by Kim Karr
Less than thirty minutes later, I’m tucking my head low and taking the offramp to wind us down Shore Boulevard in Brooklyn.
She squeezes my ribcage when we slow and the smile that lifts one side of my mouth is unstoppable.
The fact that we haven’t even known each other twenty-four hours or that she doesn’t know who I am doesn’t bother me at all when we’re like this.
That feeling of anonymity is such a high.
The air carries a salty whiff of high tide and blue hyacinth, and something unknown. Eager to discover what that is, I hold the handlebars with one hand and cover her clenched fingers with the other. “Are you okay back there?” I shout as I slow and lean into the turn.
“I’m great,” Gigi yells over the quailing wind. “But where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” I tell her.
Not much longer and we’ve reached our destination. When I have both of my boots on the ground, I climb off the bike and almost effortlessly, Gigi follows. With her full helmet still on, she looks around and then her gaze lands on the giant sign that reads, “Coney Island.”
“And there it is.” I point to the still running famous Wonder Wheel.
“I can’t believe you brought me here,” she says, scanning every inch of the busy park from the wooden boardwalk to the sand beach to the roller coaster until her eyes land back on the bright red Ferris Wheel with a glimmer in them.
I shrug, not exactly knowing what to say other than I wanted to do something nice for her.
“Wow, it’s really tall.”
“Forty-six meters.”
Her laugh catches me in her spell. “You are so English. How many feet is that?”
I don’t correct her although I should. I’m not English, I just went to University in London. Oxford. “One hundred and fifty. Equivalent to a fifteen-story building,” I tell her.
“That’s crazy.” She looks around some more and then her gaze lands on mine. “I can’t believe I’m here and that I got here on the back of a motorcycle.”
Removing my helmet, I nod. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to have to take the train to get all the way out here,” I mock.
She sticks her tongue out at me, and I want to capture it between my teeth and suck it into my mouth, feel it on my body, licking my cock.
Moving closer to her, I push those thoughts aside for now and watch as she unclasps her helmet from her chin. “The fact that you own a motorcycle is what surprises me, but I have to say, you bringing me here shocks me.”
“Oh, yeah, why? Stiff dicks like me don’t know how to have fun?”
Shaking her long honey blonde hair free, she looks around. “For the record, I did not say that. You did. It’s just, I took you for more of a Hamptons kind of guy. The lobster eating kind, bib and all. I didn’t peg you for the amusement park, hot dog eating type.”
I strap the two helmets on the handlebars. “You know what they say?”
“No, I don’t.”
With a grin, I tell her, “If Paris is France, then Coney Island is the world, and who doesn’t want to see the world?”
Laughter rings from between her sweet lips. “Coney Island is the world?” she mocks, unzipping her snug black leather jacket. “I doubt that but it certainly looks like fun.”
Fun.
I’m not sure I’ve used that word to describe anything in a very long time.
“Hey, I read it on the Internet last night, so it must be true,” I tell her in jest.
Again, she sticks her tongue out. “Google, I hope.”
“Yeah, Google,” I laugh. “It gave all kinds of useless information like the original name was Rabbit Island.”
Her brows furrow. “That’s so random.”
“No, I guess it wasn’t at the time. There was a huge population of rabbits here at one time.”
“Okay, that’s so very unoriginal.”
“That, I’ll give you. And did you know Coney Island is home to the United States’ first roller coaster?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then there’s the fact that more people eat hot dogs here than anywhere else in the world, and because of that there tends to be sewer issues.”
“I’m not sure I really needed to know that.”
“Hey, I had to do something last night to take my mind off what I wanted to do and should have been doing with you.”
She laughs. “Yeah, sorry about that. My brother can be a bit much. He and my niece left this morning to go back to Texas. Do you have siblings?”
“Yes. One older brother.”
“Does he boss you around?”
That’s funny. He’s to be King—a born ruler. Of course, he bossed me around. “When we were younger, he did like to tell me what to do, and now that I think about it, I guess he still does.”
““See, then you know what it’s like. Are you friends?”
I nod. “He’s probably my best friend.”
Putting on an oversized pair of sunglasses, she looks like a Grace Kelly movie star. “What’s his name?”
“Leo,” I tell her.
“Leo and Max. That’s nice and simple.”
No, not really. Leopold and Maximus are anything but simple names. They are names our parents expect us to live up to. Warrior names. Blue-blooded names. Names of the crown.
She’s still talking. “Nothing like the mouthful my brother and I are. Dimitri Alexander Gatsby and Gianna Natalia Gatsby. Dima and Gigi for short.”
Grinning at her, I’m unable to resist her mouth a second longer. Hooking my thumb under her chin, I pull her in for a kiss. Her lips are soft and taste so good. When the urge for more, which I know I can’t have here hits, I lean back. Breathless, she beams up at me, and when she does the oddest feeling rises up in my chest. I have no idea what it is.
Happiness?
Satisfaction?
Something else?
Something more?
Without thinking, I lower my sunglasses, so I can see her better.
Her hands fly up. One takes my Raybans and the other gently touches my right eye. “What happened?” she asks.
