by Alexis Angel
Whatever this room is, it was not made for sleeping.
“This is my bedroom,” David announces, seemingly unaware that he looks like he’s trying to lure me into a bordello right before the cops bust in. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t sleep in the palace. That moldy oldie is for tourists and other people we’re trying to impress. On most days, I stay here in the manor, where I can spread out and get comfortable.”
I don’t think I should ask how he likes to get comfortable. It’s likely to lead to a very uncomfortable answer.
“Never show this to anyone,” I tell him, pushing him out and closing the door behind us. And I mean it. Seeing him naked was an accident.
Getting cum on my dress and having to change was not exactly an accident, but it was unavoidable on my part. Walking into his den of sin, however, would signal to him that I’m here to fuck him instead of doing my job.
If David can’t respect me as a professional, he won’t respect me as a woman. That’s why I need to stop this tour right now before I hop on that bed and kiss my career—and my love life—goodbye. Once I have an affair with the King, any man who googles me will know.
And although I am a strong, independent woman, and dare I say good person, King David’s advisors have kept a list of people he’s allowed to marry when the time comes. And I’m pretty sure I’m not on it.
That’s part of the reason I’m here: to make sure he’ll be a suitable husband as well as a suitable king—for someone else to marry, of course. I’m just the hired help. Which means anything he and I do together will be just for now, just until something more suitable comes along.
Now I see why he’s so resistant to propriety. Being proper is no fun at all.
“But why would we leave now?” David whines. “This is where the magic happens! I haven’t even shown you the detachable shower head yet. You would love it. The water pressure has three different settings.”
“I want to leave now, please.”
“But didn’t you see the mirror on the ceiling? If you thought the window was hot…”
That’s it. He’s gone too far.
“Your Majesty, I’m trying to do my job, and this is not helping. I want to take the time to get to know you before I outline your strategy, but in order for me to do that, I need you to stop distracting me. Do you think you can do that, or should I tell your advisors to hire someone else?”
It’s a risky move. I really want this job to work out. If I can help clean up a dirty king like David, I can help anyone.
He pouts. “Yes, I can do that. But please, call me David.”
“David,” I repeat. He softens at the sound of his name on my lips. “Now what else do you do for fun around here? I’m hoping you have some hobbies that don’t involve your dick. Otherwise, it’s going to be very difficult to come up with alternative story ideas for the media.”
“Right this way,” David says in his most cordial tone. “I can take you to the front lawn, where I go to watch the grass grow. After that, maybe we can head to the kitchen to watch the ice cubes form in the freezer.”
“That would be lovely,” I say, ignoring his sarcasm.
Following his lead, I head down the stairs and out the front door for a proper tour of his estate.
“What do you think of my properties now?” he asks after I’ve seen every inch of the manor, the surrounding guest houses, and most of the grounds.
“They’re enormous,” I tell him. “The biggest I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, you should spend more time here then. I want to show you what I plan to do with them. The tabloids are going to eat it up.”
I stand on my tiptoes and plant a soft kiss on his cheek. I think my first crisis with my new client has been safely averted. For now.
“I’m looking forward to it, David. Thank you.”
Chapter 5
David
“Shit. David, your day is packed,” Charles says to me while he rummages through some papers on a clip board.
His tone is dry, but I can tell he’s hesitant to elaborate.
“Fuck, really? What in the hell does she have me doing?”
I don’t like it when people tell me what to do, and this is the first time we’ve had to deal with a broad like Vivienne. Charles and I never had to answer to anyone or follow anyone’s fucking schedules, even though he’s the one who organizes and puts all the shit together.
I wouldn’t say that he planned my pussy rendezvous, but I also wouldn’t say that he didn’t, if you catch my drift.
He’s been my right-hand man—or assistant, whatever title suits you—since fucking forever. Or at least, since I can remember. It’s one of the reasons why he calls me David.
He’s been with me through the thick of it and never wavers, staying with me through each tragedy or bullshit circumstance. He’s a solid lad, and I trust him with my life.
But enough of that sappy shit, we apparently have shit to do.
Charles starts listing everything we have to get done today.
“Lord Frankfurt wants to meet at noon to discuss foreign diplomacy, so be ready.”
“You mean, Lord Fuckface? The man whose wife I’d like to fuck.”
“Luckily, she won’t be there. Just keep your dick in your pants—at least, for the meeting,” he jokes, feeling proud of that little dig of his.
“Ha, clever Charles. So, what else is there? Do I have to go to a fucking gala as well?”
“How’d you know?”
He grimaces and immediately looks down, trying to avoid eye contact.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“At least it’s for your Dad’s charity, Locking Hearts.”
“Uhhhhhhh fuck me!” I lean my head back on the chair. “Why did we hire this woman?!”
“Because you look like a straight up asshat, King. Unfortunately, your reputation proceeds you beyond the glossy pages of the tabloids.”
He’s fucking right. And I hate it. It pisses the fuck off me.
But now I know that something’s being done about it, hence the fucking bombshell of a woman sashaying around my manor in those tight ass dresses and five-inch stilettos. Oh, and telling me what the fuck to do.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. My advisors are fucking stupid.
