Would Be King

by Kim Karr

  One-thousand? Two? Three or four? Ten?

  “What are you doing?”

  I jerk my head to the right. It’s him. As if the deep texture of his voice hadn’t already warned me it was, the delicious scent of his cologne is a dead giveaway. And he’s giving me that breath-stealing look that makes me go weak at the knees.

  Wearing a Tom Ford tux, white dress shirt and a face that is as chiseled as it is panty-dropping, he is the epitome of cover material.

  Inhaling, I can’t help but take him in. Tall, ginger-haired, and gorgeous. So incredibly gorgeous. With those deep, thick-lashed icy blue eyes I want to sink into and those perfect lips I want to suck on like they’re the key to my happiness. I stop thinking. Stop breathing. Stop being because… he’s beside me, alone, and the chemistry is so very dangerous.

  Combustible even.

  Then he grins at me as he glances through the glass as if trying to see what I see and I melt into a pool of desire.

  “Wondering,” I finally manage to respond.

  “About?”

  The tension between us is so thick it feels like it’s expanding into this giant bubble that is wrapping around us, willing us to shut everyone else out. “Daily life. How people come and go and don’t bother to take the time to see the beauty that surrounds them.”

  His eyes are on me.

  Hot.

  Wicked.

  Intense.

  Hoping the armor I’ve worked so hard to build decides to make an appearance (soon), I lift my hand and point to a pile of carefully placed rocks near a hand-carved wooden bench. “See those. Someone took the time to place those stones in a way to make them look like art. They wanted people to notice, and I have to wonder how many people actually take the time to do so.”

  “Beautiful,” he murmurs, still staring into my eyes and not looking at the sculpture.

  “Max,” I caution.

  He shakes his head. “You look absolutely breathtaking.”

  My heart leaps so far and so fast, it feels as if it’s flying out of my chest. “I should get back in there.”

  His big hand wraps around the bare skin of my upper arm. “Not yet.”

  Slowly, I force myself to take one step and hope no one can hear my knees knock together. “We shouldn’t be alone.”

  “We’re not.” He gestures to the vast space, the people milling around, the security everywhere.

  His touch is electric and I can’t move. I find myself struggling to find air. It feels like someone has cut off the supply to my lungs. “You know what I mean.”

  He peers into my eyes, thoughtful. “I keep thinking back to the day you discovered who I am, and I have to tell you, we’re not as different as you think.”

  It’s not polite to laugh at someone, especially not my boss, and most especially not royalty, but I can’t seem to stop myself from expelling it. “I agree to disagree.”

  When he runs his fingertip down my nose, goose bumps erupt all over my skin. “Think about it. We’re both on a quest.”

  I grin up at him, breathless. “Oh, really, what kind of quest?”

  His hand strokes down my face. “Searching for something that’s missing in our lives.”

  My words are faint because I can feel my heart beating out of control. Missing. “What’s that?”

  He steps closer, closer, closer still. I move back, back, back. Before I know it, we’re in the coat closet, alone. “I want to say each other but that isn’t fair. Is it?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Ducking his head, he whispers, “I know I promised to give you time and that I shouldn’t be putting my hands on you like this.”

  The feel of his fingers is electric. Gasping for air, I feel all my resolve fading away. We’re moving deeper into the space around the corner toward a much more private place. “No, you shouldn’t be.”

  A small sigh sounds at my ear. “And that I definitely shouldn’t be doing this,” he says, kissing down the column of my neck. “But I never have been good at following rules.”

  My blood turns hot and my throat feels tight with words that I can’t seem to expel.

  No.

  Yes.

  Somehow, I come to my senses and push him back. “You’re wrong about us being alike. We’re not, and I can’t be with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re…you’re a—”

  “I’m a what?” he hisses.

  “You’re a royal and that’s what makes us so very different.”

  “Royalty or not, I’m still a man who wants you, and you’re still a woman who wants me. We’re the same people who rode that Ferris Wheel. Nothing has changed.”

  Making myself step away is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. “Once again, let’s just agree to disagree.”

  “I should have apologized,” he says, halting my movements. “I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was.”

  My shoulders hunch to my neck at the heartfelt apology. I can’t look at him. I’m going to cave. Give into him because I want nothing more than to feel his hands on me and his lips on me and his cock inside me.

  “I’m just so damn sorry.”

  And then I glance up.

  And then I’m grabbing his jaw and forcefully pulling him down to me, whispering, “I forgive you, Max but that doesn’t change anything.”

  Less than a moment later, he wipes out the distance between us. “No, it might not.” One hand tangles in my hair, the other goes around my waist. “But does it really matter?”

  I don’t even know anymore.

  Like this, he yanks me roughly against him. Before I can even blink, he slams his mouth down over mine in a hard, punishing kiss.

  Sensual.

  Harsh.

  Hot.

  All wet and fast.

  As if out of sheer memory, my hands are flat against his chest, and my tongue is dancing with his. Arousal courses through me, and the tingles between my legs are a flaming fire that starts to roar.

