by Teagan Kade
CHAPTER TEN
SPENCER
Truth is, I was far from drunk at the ball. I was high as a fucking kite. I don’t want her to see me like that, but I need it, and that’s the problem. There will come a point when I have to decide—the blow or her. It shouldn’t be such a hard choice.
You can have both. You’ve gotten away with it for this long, haven’t you? It’s what you do, putting that mask on for the world. How hard could it possibly be to hide from one person?
A knock on the door.
I sound terrible. “Enter.”
Marcus pulls up beside me with two aspirin and a Lucozade. “It will help, sir, or I can go get a bucket of water. Choice is yours.”
I pop the aspirin in, swallow them dry. “What would I do without you, Marcus?”
“Shit your pants and run naked down Fleet Street, I imagine.”
I sit up, my head a block of concrete on my shoulders. “Marcus, Marcus. If this gig falls through I can see a bright future for you in comedy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
My phone beeps again, yet another message from Grace. I feel like I should be the one chasing her, perpetually apologizing. It’s a mystery why I stormed out of there like a tanty-throwing toddler in the first place.
“You better get that, sir.”
“And why would I do that, Marcus?”
“Take it from a man who’s been married twice, that girl’s good for you.”
“You really think so?”
“Well, she’s a damn sight more refined than your usual tarts, wouldn’t you say?”
I laugh thinking about her, sassy minx she is. “I wouldn’t, in fact. She’s something of a blunt instrument at the best of times. I don’t think she even knows what a viscount is.”
Marcus sits on the bed. “Does it matter? She’s pretty, in a proper way, can think for herself, and definitely knows how to put you in your place. I would say that’s something to hang onto.”
I pick up my phone, finger hovering over the screen. “Maybe you’re right, Marcus. Maybe you’re right.”
He smiles. “I’m always right, sir.”
*
I find her in the Savoy’s dining room, taking the seat opposite her at the table. She remains remarkably focused on her bacon and eggs.
“Grace,” I begin, “I’m sorry.”
She looks up. “For what?”
“Being a prat. I had no good reason to leave like that, and yes, I should have invited you to the ball, not that I imagined you were in any mood to go. It was my loss.”
“That photo? The girls?”
“They really did jump me, and yes, I know how stupid that sounds, but that’s what happened. Amanda probably orchestrated the whole thing. It really wouldn’t surprise me if she’s the one who’s been leaking these photos to the press the whole time.”
A little girl spots me from the other side of the room. “Look, Mummy. It’s the Prince!”
Grace doesn’t blink. “Spencer, what is this? Tell me truthfully.”
A waiter stops by. “Refreshments, sir?”
“Coffee, extra-strong. Is it Amanda? Because she means nothing to me.”
“You’ve been with her, haven’t you?”
I sigh, sitting back. “Yes, we had a one-time thing. I can’t say it was memorable. I’ve been with girls and I imagine you’ve been with guys.”
She turns sheepish. “Actually…”
I cannot fucking believe it. I lower my voice. “Christ, you’re a virgin?”
She looks frustrated. “And?”
That was the last thing I was expecting, though it does make perfect sense now I think about it. “It’s fine, not a problem. I just thought you were, well…”
“A slut? A ‘scrubber’? “Not every American girl has been through the football team, you know.”
“I didn’t say—”
She grows defensive, shoulders pulling in, arms crossed. “I haven’t slept with anyone, okay. Does it really matter?”
“No, it kind of turns me on, in fact.”
“A bent spoon would turn you on.”
“I’m serious. You’re… uncharted territory.”
“This is what I’m talking about. I’m not a conquest, Spencer. Didn’t I make that clear?”
“I know.”
“Then why do I get the impression that’s all you’re in this for?”
She somehow looks even more beautiful today, light makeup not applied with a twin-barrel. “How many times do I have to tell you, Grace? You’re different.”
“And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m not another Abigail Hanover. I do not conform to your posh, pass-the-pearls world.”
“That is what I love. It’s refreshing.”
“I’m not a can of soda either.”
I run my hand through my hair, a nervous habit I’ve never really snapped out of. “I’m not doing so well, am I? Scale of one to ten that we’re going to forget all this and spend the day having hot, dirty sex?”
There’s the barest hint of a smile, a glint in her eye. It’s working. “Maybe a three, four if you’re lucky.”
I slap my hands together. “Progress! Another couple of days and you’ll be calling me Daddy while I take a paddle to your behind.” I keep the smile coated on thick, let her know I’m joking—almost.
She breathes out long. “You wealthy types always with the daddy issues.”
“Trust me, my father is the tip of my issue iceberg. I’m really quite a dark and conflicted soul.”
“The World says otherwise.”
“The World, that preposterous rag, can shove its drivel right up its rear.”
“I take it you’re not a fan of the media?”
“A modern-day mob without the pitchforks—what is there to be a fan of?”
“I’m part of the media, you know.”
“You are, and there’s nothing to suggest you won’t paint me with the same brush.”
“You have trust issues.”
“Wouldn’t you, in my position?”
