Savage Prince

by Meghan March

  Savage Prince

  An Anti-Heroes Collection Novel

  Meghan March

  Contents

  Savage Prince

  Don’t miss out!

  Also by Meghan March

  About This Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Preview of Ruthless King

  About the Author

  Also by Meghan March

  Savage Prince

  Book One of the Savage Trilogy

  * * *

  Meghan March

  Copyright © 2018 by Meghan March LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Editor: Pam Berehulke

  Bulletproof Editing

  www.bulletproofediting.com

  Cover design: @ Letitia Hassar

  R.B.A. Designs

  www.rbadesigns.com

  Cover photo: @ Weston Carls

  www.westoncarls.com

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.

  Created with Vellum

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  * * *

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  * * *

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  Also by Meghan March

  Savage Trilogy

  Savage Prince

  Iron Princess

  Rogue Royalty

  * * *

  Mount trilogy:

  Ruthless King

  Defiant Queen

  Sinful Empire

  * * *

  Standalone:

  Take Me Back

  Bad Judgment

  Beneath Series:

  Beneath This Mask

  Beneath This Ink

  Beneath These Chains

  Beneath These Scars

  Beneath These Lies

  Beneath These Shadows

  Beneath The Truth

  * * *

  Flash Bang Series:

  Flash Bang

  Hard Charger

  * * *

  Dirty Billionaire Trilogy:

  Dirty Billionaire

  Dirty Pleasures

  Dirty Together

  * * *

  Dirty Girl Duet:

  Dirty Girl

  Dirty Love

  * * *

  Real Duet:

  Real Good Man

  Real Good Love

  * * *

  Real Dirty Duet:

  Real Dirty

  Real Sexy

  About This Book

  Who knew things could get even darker and dirtier in New Orleans? New York Times bestselling author Meghan March introduces the Savage Prince of the city, the man you never want to meet.

  * * *

  I do what I want and who I want. I don’t follow anyone’s rules—even my own.

  I knew I shouldn’t touch her, but it didn’t stop me. Didn’t stop me the second time either. Only made me want a third.

  My lifestyle suits the savage I am, and she doesn’t.

  But Temperance Ransom is my newest addiction, and I’m nowhere near ready to quit her yet.

  I’ll have her my way, even if it means dragging her into the darkness.

  Hopefully, it doesn’t kill us both.

  * * *

  Savage Prince is the first book of the Savage Trilogy, set in the same world as Ruthless King; however, you do not need to read the Mount Trilogy to devour this scandalously hot story.

  Chapter 1

  Temperance

  Why is he wearing a mask?

  Instinctively, I take a step back as the heavy door swings open, revealing the rest of the doorman’s tall body and the other half of the ornate red-and-black leather mask obscuring his face.

  It’s not Mardi Gras season anymore, and this antebellum mansion is dozens of miles away from Bourbon Street, where spirits are high and revelry is in full swing, no matter the time of year.

  Louisiana, you’re beautiful, but you’re also creepy as hell at night sometimes.

  The doorman gestures for me to enter, and I hesitate on the threshold for one final beat, clutching my bag to my side before stepping through the archway. He closes the massive wooden door behind me with a decisive thud and throws a long bolt.

  I’m locked in. What did I get myself into?

  Chills skate over my skin, and my blazer does little to stop the shiver working through me.

  This is not a haunted house. Or a dungeon. It’s a potential customer. I tell my overactive imagination to calm down but blood pounds in my ears, competing with the slow, rhythmic, and visceral beat of the bass coming from somewhere inside.

  The sprawling plantation house reminds me of something out of a movie, especially with its massive trees dangling their moss over the banks of the bayou. Mansions and their expensive everything make me more nervous than the gators lurking in that murky water.

  My senses shift into high gear as I scan the polished wooden planks of the floor, covered by thick rugs that probably cost more than I make in a year. The muted glow of gaslight sconces adds to the otherworldly feel—at complete odds with the throbbing beat of the club music.

  For the dozenth time, I wish I did more research before I showed up for this meeting, but I’ve been so busy, I can barely manage to shovel three bites of food into my mouth for lunch.