  Pain sears across my scalp but knowing it’s Max’s hand tangling tighter through my hair to pull me closer—because no matter how close we get it’s never enough—is so erotic and thrilling, I just don’t care.

  Using his other hand to tug me against his body, I can feel the sizzle of his fingers on my skin and pleasure ripples in my lower belly, dampening my underwear with wet fiery heat.

  When I feel his erection digging into my stomach, my knees go so weak I have to wrap my fingers around the folds of his lapels to keep myself upright.

  His hands travel down. Down. Down. His fingers curling into the fabric of my dress, pulling, bunching until the cool air drifts up to my secret place and his fingers slip beneath my underwear to slide easily inside me. “Oh, fuck, I’ve missed this,” he growls.

  Wanton desire makes my toes curl. “Oh, God,” I cry out.

  “You’re so wet. So responsive.”

  He moves his fingers in and out of me hard and fast as if he is fucking me with his delicious cock. And the tension inside of me starts to spiral higher, higher up the mountain. Then suddenly I’m at the top, jumping, flying, exploding, all at the same time.

  I’m staring into his eyes, coming around his fingers, and it’s so intense I swear I see fireworks. No, more like flashes of light.

  All of a sudden, Max’s face goes grim, and his skilled hands are gone. “Stay here,” he whispers, storming away and then shouting, “Get the fuck out of here.”

  More bursts of light.

  The flashes are coming from a camera.

  Blinking, I peer around the corner that leads to the corridor and the entrance to the coat closet, but the room goes dark before I can see anything.

  I’m blind.

  Then I hear shouting. I can feel other people in our space. Feet shuffling. Angry shouts now. Too many voices to make out and one thing.

  “Prince Maximus, we have to get you out of here.”

  “No,” he shouts. “Ta
ke your hands off me.”

  “I’m sorry,” says another voice. “It’s our duty to assess the situation and protect you from any potential threats at all costs.”

  “You’re fired,” he shouts.

  “I’m sorry Prince, you cannot fire us in the middle of an extreme situation.”

  “Max, what’s going on?” I cry out.

  “Bring her too,” he orders, his voice filled with rage.

  “We can’t, Your Royal Highness.”

  “You’re being paranoid over nothing. It was a fucking paparazzo,” Max hisses.

  There’s shuffling.

  Arguing.

  More yelling.

  The lights turn back on, and I’m alone.

  He’s gone.

  STRANGER DANGER

  The Casanovia Conquest

  Breaking News

  Caught on Camera

  By Ian Wesley

  A potential threat caused major chaos and forced Royal Security to whisk Prince Maximus out of his own magazine launch party and into hiding.

  The story comes here first.

  Apparently, a photographer got too close for comfort and the Royal Security team panicked. This event came after a motorcyclist almost ran the Prince over earlier that night.

  The real news though comes in the form of the picture that has surfaced. A picture of Prince Maximus making out with the same girl we saw him with weeks ago, and in a coat closet of all places. At his own party. With his hands up her dress.

  No bigs, right?

  Well yes bigs. Any potential threats aside, partaking in a casual make-out session is going to send his father, the King, right over the edge. Public displays of affection is such a royal no-no.

  Will our Prince be ordered home and his banishment abolished?

  I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

  NOW YOU SEE ME

  I’m in a hotel suite under lockdown with a security team of at least ten men situated throughout the three-thousand square foot place.

  Hunter’s apartment is now off-limits. And mine, as well, since I’d have to be sequestered with Beatrice, and I’ll pass on that.

  Fuck me very much.

  After taking way too long to speak to the police, I finally make my way up the stairs to the bedroom and close the door behind.

  Slumping onto the bed and opening the Fed-Ex package that was just delivered, it takes all of five seconds to read what’s inside. Now I’m brooding over the document in front of me and wondering if it might catch fire any second from the laser glare I’m giving it.

  It isn’t a business file.

  Not a financial chart.

  Not an article to review.

  It’s an official summons from King Winston Alfred Montgomery ordering me to Casanovia for an audience.

  An audience.

  Really?

  Crumbling the heavy-stock printed paper in the palm of my hand, I throw it across the room. Fuck my father. I will go to Casanovia but only after Fashion Week in Paris as I have planned—as I already notified him.

  He will just have to fucking wait.

  After quickly sending my brother a text that I’m fine, I stare at the other report that I brought with me. The police report stating the paparazzo wasn’t actually a paparazzo but a gang member from Harlem with a switchblade in his back pocket. He’s being held for questioning but claiming he was only there to snap a pic and sell it to the tabloids, not to harm me.

  Who the fuck knows why he was there?

  Someone, however, did snap a pic and sell it to the rag mag in Casanovia faster than I’ve seen one turn around. And since that dude is in a NYC jail, it couldn’t have been him unless he somehow managed to trade off items or text the pic before the security team tackled him.

  As for the switchblade—who knows?

  His own security, perhaps.

  Picking up my phone, I move on to what’s important and shoot Gigi a text. I have to see her. Talk to her. Explain what the fuck just happened. That I didn’t leave her alone. That I would never do that. That I was forcefully removed from the premises against my will.

