foot bar and eight wobbly stools. In one corner was the old bumper pool table with the felt nearly worn off and its one pool cue that everyone shared. In another corner hung the dart board that only had two darts left.

  The plank floor creaked with every foot fall and the coal heater in the corner barely kept the place above freezing.
>
  It was hard to believe that my entire world was encompassed within these four falls, and the mountains surrounding the little town of Snowcap, population two hundred until somebody dies from frostbite or old age.

  I knew there was a big world outside that front door.

  All I had to do was open the door and step out into it.

  The last time I’d done that, it hadn’t worked out so well.

  I came crawling back to Snowcap with my tail tucked between my legs like a whipped dog.

  I’d love to have a man in my life, but not if it means getting my heart or nose broken again.

  Once is plenty enough for me.

  CHAPTER TWO: Rebecca

  His name was Charlie Feenie. He worked as a surveyor for a company that came through Snowcap five summers ago, harvesting white pine for the furniture mills in North Carolina.

  Charlie was six-foot-five, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist, with coal black hair and deep blue eyes and muscles in places I didn’t know muscles even grew.

  He came into my daddy’s bar one night with a bunch of his logging buddies, all of them rowdy and full of piss and vinegar. I caught him looking at me as I set their beers on the table. His hand touched mine when he paid the check. I think my heart actually jumped a little. I felt a searing heat inside my belly that I’d never felt before.

  I gave Charlie my virginity in the cab of his truck two nights later, and he convinced me to take off with him when the surveying job in Snowcap was done. My daddy tried to warn me, but I was too young and stupid and horny and in love to listen. I packed a bag and snuck off into the night with the man I thought I’d spend my life with.

  Charlie turned out to be the biggest son of a bitch you’d ever want to meet. He treated me like dirt and talked to me like I was a dog. He took up with another woman in the next town and when I caught him fucking her in our bed, he told me to grow the fuck up and leave him alone.

  I was just a kid and that’s how I reacted. I stomped my foot and slapped him in the face. Without so much as a blink of an eye, he punched me in the nose with his fist as hard as he could, knocking me out. He kicked me in the ribs while I lay curled up on the floor. Then, as I lay there with blood gushing out of my nose, screaming for help, he ripped off my clothes and raped me.

  “I’m done with you, bitch,” he sneered, picking up my clothes and throwing them at me afterward. “Get your ass dressed. You’re going home to daddy.”

  With my face bloodied and my body bruised and my clothes hanging off of me, he shoved me into his truck, then kicked me out at the bus station. I remember standing there on the road with a bloody rag over my nose, bawling like a baby as he drove away. I hate to admit it now, but if he would have turned around I probably would have crawled into the truck and went with him.

  That’s how fucking stupid I was back then.

  I’m not so stupid anymore.

  The lady at the bus station felt sorry for me. She cleaned me up in the restroom and gave me a ticket back to Snowcap. My daddy met me at the bus and took me home.

  I never mentioned Charlie Feenie or leaving Snowcap again.

  That was the old me.

  The poor helpless me.

  Now, if Charlie Feenie set foot in my bar I’d split his head open with a fucking meat clever and feed his little pecker to dogs.

  Nobody would ever do that to me again.

  Nobody.

  CHAPTER THREE: Nikolay “Nick” Rostov

  I tugged my iPhone from inside the leather jacket I was wearing and held it to my lips. “Siri, remind me to kill the idiot in the Kosnovian travel office who sent me to this horrid place.”

  I was seething as I tucked the phone back into my jacket so I could focus on the road. Here I was, the crown prince of Kosnovia, one of the few remaining Russian monarchies, driving a Budget Rent-A-Car through a blinding snow storm in upstate New York, trying to reach the Overlook Hotel where the economic summit was being held.

  I cursed my father for sending me here.

  Fine, I have a Masters in Economics from Oxford, but surely someone less important than I could have made the trip.

  It’s not about economics, I thought. It’s about finding a bride and producing an heir; preferably a bride from America so the American people would feel connected to our tiny monarchy. My father had seen too many old movies. He had become a romantic in his old age. Real life doesn’t work that way. Not even for someone like me.

  Granted, when the Kosnovian travel officer asked if I would need a chauffeured car to drive me from the airport in New York City to the summit in Snowcap, New York, I gave him a condescending look and told him that I was quite capable of driving myself. He gave me a respectful nod and said he’d have a car waiting for me.