If they know me at all, they should realize that they just sent a fucking lethal cocktail to an AA meeting, and I’m the fucking addict. I have no willpower when it comes to a woman like that.
I squirm in my chair, trying to hide the bulge growing at the thought of her.
“What is Vivienne doing all day?” I ask Charles, genuinely interested.
He gives me a stern look and arches his eyebrow. His curiosity is now peaked, but it’s mainly concern in his expression.
“Why do you care?”
“I’d like to know what my employee is doing. What’s it to you?”
I’m not interested in what she’s doing. Regardless of whether she’s busy or not, she’ll be going to that gala with me. It’s her fault she planned it in the first place.
“I haven’t checked with her. Should I?” Charles asks, his tone still cautious.
I stay silent for a second, thinking about how I should approach this.
She made it clear to me that we have a strictly professional relationship, which in her world, means no fucking. So, I see no reason why bringing her as a date would be a bad idea. What harm will it do?
“No. Don’t check. Just tell her she’s going to the gala with me.”
I don’t look at him directly because I feel him glare at me.
I know from experience. It’s a look that makes you think twice about a questionable decision. It’s a mixture of shock and anger, and I almost want to say fear.
Obviously, I avoid looking directly at it. Though, I do feel a little bad for him because it won’t be easy to break the news to her, that’s for damn sure.
“You’re joking, right? You’re not actually going to take her to the gala? As like a da
te or some shit?”
“Does it look like I’m joking?”
I push my hands behind my head and spread my legs out, straightening my face and removing any expression from it. It’s a common tactic of mine, spreading myself out, so my body can show off its overwhelming presence. I’m tall and broad, and I can intimidate the fuck out of anyone; it hasn’t failed me yet.
“How do you think you’re going to persuade that woman to go? She’s strict about this being only a working relationship.”
“What? This isn’t work?” I smirk at him, feeling very assured of myself.
He rolls his eyes and sits down in the chair in front of my desk.
I can tell he’s getting annoyed, but I don’t give two fucks. I pay him well, so he has to deal with my bullshit. And this is tame in comparison to what I’ve put him through.
“Go buy her a pretty dress and some nice heels. I want sky high stilettos. Oh, and make the dress slutty as fuck. I want to see every inch of that tight ass body twitch when I touch her,” I instruct him while getting distracted by the image I’m drawing up in my mind.
“You really think that’s going to work? Buy the pretty lady a dress, and she’ll just give in like that? This isn’t ‘Pretty Woman.’”
“Oh, she will. And Charles, do you really think she can resist me? I’m the King, not some rich business man. And I’ll be in a fucking tuxedo. No one in the history of man could deny that.” I wink at him.
“You’re a pompous ass.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
I place my arms on my desk and clasp my hands together as if I’m contemplating something. But there’s only one thing on my mind.
“It’ll be nice to have some arm candy for a change. I’m just hoping that I’ll be able to get a taste.”
“I thought you’re on a ‘no sugar’ diet.” He laughs, mocking me.
“Don’t be an idiot. Once we sweeten the deal with the dress and shoes, I bet you, I’ll be lathering in her juices. Possibly, even before the gala begins.”
“I’d never bet against you, but I still think you’re a fucking ass for trying. Isn’t she supposed to be fixing your image, not tarnishing it?”
“Well, she has the polish to fix it, right? That’s why she’s fucking here anyway.”
He gets up and makes his way to the door while eyeing whatever he scribbled on the piece of paper on the clipboard.
“David, she’s not a toy or a game you can just play with. She’s working for you.”
I smile, excited for the day ahead now. I can’t believe he thinks whatever he’s saying will change my mind. He’s not my fucking mother.
“I know that, Charles,” I emphasize his name in a condescending tone. “But it also never stopped me before. This is one of my favorite types of games to play. You know this.”
“Well, as your pawn piece, I’ll see to it that she has a dress and shoes ready for tonight. Wish me luck convincing her. And I hate you for this. Don’t forget about your meeting at noon.”
He leaves, slamming the door behind him.
Ugh, fuck.
Well, at least, I can distract myself with thoughts of Vivienne writhing underneath me while I expertly work her over with my tongue. It’ll be a lot better than dealing with Lord Fuckface all afternoon.
And for the time being, I’ll revel in my devious plans.
But seriously, how can you blame me for wanting to try? This game is too fucking tempting not to play.
Chapter 6
Vivienne
Knock, Knock.
I yelp, taken aback by the unexpected sound. I’m not usually this skittish, but as this is my second day on the job, and I’ve already seen the boss in a compromising position, I’m not quite sure what will be on the other side of the door.
“Who’s there?” I ask.
At least this way, I’ll know who to prepare for.
“Charles. Can I come in?”
“Uhh, sure. One second.”
I quickly tidy my desk before unlocking the door.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I see Charles, and not David and his twelve-inch dick; though a small part of me wishes it was him. I know it’s wrong, but it’s the truth.
I’ll never be able to unsee what I walked in on yesterday. Not to mention, I replayed it all last night while using my favorite vibrator. As you might be able to tell, that tactic doesn’t work as well I thought it would.