“I suppose so.”
My coffee arrives piping hot. “Enough talk, please. My peanut of a brain hasn’t worked this hard in years.”
“From what the media says, Big Ben gets quite a workout.”
I grab my crotch. “No action all week, I’m afraid. You’ve given me a right royal case of blue balls.”
“Not even a quick fling at the ball, singular?”
It’s a serious question masked in frivolity. “The ball produced little but an epic migraine, I’m afraid.”
“What, your precious playbook can’t help you out?”
“Not with her.”
“With who?”
I make sure to hold eye contact. “With you.”
“Fuck off, Sir Spencer.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re warming to me, Grace Everett.”
“Like I said, it’s my job.”
“Not that I’m displeased about it. Quite the opposite.”
She rolls her eyes and wiggles her nose at the same time. She doesn’t even know her power. It’s so fucking cute I’m instahard.
“We can start slow, a massage if you like, work our way up to the kinky stuff?”
“You’re persistent, aren’t you?”
“One of my finest qualities.”
“What if I told you that even if you were the last man on earth I wouldn’t touch you with a fifty-foot pole?”
“I would say you’re lying.”
She holds her phone up to her mouth. “Prince Spencer is obnoxious in the extreme, a born womanizer.”
Damn thing’s always recording.
I’m jealous.
I laugh. “I was certainly not born this way. Just look at my bore of a brother. No, all my wiles were learnt on the street.”
“Hedford Palace is far from ‘the streets’.”
“It has its own dangers, believe me.”
Crickets.
It’s time to st
rike. “Tell me the kiss meant nothing,” I question. I want her to admit it, admit she’s into me as much as I’m into her, that this silly tête-a-tête is her way of saying ‘fuck me ’til my legs give out’. Maybe then we can put this crazy back-and-forth behind us and get into the good stuff.
She’s assassin cold. “It meant nothing,” but the way her voice wavers doesn’t escape me.
Lie. I sense the hesitation in her words, can see the way she’s thinking upon it, all about me above her, inside her. The thought makes me stiffen to breaking point. I’m dying to run my hand between her legs, find out if she’s wet.
She’s flushed, literally, her face reddening, the cherry in her checks juxtaposed by her pastel skin. She can hide behind her words all she wants, her American bravado, but I know she wants this.
“I’ll make it simple,” I tell her, sipping on my coffee. “I’m going to go and have a word to Marcus and Richard over there by the window. If you want to take this to the next level, head up to your room. If you don’t, simply remain seated.”
I stand and start walking, but it feels more like a death march. This is the riskiest move there is, and I’m not talking about the fucking Club playbook.
I sit down with Marcus and Richard, count away the seconds and struggle not to turn around. The two of them seem more interested in their toast and papers than my presence.
Finally, I stand. “Call me if you need me.”
Marcus doesn’t take his eyes off the paper. “Will do, sir.”
I turn. Please. Please. Please.
She’s gone.
I dash for the elevator, almost jumping on the spot with eagerness. Damn thing’s barely moving. I can’t take it. I hit the stairwell, taking stairs three at a time until I’ve hit the third floor.
I find her room, just about to knock when I notice the door is ajar.
I push it open and walk in.
It’s bright, the curtains drawn wide, my eyes struggling to focus, but when they do, fucking hell, when they do…
She’s lying on the bed, shoes off. She sees me and rises up, sitting on the edge and spreading her knees apart. “I hate to say it, but is this what you want?”
I look behind myself expecting to see the real, sensible Grace walk in demanding this imposter leave, but no. I turn back. “Yes, in fact.”
“I’m not easy, you know. Understand I’m breaking rules here, my god-damn rules. I never do this, and I’m not doing that, if you want to know, but we can play.”
“I don’t do this either, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Fall for someone.”
I step closer, fight the impulse to pin her down and fuck her senseless.
“You have to work for my affection,” she purrs.
“I can do that.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“Good.”
I can hear the excitement in her voice, the way she rounds her vowels, the husky growl at the back of her throat. “How would you do it? Show me. Show me how you would seduce me—for research.”
I crouch before her, taking her hands and moving them to the bedspread. I replace them with my own on her knees, sliding them up until they’re around her torso. I draw her to me, a stunted gasp following from her lips as we’re brought face to face.
Our eyes burn together, the bridge between us so easily crossed, but no. This must be strained out, drawn and stretched until she can’t take a single second more.
I continue to run my hands up her sides, let them fill up with her breasts, conscious of her nipples pinned into my palms through the cotton of her shirt.
I bend down between us, breathe up from her waist. I lift a hand and pull a nipple into my mouth, suck it through the fabric of her shirt as she mews and moans above. I pull it taunt and let it free, repeating the process with its partner. She made the right move foregoing a bra today.
At the same time, I drive a hand into the crotch of her jeans, take full hold of her cleft. It’s like a fucking furnace down there, damp and hot. All I want to do is peel her pants away and bury my face between her legs, suffocate there in the hot sauna of her sex.
