Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  “About what?”

  My eyes fly open. Did I really speak that thought aloud? “What?”

  “What do you have no idea about?”

  Guess I did. I stall for a minute, considering several responses before finally going with the truth. A novel idea. “What just happened between us. It’s never been quite like that before. At least, not for me.”

  Tristan offers a tender smile, his eyes half-lidded and kind as he swipes his thumb across my cheekbone. I blink, waiting for him to say something, anything. Instead his fingers curve into my neck and he pulls me forward for a kiss. “You made a good call, heading upstairs.”

  “I didn’t think you’d follow me.” In truth, Tristan had nothing to do with my hasty exit from the ballroom. “Kyle must be fuming. He’s got to realize we’re somewhere together.”

  Tristan chuckles. “I’m pretty sure Kyle is the last man I want you thinking about right now.”

  I run a fingertip along his well-defined bicep. “And just what do you want me to think about?”

  “Round two.”

  Though it shouldn’t be possible, a fresh wave of arousal breaks over me. I hook an ankle over his muscled thigh. “Already?”

  He shifts toward me. My breasts brush against his chest, nipples tightening in response. Evidence of his desire prods at my belly. “I hope you weren’t expecting a good night’s sleep.”

  Since the day I met Tristan, all of my expectations have fallen by the wayside. “And what if I was?”

  “I guess I would have to apologize for disappointing, and redouble my efforts to make it up to you.”

  Well, in that case . . . “Then I guess you should know I’m very, very disappointed.”

  I catch the flash of a smile, bright white even in the semi-darkness, and then Tristan turns my body away from his. My head lands softly on his arm, his bulk curving around me from behind. His palm skims my skin, from my ribcage to my hip, moving lower. My head rolls back against his shoulder, breath catching on a sigh as his knee nudges between my legs, lifting my thigh up just enough that he has unrestricted access to the already pulsing bundle of nerves at my core.

  In Tristan’s arms, my body is loose and malleable. His to control. He nuzzles my neck, whispering sweet, nonsensical things that dance on centipede legs up and down my spine. He could be reciting the Constitution for all I know, my mind can only interpret so much. The only language I’m capable of understanding is spoken by Tristan’s fingers, his lips, his ridiculously skilled tongue. I cry out softly, then louder, more insistently, until Tristan is sheathed inside me once more. He claims me, again, relentlessly thrusting to new depths. I feel myself stretching to accommodate his size, hear a voice I don’t even recognize as mine begging for more. He gives and I take. All of him.

  My hands grip the sheet, crumpling it within my fists as a storm rages inside me. “Tristan . . . God . . . Fuck . . . Please . . .” My words are little more than grunts, barely intelligible, ripped from my throat as I shudder against him. Tristan gives a strangled yell, then holds me tight to his chest as he jerks inside me.

  “Fuck.” Tristan tips his head forward, resting his forehead on my shoulder. “I didn’t put on a condom.”

  I suck in a breath. A shiver, not the good kind, races down my spine. “Oh.”

  “Are you . . . ?”

  “On the pill? Yes. And no, I haven’t been with anyone in a while.” Almost a year. “I’m . . . clean.” I close my eyes, a blush heating my cheeks. Why does that sound so dirty?

  I’m not on birth control to prevent pregnancy. My period has always been irregular. Sometimes it shows up after three weeks, sometimes not for three months. My doctor suggested going on the pill at my last appointment, and I agreed purely for planning purposes. Standing up in a meeting with an unsightly blotch on my pants is a prospect I’ll gladly avoid.

  But tonight I’m even more grateful for my choice. I am the product of an unplanned pregnancy. And in my case, unplanned was code for unwanted. I will never, ever do that to another child. Lying within the warm embrace of Tristan’s arms, I’m relieved not to add the stress of a pregnancy scare to either of our lives.

  But there’s more to unsafe sex than the risk of pregnancy. I’ve never been so irresponsible, so careless. “Are you?”