  Me: Are you okay?

  Gigi: Yes. Are you?

  Me: Fine. I want to see you.

  Gigi: No. Not a good idea.

  Me: I’ve already sent a car.

  Gigi: Unsend it. I don’t think I should see you anymore.

  Me: Why not?

  Gigi: It isn’t safe for you.

  Me: It is. Don’t listen to the news. It’s all bullshit.

  Gigi: The reports say you are in danger. Why didn’t you tell me someone tried to run you over earlier?

  Me: Ava must be talking to her sister. That isn’t news. It’s bullshit that the tabloids are reporting. Ignore them. Come see me. I need to see you.

  Gigi: No. It’s just not a good idea.

  Me: Then I’ll come to you.

  Gigi: You’re in danger. It isn’t safe.

  Me: You come to me or I’m coming to you. Either way, I’ll be seeing you tonight.

  Gigi: I’ll think about it and let you know. Where are you?

  Me: I can’t tell you. My security team will bring you here, though.

  Gigi: See, you are in danger. And if I do decide to come, I’m not sleeping with you.

  Me: No one said anything about sleeping.

  She doesn’t respond to that, so when my cell rings, thinking it’s her, I pick up without looking. “Hello.”

  “Maximus, are you hurt?” It’s sweet Tori, my ex-fiancé, and the new Queen of Alexandria.

  Running a hand through my hair, I find myself shaking my own head. “Come on, Victoria, not you too.”

  “I know. I know. I shouldn’t believe everything I read, but it can’t all be made up.”

  “Not the picture,” I mumble.

  She laughs. “Well, no, not that.”

  “Nothing happened. I have no idea what that guy was doing there, but if he planned to attack me, he didn’t get the opportunity,” I tell her gently.

  Her sigh of relief is so her. “Thank goodness. And how is Gigi?”

  Yes, the Rachel connection. She knows Gigi through Ava, who is Rachel’s sister. And Rachel is Tori’s (or rather Queen Victoria of Alexandria to be proper) personal secretary. “She’s good. Well, I think she is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I explain what happened. After she showers me with sympathetic understanding, she says, “What do you plan to do if she won’t see you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s probably for the best. You know I can’t be with her.”

  “Why not?”

  I kick my shoes off. “Come on Tori, you know how it goes. Royals marry royals.”

  “To remain in the royal circle, yes. But even if you can’t marry her, you can still date her, Maximus.”

  Date.

  That’s funny.

  Have I ever dated? I mean I was with Tori from the beginning of time, and yes, we did many things together, but that wasn’t dating, it was obligation.

  “That’s just it. I really can’t. Between you and me, my father is pushing really hard for me to marry Beatrice.”

  “The ice queen. No, Maximus, you can’t! You have to fight him on this. Tell him you’re in love with someone else.”

  My face falls. This woman is a friend of mine who I was once engaged to. And being just friends is far better for us since our love wasn’t deep. “I’m not in love with anyone.”

  “Oh, Maximus, yes you are. I can see it in your body language. The way you look at her in the latest pictures I’ve seen, it’s so obvious. And in the tone of your voice right now.”

  Silence fills the line as I try to process that word. The only four letter word I’ve ever known is D-U-T-Y. Duty. The duty I owe my country.

  L-O-V-E?

  “No,” I manage, more to myself than her.

  “Oh, yes. You just haven’t realized it yet,” she laughs.

  The room starts to spin. I stutter. Listen to her tell me that men fall
in love in stages whereas with women it’s often instantaneous. Going on, she attempts to explain the phases to me.

  SCOUT, CHASE, EXPLORE, DECIDE, CONQUER.

  It’s like going to battle. Especially as she checks them off one by one. That I have to laugh at. Seriously, love is like a battle plan the way she puts it. After hanging up with her, I text Gigi.

  Me: Are you coming?

  When she doesn’t respond, I try to call her. No answer. Pissed off, I toss my phone on the night table and sit on the edge of the bed, just staring at the ground.

  Minutes pass and I know I can’t sit here. I have to do something. Getting up, I pour a scotch from the minibar. Down it. Then one more just because.

  Stalking toward the windows in the penthouse suite at the Lowell Hotel, I glare out at the night sky. The terrace has a sweeping view of the city, but the doors are secured from both sides, so it isn’t like I get to truly enjoy it.

  This five-star hotel is my jail.

  A fucking tower I’m locked away in.

  Royal protocol states after any type of threat that I’m to be sequestered in a secure location for forty-eight hours.

  Apparently, the amount of time it took me to fall in love with Gigi.

  What the hell am I thinking?

  Maybe I’m in shock.

  No. No, I’m not.

  Love.

  That has to be what I’m feeling. I mean come on, all I can think about is her. And not just fucking her, again and again. Not just hearing her scream my name. Not just feeling her body against mine or seeing her face as I bury myself deep inside of her. Her. Her. Her.

  The girl who wanted me without knowing who I was. The one who wants to have fun and enjoy life—with me.

  Gigi.

  My girl.