Damn, I forgot about my scuffle with the paparazzi and the blackeye I’m sporting. At least those tiffs are only big news back in the Vespa Isles. Here, you’d have to read the rag mags to discover what those rats without tails have to say. Still, she’ll find out soon enough. Just not yet. “Nothing to worry about. A fire escape mishap. I’m fine.”
“From last night? Oh, no. Now I feel really bad. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Retrieving my shades, I slide them back up my nose and then gaze down at her through my lens. “I’m certain.”
She stares at me with concern on her face for way too many seconds.
“Are you ready?” I ask, ready to move past the subject.
“Yes. I absolutely am.”
“Good.” I take her hand. “Let’s do this thing.”
Excited, she squeezes it. “Yes. It’s time to have some fun,” she tells me, grinning so wide.
Fun.
She is definitely my kind of fun.
PUT YOUR HANDS UP
The attendant waves us forward, and we sit in the cart with our thighs pressed side-by-side and buckle ourselves in tight.
As if the Cyclone, the mother of all American roller coasters, isn’t enough exhilaration, the heat and friction with his body so close to mine practically electrifies me.
After five times on the Ferris Wheel, three rounds on the bumper cars, a Nathan’s hot dog, and both cotton candy and peanuts, we’ve officially done Coney Island.
Possibly before puking but definitely before leaving and heading back to reality and the fate that awaits us—him officially becoming my boss tomorrow—we’re finally riding the Cyclone.
Slowly, we rise to the top, gripping the bar tightly with our hands touching on the metal.
The view of the park is fantastic from up here and even more amazing of Max.
The stiff, arrogant, cocky
jerk I thought he was fades away as a distant memory. A man who’s confident, in control, and uber sexy is what I see when I look over at him now.
Oh, and by the way, he didn’t eat all that junk food, just the peanuts and a grilled chicken sandwich.
Whatever.
So he’s disciplined. (Me, not so much.)
And it shows.
Gah. This man not only eats clean, he works out. A lot. There is no other way anyone could be so damn built—long and lean and muscular.
In his faded jeans and plain white t-shirt (which molds to his muscled chest and is snug around his bulging upper arms), he doesn’t look like a boss.
He looks more like perfect boyfriend material. And trust me when I say, I know better than to think that way. It’s just my romantic side taking over, and I have to shut it down.
Fast.
Like two kids, we get ready to go over the ledge. The exhilarating 85-foot, 60-degree plunge at a speed of just over sixty miles per hour is so close.
The wind ruffles Max’s ginger locks, and the sun paints them with golden highlights, and I can’t help but marvel at how good looking he is. And with those sunglasses on that he was told to stow away but didn’t. Gah. I find that I’m biting my lip to reassure myself this is real.
And it is.
He looks over at me and catches me staring. “We’re almost there,” he grins.
I scrunch my nose. “Is it too late to back out?”
We’re at the top now, and he says, “Yes, baby, it is.”
We seem to hang like that forever—in the in-between of climbing and falling. “Oh, God,” I yell as the cart tilts downward.
“Hands up,” he shouts, like a big kid who’s done this a thousand times and loves the thrill of it.
Just as the cart moves downward, I do as he instructs. My mouth opening to scream, I’m not sure what comes out.
And then, just like that, the coaster drops, twisting and turning, and my stomach sinks. When we start to climb, Max grabs my hand. “Together this time,” he shouts.
On the next drop, our hands rise together with our fingers entwined, and adrenaline rushes through my veins as we soar like a bird in flight.
And then we do it all again—climbing and falling until I begin to wonder how many more times I can stand it.
Then I think maybe a roller coaster is like lust—you just keep wanting to go on a never-ending loop.
God, I hope so.
But then again, I’m not sure I can take it.
Twist.
Turn.
Spin.
Soar.
I scream, cry, and laugh. I’m left breathless by the time the cart comes to a stop.
Shaking.
Windblown.
Thrilled.
Max lets go of my hand, which he’d been holding the entire time. He shakes it, and I laugh. I might have held on a little too tight.
Standing on shaky legs, I exit the ride to follow him with my mouth dry and hair a mess.
He holds the gate open for me to pass, and once we clear the line, he turns to face me as we walk. “That was a kickass ride.”
The excitement on his face is too much to resist, and I feel giddy myself. “It had to be the fastest coaster I’ve ever been on. What about you?”
While he turns back to walk beside me, he says, “It’s the only one I’ve ever been on.”
“No way!”
He nods. “My parents weren’t big on amusement parks when my brother and I were growing up.”
“Where exactly was that?” I ask.
A crowd of teenagers comes barreling past us, causing our hands to separate. Once the crowd passes, Max puts his arm around me and veers us away from all the people. Close to the boardwalk, he pushes me against a brick wall and tucks his thigh between mine. “Are you ready to leave? I know I am.”
I nod quickly. “Me too.”
He takes in my reaction to his closeness with hooded eyes, and I fall under his spell. Dazed, I find myself struggling to find my breath even harder than I did when we were on the ride.