  Tristan

  What was I thinking? Dumb question, of course. I’m not thinking, not when it comes to Reina. But this is a new low. I’ve always used a condom. Always. “Yes, of course. Riding bareback isn’t exactly on my list of acceptable risks.” But damn, it felt good to be inside Reina without any barrier, no matter how thin, between us. Even now, I can’t bear to pull out of her.

  “Okay, that’s good. It’s not on mine either.”

  When your last name is Bettencourt, a talk about the birds and the bees comes in the same breath as birth control. Not long after waking up in sticky sheets, I was taught that my sperm might as well be pellets of gold. That there are girls who will do anything to have a Bettencourt growing in their belly.

  One of them is now my stepmother. Not that my father ever said it in so many words. But he doesn’t have to. I was young when my mother died, although not so young that I don’t remember their easy way with one another, the excited squeal—from both of us—that always accompanied my father’s arrival home from work. More slideshow than movie, I can replay certain moments of the life we once shared inside my mind.

  Holding her hand as I walked into my first day of kindergarten. Our last Christmas together. Dance parties in the kitchen while we waited for cookies to bake. Falling asleep to the sound of her singing “Star Light, Star Bright.”

  When my mother was alive, our home had been filled with joy and laughter, and I always felt safe and loved. But everything changed after her death, including my relationship with my father. He dealt with his grief by throwing himself into work. I was handed off to a series of nannies. For years, there was a detachment to the way he looked at me. Only when I was in my teens, around the time the twins were born, did that wall begin to crumble. I was pretty resentful of them at first, but then they grew on me, too. I couldn’t stay mad at two toddlers who wrapped themselves around my legs the moment I walked in the door and planted wet, sloppy kisses on my cheeks every chance they got.

  The twins are definitely the best part of my father’s marriage to Claudia, which is nothing at all like the marriage he had with my mother. Claudia doesn’t squeal when my father walks through the door, and while I don’t recall any heated arguments or slammed doors, their kisses are more perfunctory than passionate. Her face lights up at the sight of diamonds, not the sound of the front door opening. A pregnancy was Claudia’s ticket into the big leagues, a new life as Mrs. Tristan James Xavier Bettencourt III.

  And now here I am, my cock still sheathed within Reina, no barrier between my semen and her womb. Just a pill and a promise.

  Can I trust her? Should I?

  And why didn’t Reina throw the flag before I entered the field? Did I just give her what she’s really wanted all along?

  Not that a condom guarantees shit.

  When I was working in Bettencourt’s Paris office, I started dating Elise, a fellow American studying at the Sorbonne. After a few months, Elise announced that she was pregnant. I simply assumed that a condom must have broken. And because I also assumed we were in a monogamous relationship, I believed the baby was mine.

  That old saying—never assume because it makes an ass out of u and me—is painfully true.

  I didn’t see that Elise had no ambition of her own beyond landing a rich husband and using his money to become a player on the international art scene. When a classmate of hers showed up at my office, begging me to leave the mother of his unborn child alone, I was on the verge of proposing. I’d already been to the doctor with Elise, had stared open-mouthed at the grainy, gray and white image of what I believed to be the next generation of Bettencourts.

  I was this close to marrying a woman I didn’t love and who defini
tely didn’t love me, and raising another man’s child. But I was granted a reprieve, and it seems to me that the nursery rhyme I learned in preschool might have gotten it right. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes . . . you get the idea.

  Except that I seem to have gotten involved with a woman who is as cynical about love as anyone I’ve ever met.

  It should be a point in her favor. Proof that we’re on the same page.

  And yet, somehow, it isn’t.

  I release a confused breath, pulling Reina’s warmth into me, breathing in her sweet scent. What the hell, just add it to the ever-growing list of confusing questions I don’t have answers to. Reina has marked me as surely as a bolt of lightning, and the chasm between my life now and the one I had before is growing.