  I had no idea at the time that the summit would be held in November, a hundred miles from the airport, and the car he reserved for me would be a Ford Focus; a car aptly named because if you didn’t focus, you might just run the damn thing over.

  I also had no idea that snow starts falling in upstate New York in late fall. When I told the woman at the car rental office that I was driving to Snowcap for an international economic summit, she shot me an amused look and wished me luck. I thought she was just flirting with me, as most women do.

  In reality, she was probably thinking that I was a moron who really needed luck. At this point, I cannot prove her wrong.

  That was four hours ago, and now it was getting dark and the snow was falling heavier by the minute. Great gusts of snow and ice swirled around the dark road in front of me. I was starting to feel like my luck was running out.

  * * *

  My father, Anatoly Rostov -- rather KING Anatoly II -- the ruler of the tiny monarchy of Kosnovia, would have laughed at such a storm. He would have poked a stiff finger into my chest and said, “You are a Rostov. Rostov’s are afraid of nothing.”

  That may normally be true, but this Rostov, his only son and heir, the one that was educated at Oxford and raised with everything handed over on a silver platter, was afraid of freezing to death on the side of the road in a FUCKING FORD FOCUS!

  Would it have made matters any more palatable if I were to die in one of my Ferraris or Lamborghinis safely-housed back home? Perhaps, but only slightly less.

  I was just twenty-five years old, and one of the few remaining crown princes left on earth. I was most certainly the last monarch of a Russian bloodline. And if things in Kosnovia didn’t change, I would be the last to wear the crown that had been in my family for over two hundred years.

  We were a dying breed, the Russian royals. And like Britain, the monarchy had turned over the running of the country to parliamentarians. It was a difficult decision for my father to give up his power, but he was not a man entirely driven by ego. He understood that we royals were mere figure heads now.

  Unlike the British citizenry, who still held their royals in high esteem, the people of Kosnovia were growing tired of supporting the lavish lifestyle my mother and father – and I – enjoy.

  There had been rumblings for years that the royal family was a costly symbol of a bygone era.

  The anarchists wanted parliament to seize all land and holdings of the Rostov family, which was estimated to be in the hundreds of millions of US dollars. My mother and father would be exiled from the central palace and given a modest honorarium to see them through to their deaths.

  Yours truly, the one TMZ dubbed “The Kosnovian Playboy”, would be out on my ass with nothing. I had no doubt that I would survive such a coup, but I would miss the comforts that I had come to know and expect from life. Yes, I was a spoiled brat. But I was a prince. Royal blood flowed through my veins. I was allowed a bit of spoilage…

  “There is but one hope for our family,” my father said when I met with him before coming to America. We stood on the balcony outside of his office on the third floor of the royal palace, looking out over the city square below. It was past midnight and the city square, a mecca of activity duri
ng the day, was dark and quiet. The temperature had dropped into the teens. The air brought a chill that shivered me to my bones.

  My father, the strongest man I’d ever known in every aspect of the word, looked old and frail standing there next to me wrapped in a heavy blanket from his bed. His once coal black hair, bushy moustache, and pointed beard had all turned grey. The posture that had once been so straight and proud was slouching a bit, as if the weight of history were baring down on his shoulders, causing his spine to bow.

  He put a hand on my arm and said, “I received a message from the prime minister this morning. Parliament is going to consider the people’s demand that the monarchy be put to an end.”

  “What? They wouldn’t dare.” I hitched my chin proudly in the air, but deep inside, I knew they would indeed dare. The monarchy was an endangered species. It had been since before my birth. It was just a matter of time until the palace was taken over and turned into a library or a school or some other building of public use. We both knew that we couldn’t stop progress. We could simply prolong the past.

  I turned to face him. My breath clouded the cold air between us. “So, father, what do we do?”

  My father sucked in a deep breath and put a hand on my shoulder. “You must find a bride and produce an heir as quickly as possible, my son. It is the only way to preserve the life we lead.”

  I regret it now, but I was my usual arrogant self. “Are you insane? Do you really expect me to get married and have a baby just so you can keep your throne?”

  “Show me the respect I’m due boy, or you’ll be picking yourself up off the floor,” he said, glaring at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I may be an old man, but I am still your father and your king.”

  The look in his eye put me squarely back into my place. I’m six-foot-three and all muscle from playing rugby at Oxford for the last six years. I hold black belts in karate, taekwondo, and jujitsu. I’m not afraid of any man and very few women (I didn’t just play rugby at school you know).