He bends his head to possess my mouth, his tongue pushing my lips apart with no effort at all. And me? I burst into flames beneath his dominating kiss. “I can’t wait to have you.”
“I can’t wait either.”
His tongue digs deep, hot and wet, into my mouth. “Are you sure you can handle me after today?”
I open my mouth wider for his assault. “I can more than handle you,” I manage around his delicious taste. “In fact, I’m a little worried you can’t handle me.”
Pulling away, he gazes down at me with a wicked grin on his face, and my lips tingle. “Keep talking like that and I’ll be taking you right here beneath the setting sun.”
A rush of uninhibited sensations cut through me. “Sounds very tempting. However, I think we should leave right now or we’ll be making headlines.”
I notice the shifting shades of blue in his eyes, the gray flecks scattering like icicles on a window in the cold. His hands leave my body, and he turns away so fast, I wonder if he’s thinking what I am.
Holding his hand out for me, I take it, and as we walk, I decide to address the inevitable. “Max…after tonight, this can’t happen again.”
His gaze is heavy and thick-lashed as he glances down at me. “Gigi, baby, you need to take one day at a time and stop worrying. You’re not Cinderella. Your carriage will not be turning into a pumpkin at midnight.”
What? Like he’s Prince Charming or something?
Stepping on the wooden slats of the boardwalk, I laugh out loud. “Really? You’re using a fairytale for an analogy? And FYI, since my carriage is your brand new motorcycle, I hope not.”
His hand slides from mine to my waist, and he pulls me close. “Seriously, Gigi, let’s take one day at a time. Okay?”
In the distance, I see a photographer snapping pictures, and remind myself to ask Ava the next time we talk why the paparazzi are all over the city all the time. Can that many celebrities be all around me and I’m that oblivious?
I mean I did see James Franco on the corner getting a coffee one morning, but when I asked for a selfie, he declined, and I didn’t see any photographers around him.
Gazing up at Max, I wish I could agree with him, but there is no way I can. I know that starting tomorrow we have to be strictly business. So I guess perhaps his Cinderella analogy applies here. Our sparkling relationship goes from riches to rags at the stroke of midnight.
“Gigi.” The look he’s giving me is rueful—his eyes dip down, one brow raises, his smile becomes more of a leer.
“I can’t. This job means everything to me, and I don’t want any special concessions. People will talk.”
His look, part seductive, part pleading, part half-pouting, stops me. “No, they won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Gossip isn’t tolerated. Remember?”
“Yes, I do,” I grin.
Lifting me off my feet, he kisses me reckless and then sets me down.
Stopping myself from responding in the wrong manner, I quickly avert my eyes straight ahead and gasp when I do. “Look!” I point to the sun setting over the water. “It’s so beautiful.”
The display of colors in the sky is bright and bold. Better than any sunset I have ever seen.
Max draws me even closer and kisses my temple. “You’re right. It is.” But he isn’t looking at the setting sun, he’s looking at me, and the look on his face is everything.
Breathtaking.
Vivid.
Awe-inspiring.
Like him.
And I know in this moment putting my career ahead of a budding relationship will take every ounce of strength I have.
And more.
TRAINING WHEELS
The Casanovia Conquest
Breaking News
WHEN HE RODE A MOTORCYCLE
By Ian Wesley
Please enjoy the picture in your head if you’re one of the few who ha
ven’t seen it yet on Instagram—Prince Maximus riding a motorcycle in Brooklyn, New York.
Yes, a brand new motorcycle.
If you ask me, he looks like some sort of brooding Hell’s Angels member instead of, you know, the extremely posh royal prince that his father has demanded him to be. Then again, what do I know.
Tweet me and tell me what you think of that black leather jacket…oh, and the girl in the helmet with her arms wrapped around him—who is she? What’s her name?
Does anyone know?
TWEETS
HUNTER TIGRESS @TheTiger
Hey @PrinceMax that’s my jacket
♥10.8K
4,480 people are talking about this
SARAH REYNOLDS @TheRealReynolds
@PrinceMax I want to ride you. I mean ride on the back of your bike.
♥20.2K
10,480 people are talking about this
ROCCOBANE @RoccoB
@PrinceMax BMW motorcycles are for wimps. Get a #Harley.
♥2.3K
5,982 people are talking about this
SHERLYHOLLAND @SherylHollandNewYorker
Hey @IanWesley I think that girl is my neighbor. She’s a stripper at the corner bar. @PrinceMax I’m a high-class escort. Give me a ring.
♥20.8K
41,550 people are talking about this
IT’S A FEELING
Thirteen minutes can seem like three hundred when you’re in a hurry, but thirty-three seems like an eternity.
Thirty-three long minutes from Coney Island to Tribeca with her on the back of my bike, holding me, squeezing me, touching me in the most sensual way.
I park around the corner in a secluded garage and take the long way to her place, telling her I want to keep my new bike away from all the traffic.
The lie tastes like shit on my tongue. I have to tell her the truth—who I am, that the press seems to find me in the blink of an eye, which is the real reason I parked so far away.
And I will.
Just not yet.
This time with her, alone, roaming in public, being an unknown, has to be the best time I’ve ever had in my life.