  I’m torn. Being inside Reina without a condom, I felt every single quiver as she climaxed. It wasn’t long ago that Reina proclaimed she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend or a husband. Wanting a baby seems like a stretch. But then again, Elise didn’t seem to possess a burning desire to become a soccer mom either. For all I know, she and her beret-wearing Frenchman are sharing a family bed with a pack of rugrats in a Parisian garret right now.

  But Reina isn’t Elise. And either I’m the world’s biggest sucker, or I can trust her. I groan at the thought of pulling out. To hell with it. Go big or go home.

  “Now that we’ve done it, and we’re both clean, and we’re not doing this with anyone else . . .” I hesitate. “Right?”

  She tenses in my arms. “Are you really asking if I’m planning on having unprotected sex with someone else while you’re still inside of me?”

  My muscles automatically mimic her wary stance. “Actually no, as far as I’m concerned, we covered that already. I’m asking if you’re willing to be responsible for birth control going forward. If you’re not, then,” I give a nudge with my hips, “this can’t happen again.”

  Reina’s soft giggle floats my way, and she pushes her hips back at me. “This?”

  Incredibly, I feel myself hardening inside her once more. “Reina, this is definitely happening again.” I pull out just slightly, savoring her breathy moan when I push back in again. The bewitching sound must be the reason I don’t reach for a condom. Has to be. “We should really decide if we’re going to play in the rain without an umbrella.”

  She rocks her hips in time with mine, offering an answer that takes me by surprise. “For now.”

  I bite down on her shoulder, slightly harder than I’d planned, although the quickening of her breath assures me she doesn’t mind. “What do you mean?”

  “This can’t continue after we get back to New York. It’s too risky. Plus, we need to find you a suitable wife-to-be. Someone who will burnish your image as a responsible, brilliant, squeaky-clean investment manager.”

  I nearly choke. “Were you not listening to me last night? I won’t get married for the sake of appearances.”

  Her hand curves into mine. “Oh, I heard you. But an engagement—”

  “A fake engagement?”

  “Why not? It would get BettencourtBets off your back. And stop Wendy Whitaker from implying that you’re just a Penthouse Player—playing around with a few hundred million for shits and giggles.”

  We’re both moving now, our conversation growing more ridiculous with each thrust. “Fuck Whitaker. My returns speak for themselves.”

  “No. They don’t,” Reina pants. “She’s speaking for you, and so is whoever is behind BettencourtBets. It’s time for you to hijack the conversation.”

  “And you think a Park Avenue Princess is the answer?” My thrusts are hard, angry. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Reina groans, in pleasure, I hope. “Yes, damn you. I do. Get your personal life above board so investors can focus on your business. . . . mmmmm . . . successes.”

  I scoop Reina up by her waist and settle her onto her knees without missing a beat. “Once we get back to New York, we’ll figure things out. Sneaking around isn’t my thing.” Of course, neither is unprotected sex or serious relationships. But Reina is different than any woman I’ve ever met, and cheapening what we had by only seeing her behind closed doors, limiting our contact to office exchanges and booty calls . . . It just feels wrong.

  Her shout of laughter fizzles as I lean forward and cup her breasts in my hands, rolling her nipples between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Let’s just make the most of our time away,” she says.

  Great, a noncommittal commitment. Reading between the lines, I know what she’s implying—that this is temporary, a fling. A damn showmance. And maybe it is—for her. But not for me. I’ve always played offense, but Reina is pushing me back against the goal. How can I convince her that we have something special, something worth fighting for, if she doesn’t believe it too?

  But as long as I’m in the game, I play to win. “You know it’s not going to be enough, don’t you?”

  I interpret her hiss as a yes.

  Reina

  My phone buzzes just as I set down the blow dryer. One minute earlier and I might not have heard it, and unfortunately it’s halfway to my ear before I glance at the name on the screen. I should have sent it to voicemail.