  It’s worth it, I remind myself. I have a respectable job now. There’s no mud on the bottom of my shoes to track inside these days.

  Even though I know I’m in the right place, my polished designer knock-off pumps itch to beat a path to the door and out to my car . . . except it’s not there, because the overly efficient valet drove it away before the front door even opened.

  I swallow back a lump of unease but straighten my shoulders and turn my attention to the doorman, who seems to be waiting for me to compose myself.

  When I meet his hoode
d stare, he doesn’t speak. I hold out the note that showed up on my desk at Seven Sinners. He takes it from me and glances at the printed text, but still says nothing.

  “I’m supposed to meet someone?” I hate that my voice sounds like I’m asking a question rather than making a statement. I shake off the unease and find my assertive tone. “I’m here to meet someone for a business discussion. Can you please direct me to the office?”

  The doorman gestures to the opulent staircase before me with the card before offering it back.

  My sweaty palms leave smudges on the edges as I snatch it from his grip. I should have known from that fancy cream linen paper that this wouldn’t be like the normal bars and clubs I’ve visited to hawk Seven Sinners Whiskey.

  “Thank you.” I give him a nod, and once again get zero verbal response. This place is bizarre. Time to get in and get out.

  Attempting to look unaffected, I stride toward the red-and-gold runner climbing up the stairs.

  I’m just here to sell whiskey. All the whiskey.

  The treads beneath the soles of my shoes vibrate more with each step I take. As I round the curve of the staircase, I find another masked man waiting for me at the top.

  I offer him my invitation and stare over his shoulder at the light spilling out from beneath a set of closed double doors.

  There. That has to be the club. See, nothing different about this place after all.

  Except there is, and I don’t know if it’s my overactive imagination, but I swear I can smell sex in the air. Images of all the things that can possibly be happening behind those doors assail my brain. I force my attention back to the man for direction.

  He jerks his head to the side and starts down a wide gold-and-white-striped corridor, away from the doors. He pauses at the corner as though waiting for me to follow him, and I uproot my feet from the floor and stumble forward to catch up with my bag smacking my hip. Instead of leading me farther down the corridor, he steps out of the way to reveal another set of curving stairs and points upward.

  Seriously? I thought this was a business meeting, not punishment for missing my date with the gym for the last six months.

  My arches cramp in protest as I smooth down my skirt, reset my bag, and climb to the top, but at least this discomfort takes my mind off the peculiar feel of this place.

  I’m going to have to sell a ton of whiskey to make this trip worth it.

  When I hit the next landing, there’s a third man, this one the size of a linebacker, wearing a matching mask.

  Where the hell is everyone else? What kind of club has silent doormen and no tipsy patrons stumbling back and forth to the restroom?

  I don’t have time to ask either of those questions before masked man number three reads the words on the card I hold out and leads me down a hallway to what I assume must be the manager’s office. At least, I hope like hell it is.

  An ornate door with an antique brass knob awaits at the end, and he pushes it open and gestures for me to enter with a meaty hand.

  I pin my most professional smile on my face and take a deep breath, ready to charm whoever awaits me inside into buying more whiskey than they plan.

  With a confident stride, I make my way inside.

  “Hi! I’m Temperance—” I trail off when I realize the chair behind the desk, dimly lit by a simple banker’s lamp, is empty.

  A quick scan of the rest of the dark room reveals no signs of life.

  What the hell?

  “Okay, then.” I clear my throat, poised to turn around and get the hell out of this place, when a light flickering to life distracts me.

  But it’s not a light in the office where I’ve been shown, but a light in the room next door. A room that I can apparently view through what appears to be a two-way mirror.

  Am I really seeing this?

  And by this, I mean a monstrous iron-and-wood four-poster bed draped with black silk sheets . . . and restraints.

  A bedroom. A kinky bedroom.

  Holy hell.

  I stumble back a step, reaching for the doorknob, but my gaze fixes on the black mask of the woman entering the bedroom and the heavily muscled shirtless man with his palm on the small of her back.