I still fucking want him.
I open the door, and Charles pushes me aside with two large boxes in hand: one that’s unmarked, and another with the Louboutin label.
Oh, God. What the fuck is this?
“Go shopping today, did you?” I cock my head, wondering why he’s bringing me this delivery.
“I did. All courtesy of the King.” He puts the boxes down on my desk and continues, “And it’s for you.”
I’m not quite sure what my face did in reaction to that last bit of information, but all I’m certain of is that I’m shocked, pissed, and so damn confused.
“Excuse me?” Maybe I didn’t hear him right, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Forgive me, I should explain.” Charles shakes his head, and I see cracks start to form in his demeanor.
“Please, explain. Why is David buying me clothes?” I put my hands on my hips, my patience growing very fucking thin. “I don’t have all day, Charles.” I push him.
“The King requests your company tonight at the gala. He wasn’t sure if you would have anything to wear, given you’ve only just moved in, so we’ve arranged for a new dress and shoes,” Charles explains. He waves his hands over the boxes like some magician showing his tricks.
This is definitely a trick, though it’s not Charles doing it—it’s David. He’s the mastermind who orchestrated this whole damn thing.
“David is supposed to attend that gala alone. It’s in his father’s honor, and it’ll show his empathy towards the cause. Having me there will only be a distraction for him and, most importantly, for the media,” I try to explain to him as best I could.
But his big brown puppy eyes stare at me and blink rapidly. He tilts his head and almost looks sad. “I don’t quite understand what you’re saying.”
Ugh, seriously. I am not that gullible.
“Long story short, Charles, I’m not going with David tonight. You can return that dress and those shoes. And tell him that I kindly decline.”
“No, no, no, no.” He shakes his head, and his once naïve and sweet demeanor turns stern and cold. “That won’t do, Ms. Taylor. You will be attending the gala with the King tonight.”
Ah! There’s the guard dog’s bite.
“No, Charles.” I repeat, slower this time. “I will not be attending the gala. It is for him to attend, and for him to attend alone.”
I swear, men never listen.
“Here’s the thing, Vivienne,” he continues, his hand on his hip. “David will not take no for an answer. Trust me.”
This poor man, he’s so whipped by David, it’s almost sad. But I think he might also enjoy it. I need to get a better read on him.
He goes over to where he placed the boxes and starts unwrapping them.
“Please, just take a look at what I got you. Maybe this will change your mind,” he pleads.
“I doubt it,” I say, moving closer to him and the bribes.
I can’t help but feel a little giddy at the idea that David wants to take me to the gala, even getting me a dress and Louboutin’s for the occasion. Every teenage dream of mine is coming true right before my eyes.
The mere thought of him standing before me, inches away from my touch, in a tuxedo—a fucking tuxedo—has me dripping wet and screaming, “Yes, yes, yes!”
But I contain my excitement for two reasons. One, Charles shall never see me act like a little girl who once dreamt of David and fairytales. He’ll run straight to his boss and tell him everything, and I’m sure I’ll be out on my ass quicker than I can say “Lou
boutin.”
Second, because, again, falling for this shit will ruin me.
My whole career will blow up in my face, and there’ll be nothing to save me from that demise. How can you come back from fucking up a King’s reputation? Or in this case, not fixing it at all?
Oh. My. God.
Charles pulls out a long, red strapless satin gown.
I’m in awe; it’s breathtaking. But I only drink it in with my eyes. I’m too afraid to touch it, because, who knows, I might fall under its spell.
“I’m impressed, Charles. You picked this out yourself?” I ask.
“I had some guidance. But, yeah, mostly me. It’s Alexander McQueen, and it has off-the-shoulder sleeves and a cleverly hidden slit in the front. For modesty purposes.”
He shows me this extra flare like he’s a designer on “Project Runway.” “But the best part of the outfit are the shoes.” He hands me the dress to hold. I keep it at arms-length, treating it like it’s a bomb seconds away from destroying me.
“These sparkly numbers…” He pulls the Louboutin’s out of the box, and they shimmer delicately in the soft hue from my overhead light.
I discard the dress on the desk and reach for the shoes, completely mesmerized by their beauty.
“Oh, my God. They’re beautiful.”
“And they’ll perfectly compliment David’s attire tonight.”
And, like that, the magician snapped his fingers and broke the spell. This can’t happen. I almost gave in.
“Nope. I can’t accept these.”
I push the shoes back into Charles’ arms, discarding them like trash. It hurts me to treat such beautiful shoes like that, but I can’t let myself be enamored by their charms.
“You’ve got be kidding me!” he whines.
“You shouldn’t have wasted your time getting me these—these clothes. And the fact that David would just assume I would give into his demands because he threw some sparkly shit at me is frankly fucking offensive.”
Of course, there’s no way in hell I’d tell him the truth.
“You’re really saying no to Alexander MacQueen, Christian Louboutin, and King David Lockridge?”
It sounds crazy, right? Saying no to these three amazing men is like denying yourself. I don’t even fucking know because I doubt anyone has ever done it—it’s voluntary torture!