  My mother’s calls are always an ordeal, and usually leave me feeling ambushed. A few hours ago I was safely cocooned within Tristan’s arms, but now I’m back in my hotel room, bathroom actually, wrapped only in a towel. The woman who left me without a second thought and what seems like no regrets is the last person I want to talk to right now.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”

  I grimace at the term of endearment she casually throws my way. This is how it’s been since the day she walked out of my life and into Van Horne’s. Lots of darlings and sweethearts, too few hugs and kisses. She didn’t take me to pick out a prom dress, or help me settle into my college dorm. I’ve never been invited to any of the homes she shares with Van Horne, although I’ve seen all of them in the pages of Architectural Digest, Elle Decor, or various aspirational websites that gush over the tiniest detail. And she doesn’t call at all if he is nearby.

  “I’m good, great. Just working a lot. The fund I’m assigned to is opening up to new investors soon and so things are really crazy. I’m learning so much though. Megan, she’s the woman who basically manages our training class, she’s been fantastic. Always checking in with me, making sure I’m feeling like I’m really a part of the team here. And Kyle, that’s my former professor, remember? He said . . .”

  I babble on for a few more minutes before finishing with, “. . . So I really need to get going. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  I ignore her. She probably would have preferred I graduate from school with an MRS rather than an actual degree. But as far as I’m concerned, she’s forfeited the right to criticize my choices, any of them.

  “Wall Street never rests,” I reply. And maybe because of last night, because I ran away from her and Gerald like a coward, I don’t hang up. I ask, “How about you? What are you doing today?”

  There’s a pause, and I can hear surprise in her voice when she replies, “Actually, I’m in San Francisco right now.”

  “Visiting more friends?” Like an entire ballroom of people sucking up to you in the hopes of getting into your husband’s good graces? These days, I’m not even on my mother’s Christmas card list, but because of Van Horne, she’ll never be short of friends.

  “Something like that.” Her voice is light, casual. I picture her sitting on a settee with a cup of tea at her side, half a dozen spa brochures spread out in front of her, idly deciding between a full body massage with hot stones and eucalyptus oil or an ionized mud wrap with aromatherapy treatment. “But the weather is lovely today, and I can see the Golden Gate Bridge from my window. I might walk around a bit, do some shopping.”

  I poke my head out of the bathroom, my eyes immediately landing on the iconic arches and cables suspended over the Ba
y like a vermillion necklace forged from steel. “How nice. What hotel are you staying in?” Goose bumps race along my forearms as I wait for her answer.

  The name she mentions barely registers with me, it could have been Alcatraz. All that matters is that it’s not the one I’m in. Relieved, I sag against the marble-tiled wall. “Okay, Mom. Enjoy your day. Safe flight home.”

  “Actually, before you go,” she says in a rush, before I can end the call. “I was thinking . . .”

  The silence drags out so long I check the screen to make sure we’re still connected. We are, the digital clock logging each second. I finally repeat her own words back to her. “You were thinking . . .”

  “Yes, sorry. I was thinking . . .” Another pause and I squeeze a dollop of moisturizer in my hands, rubbing it into my skin. “When I get back to New York, do you think— Could we— Would you like to get together for dinner?” When I don’t answer, she continues. “I know you were always so busy with school, but maybe now you have more free time . . .?”

  I frown, trying to process this strange conversation. It’s almost like she’s saying we haven’t spent time together because I didn’t want to. But that’s just not true.

  I think back, mentally ticking through our past calls like an old-fashioned rolodex. Pulling out each notecard and examining it for clues before flipping to the next one. Have I been too quick to tell her everything I’m doing, filling every call with my classes and my tests and my friends and . . . And then rushing to get off the phone because my life is so full and busy, busy, busy.

  So busy I don’t have time to hear about her life. So full I don’t need her at all.

  I don’t need anyone.

  Maybe when I get back, we—

  Our last call, the thought I didn’t let her finish. How many times has she tried to say something like that before? How many times have I stopped her?

  I swallow now, resisting the trajectory of my own thoughts. No. She’s my mother, she should have seen through my act. Should have known what I was doing, why I was doing it.