  This isn’t just any trendy secret club interested in adding top-notch whiskey to their shelves.

  It’s a sex club.

  I should be horrified. Running screaming in the opposite direction and out to my car. But instead, I’m rooted to the floor.

  I have a front-row seat to one of my dirtiest fantasies. A fantasy I finally got up the nerve to try to fulfill a few months ago, because Lord knows I don’t have time to have a relationship, but my search for a non-sketchy sex club in New Orleans fell flat. Google sure as hell didn’t have this one on the map, and neither did any of the forums or blog posts I read.

  A real underground sex club.

  A tingle of excitement, like I’ve just discovered a secret key to another world, shoots through me as the man shuts the door to their room and slowly circles the woman before pushing her to her knees with one dominant hand on each shoulder. He has the look of a conqueror inspecting his war prize, complete with tribal ink marking his chest and upper arms, and dark leather pants. It’s hot as hell.

  The rational part of my brain says I should look away, not invade their private scene, but I glance quickly at the door I entered through. No one is bursting in to tell me it’s some kind of mistake that I was led here.

  The woman, dressed in red lingerie, keeps her gaze downcast, but I’m not nearly as disciplined. I can’t take my eyes off her companion as his ass flexes against the leathers.

  When he stops in front of her, he releases her shoulder and buries one hand in her honey-blond hair, gripping her at the base of her neck, forcing her attention to his face.

  They are completely and utterly absorbed with each other, and neither of them spares even a glance at the wall that serves as my voyeuristic porthole. Do they know? They must.

  His voice somehow comes loud and clear into this room. “You wanted my attention down there, little girl. You’ve got it all now.”

  My heart thumps harder as he reaches for the flap of his leathers with his other hand and yanks it open, freeing his heavy cock.

  I bite down on my lower lip to stifle the hushed oh my God dying to break free. The sting from my teeth serves as a reminder that this isn’t one of my dreams.

  This is real.

  My conscience wars with me, telling me to turn away. Go back down the stairs. Run out the front door. Find my car and get the hell out of here.

  But that and any other thought of business dies away as he wraps one palm around his thick cock and gives it a rough tug before thumbing the tip. The ruddy reddish-purple shaft seems to pulse against his grip, and my lip trembles as my thighs clench.

  Why is it so frigging hot to see a man handle himself like that?

  Using his grip on her hair, he guides her lips toward the head.

  Sweet Lord. I shouldn’t be turned on by this. But my sweaty palms and the thumping pulse that has taken up residence between my legs expose my lie.

  This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in person.

  “You want this? Is that why you’ve been acting like a little brat?” His words are muted, like the sound is being piped into the office through speakers, or maybe it’s because the blood roaring through my head is drowning out normal sound. Either way, his gruff, deep voice drags over my senses, making goose bumps rise across my skin.

  “Yes, sir.” The woman’s chin bounces as she licks her lips.

  He drags her face an inch closer to his cock. “Show me how much.”

  My nipples pebble against my bra at his rough order. Heat, completely inappropriate fiery heat, streaks through me as one of the woman’s hands dives between her legs.

  “You don’t get to touch yourself until I tell you to. I’ll turn that ass of yours red before you finger that wet little cunt.”

  I squeeze my thighs together like
he’s somehow threatening me. Ordering me. Dominating me.

  And I wish he were.

  “I want your hands on my legs. I’m going to fuck your face. Remind you who owns these lips.”

  A quiet moan echoes through the room, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure it came from her and not me. Okay, ninety percent sure.

  I squirm, my chest rising and falling faster as she rests her palms on his muscled thighs and he feeds his cock into her mouth inch by inch.

  Oh my God. I can’t watch. I shouldn’t watch. I’m not a dirty little thing who likes to watch. I’m not. Really. I’m not.

  But I’m a filthy liar, because none of the words I use to berate myself make me tear my gaze away from the most erotic scene I’ve ever seen play out.

  He shifts his grip, using one hand to cup her chin and tilt her head to the angle of his liking as he powers deeper inside, more of his rock-hard shaft disappearing with each thrust.