Would Be King

by Kim Karr

  Making love.

  And like this, there’s nothing else. Not two different worlds. Not a royal and a commoner.

  Just us moving.

  Breathing.

  Every thrust makes me feel so full. Arching. Biting. Losing control. Clawing at the smooth skin and muscle of his shoulders.

  I want to know his fears, his dreams.

  I want his heart and soul.

  I want him.

  Then he comes inside of me…and I feel like he’s a part of me.

  THE PAPER CHASE

  From the window of the hotel suite, I stare down at the dark city. Jiggling the handle, I only remember I can’t go outside when the door doesn’t open.

  That I’m locked in.

  A prisoner.

  With a sigh, I gaze out into the night lit up so bright it breathes endless possibilities. If only I could have a piece of it.

  I wonder.

  Think.

  Hope.

  If only things could be different. Easier. Simpler. Not so ridged and antiquated.

  I crumble the second summons in my fist and toss it in the trash along with the other one. Someone slipped it under the door minutes ago, and for some reason, I woke and found it.

  Gigi is fast asleep, worn out. I slept for a few hours, too, then reached for her again. Now it’s five in the morning and I hate that the sun will be rising soon because I don’t know if she’s staying the day with me or leaving.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, scooting up and leaning against the headboard, pulling the sheet with her.

  Fucking beautiful.

  She’s so fucking beautiful.

  “Watching you,” I tell her.

  Her hands leave the sheet and go to her face. “Was I snoring?”

  I laugh. “No, not that I heard, anyway. Why? Do you, because I want to hear if you do. It must be adorable.”

  “God, no, it’s not. Why are you up?”

  Lust sieges my body as I stare at her in the moonlight like some kind of vision. “Believe it or not, I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” she laughs. “I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.”

  “Let the sheet fall,” I tell her, my cock wondering if it’s okay to stand at attention so soon after having her multiple times.

  She makes a face but does it, anyway.

  Once I see those perfect tits, I toss her my shirt. “Put this on and then come downstairs. The refrigerator should be stocked.”

  “Ummm…okay, but why did I have to show my breasts?”

  I punch my legs into my slacks. “I had to make sure your nipples weren’t going to poke through the fabric of my shirt because if they were, I was going to have to do something about it. Don’t want security seeing anything that’s mine. That and because I just wanted to see them again.”

  Throwing a pillow at me she sighs, “You’re too much.”

  “Hey, I can’t help myself,” I tell her, heading downstairs to clear the kitchen of the bodies roaming the suite to protect me before she comes down.

  Gabriel has gone home and will return at noon. The rest of the team will change out in shifts. Some at six, some at nine. I send them into the other rooms and two more out into the hallway so Gigi and I can be alone.

  Normal.

  As normal as can be with almost a dozen guards in the same space.

  Rummaging in the fridge, I find a bowl of fruit salad and several wedges of cheese. After arranging a tray, pulling bread and crackers from the cupboards to accompany the cheese and fruit, I grab a bottle of champagne.

  I see those hot legs before I see her, and fuck, I want to take her right here on the kitchen counter.

  And I might.

  “I had no idea you were domestic,” she says, heading toward the fire.

  “Stick around for the day and you’ll see just how domestic I can be,” I tell her, popping the cork.

  Her laughter is infectious. “Do we get to drink champagne all day?”

  “We do.”

  “Do you have Netflix here?”

  I point toward the television. “If not I will make sure we do.”

  “I was planning on binging on The Crown today.”

  Setting two flutes on the tray beside the bubbly, I groan. “Not the English Monarchy, please. They are so boring.”

  A tiny snort huffs from her nose. “Don’t tell me you haven’t watched it.”

  I shake my head.

  “Not even season one?”

  “I absolutely have not.”

  “How about Nicholas Sparks films?”

  “Those cheesy romantic flicks with no cinematic value? No, I have not.”

  “Hey, I’m a hopeless romantic who finds them terrific.”

  I shake my head.

  Sitting cross-legged on the carpet in the middle of the room, she smiles at me when she sees the tray I’m carrying. “Oh, my God, is that Brie and raspberries?”

  “It is.”

  She angles her head, and those warm eyes turn ravenous when I set the tray in front of her and drop a berry into her luscious mouth. She makes all kinds of noises when I offer her the cheese.

  “So is that a yes, you’ll stay?”

  “The Crown and you serving me all day, that’s a hell yes.”

  Laughter spills from me as easy as breathing. She does that to me. A breath of fresh air in my stuffy world. “I want to escort you into the Hermès show next week,” I blurt out.