Her hands are shaky as they comb through my hair. I lift my head up, my thumb working into her folds, turning the denim dark with her arousal. She smells incredible on heat. My cock’s so fucking hard I could break ice with it.
I brush her hair away and place my lips against her earlobe. “You’re wet, aren’t you?”
She inhales as I roll a nipple between my fingers, the butt of my hand grinding against her clit. She can’t reply, lost in the moment.
I add more pressure with my hand, roll and knead away at the stretched fabric, feel the fire that burns below it. I’d give anything to take her now, run my dick deep into the slick channel of her sex.
“Spencer.” It’s so faint I miss it at first.
She starts to buck her hips, thrust up against my hand, legs splayed wide.
I pull back and look at her, the way her cheeks have blushed and reddened further. I’ve never seen anything so hot.
I move my weight against her. She hooks a hand around my neck, uses it to lever herself against me.
Her face draws together. I know the look, the exquisite agony that always follow the ecstasy to come.
“Spencer,” she whispers, “I’m going to—”
Her phone goes off in her pocket. Her face grimaces.
I’m losing her.
The blasted thing continues to ring. Her eyes pop open and the moment is lost.
She pushes me back, fishing for her phone. “I better get that.”
I lift myself off her, stand there with my pants tented out and balls aching.
She stands, turning to me and brushing herself down.
“Yes?” she answers.
I can’t fucking believe it. I was this fucking close.
“I left the files on my desktop,” she continues, frustrated. “Do a search.”
She paces, her eyes thrown up once to me but soon turning away.
This is no good. She’s thinking about it, talking herself out of it, out of us. “Can I get back to you? I’m in the middle of something.”
There’s a small chance I can get this back on track, but the moment she hangs up there’s a knock on the door. “Sir?”
It’s fucking Marcus. He has a nose for these things. Probably followed me out of the damn dining room.
I storm over to the door and fling it wide. “Impeccable timing, Marcus. What is it?”
He looks down, my erection clear as day.
“Yes?” I repeat, embarrassed, but reminding myself Marcus has seen far worse.
“Your father, sir. He’d like a word.”
“Now?”
“I believe so.”
I turn to Grace, but she’s already taking her laptop out, phone pinned to her ear.
“Emergency at work,” she whispers. “Sorry.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, take her hand. “Will you come by later?”
She averts her eyes. “I’ll see. This might take a while.”
“Marcus, hand me one of your cards.”
I take it off him and place it on the bed beside her. “Call Marcus when you’re ready. He’ll let you know where I am.”
“I will,” but she’s typing, lost to me. Maybe that’s how she wants it.
I can’t. I won’t. I’ve touched the surface of the sun and I want more. If I get burnt in the process, so fucking be it.
*
I meet my father in the drawing room of the the Athenaeum Club. He’s seated with the Dean of Cambridge by the fireplace at the far end of the room.
I’ve always liked this room. It reminds of a library, history thick on the pale green walls.
I see the whiskey is out.
I approach them. “Father.”
He stands. “Spencer.”
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I was just talking with the Dean here about your progress thi
s semester.”
“My progress?”
“You seem to be slipping behind your fellow students.”
“I’ve been rather caught up with extracurricular activities. I’m sure you can relate. As I understand it you were particularly active in one club in particular when you were a student, what was it called? The Trappers? No. The Monkey Club? The name quite eludes me.”
My father’s membership in the Chaos Club is a heavily guarded secret. Cambridge has sought to distance itself as far away from the Club as possible, yet it still seems to permeate talk and campus gossip. People, it seems, love a secret society.
My father stands in front of me, back to the Dean, whispering sharply. “Enough,” his voice returning to normal. “Dean Williams here has graciously offered to have a wee chat to your professors, see if perhaps they can look more favorably on your work next semester given your, ahem, Palace commitments.”
I cannot believe this, but it is just like my father to come in and think he can use his position to get what he wants. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, sorry.”
His face reddens and it’s damn well not from the whiskey. I know precisely how to piss him off.
He smiles at the Dean. “You will accept the Dean’s help and be bloody grateful for it, my son.”
I make for the door. “No can do, Father Dearest.” I stop in the doorway. “Oh, and I’m meeting with the Club members right now if you’d like to join us, perhaps regale them with stories of your time in such a fine Cambridge institution?”
I leave it at that, even Marcus smiling as we walk out of the building.
“Good one, sir,” he remarks.
“For now, Marcus. If there’s one thing you can bet on with Father it’s that the bite that follows his bark always arrives appropriately late. He’ll wait for his opportunity to sink his teeth in. He always does.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GRACE
I have never been so wet.
My entire body is charged, strung tight. I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning, that the bolt is bouncing between my stomach and sex, filling me with electricity and urgent need. And what’s he done? Absolutely nothing but press those sweet lips of his against my ear, whispering cheap lines.
The worst part is, it’s working. He’s barely touched me and I’m ready to come.
An entire future unfurls in my head. I see us together, the Palace, plump and cheerful kids running around our feet, his body pounding into my own in our eighteenth-century four-poster. The vision is so striking, so realistic I actually have to lean against the side table for support.