  It’s the first show of the week and the perfect time to show the world she isn’t my dirty secret in a suitable, subtle manner. Her eyes go wide. “You mean attend as a couple?”

  I pop a grape into my mouth. “Well, not officially. You know royal protocol frowns upon public displays of affection.”

  Her gaze locks on mine, and her smile fades as it grows thoughtful. “So more like what we are—boss and employee?”

  A little unsettled by the use of those terms, I don’t have much of a choice except to accept them—for now. “I suppose so.”

  She gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and places a piece of cheese on a slice of pear, offering it to me. I close my mouth over it, holding it for just a moment as our gazes catch and hold. It is surprisingly intimate, her feeding me just that one bite. “Okay, then,” she says. “We’ll go together.”

  “Good.” I’m walking the line here. Close to the edge and I know I have to be careful, but I can’t seem to give a fuck about protocol when it comes to her.

  “Oh, my God, try this one,” she moans and I open my mouth, waiting for her to share.

  Between the two of us, we practically devour the entire tray of food plus half a chocolate cake I had brought up from the restaurant.

  The security team comes and goes, but somehow, we manage to block them out. It’s just her and me, and we talk for hours about our childhoods, our families, our hopes and dreams.

  Her knowing about me isn’t as bad as I thought. Actually, I really don’t mind it. I rather like I can share things with her and be real. She gets me. This girl gets me. And I get her.

  Heading upstairs, we watch the sunrise and then fuck in the shower before falling asleep in each other’s arms.

  It’s noon when I hear the shuffling of paper again, and as soon as I glance toward the door, I see another summons.

  Fuck.

  My father, now near sixty-five, seems to have forgotten he has a phone and can call me.

  “What’s that?” she asks, her voice sleepy.

  “Nothing to worry about. Come on, let’s figure out what we want to order up for lunch and binge on that television show.”

  “The show is called The Crown,” she grins, looking at me with her million-dollar smile that makes my heart skip a beat.

  “Is it about the chap with the new wife who everyone is going on about?”

  “That chap’s name is Prince Harry,” she smirks. “And no, it isn’t. Not yet, anyway. We’ll start from season one, where Elizabeth meets Phillip before she becomes queen an
d —”

  Oh, fantastic.

  While she continues to school me on the English monarchy—some of my old chaps, and most of which whom I know—I can’t help but smirk at her and think—she’s the one for me.

  More than anything I’ve ever wanted in my entire privileged life—I want her. And I know she wants me too.

  How ironic, it just isn’t that easy.

  SPOTTED

  The Casanovia Conquest

  Breaking News

  The Prince Is in the House

  By Ian Wesley

  After nearly a week of avoiding us, our ginger-haired Prince has been spotted on French soil. And word on the street is he isn’t alone. It appears with the same girl he’s been spotted with lately. Seems like our Prince has grown fond of this American girl.

  Since he’s just a hop and a skip away from our beloved Vespa Isles, I have a feeling we’ll be seeing him on Casanovia soil very soon.

  A little birdie has told me he’s been summoned to an audience with the King.

  I have to say, that doesn’t sound good.

  I’ll let you know as soon as I do.

  CAB CUTIE

  At exactly five fifteen, the black Mercedes with tinted windows dashes away from the HÔTEL DE CRILLON.

  Max and I are inside the luxury car, and as soon as we turn the corner, he pushes the button for the privacy screen between the front and back seat.

  I glance at him and smile, a memory from earlier today assaulting me. The memory of when we first climbed in this car from the airport. Alone. And Max took me immediately.

  You see, the private jet had been shared with Julia, Ava, and Hunter. And Ava and Hunter—well, those two haven’t been able to keep their hands off each other ever since the Bombshell launch. Although, they still haven’t actually done the deed, Hunter Tigress, the notorious ladies’ man, can’t seem to get enough of Ava Smart.

  I’m not saying she’s playing hard to get. I’m saying she is hard to get. Playing it safe is the way she puts it. Saying no to some date requests and yes to others. Answering some calls and not others. Responding to his texts at times and sometimes not. She’s got this man out of his mind. He’s positively smitten with her, and she’s giving him a run for his money.

  Hey, Max’s bad-boy behavior was headline news for a single summer. Hunter has been tagged the ultimate bad boy since he was seventeen.

  Back to Max and me. I might have been a tad naughty on the plane ride over here, myself. In that I might have flirted a bit too much with the amount of champagne I drank. And I might have caused him to have an erection that he would have demanded I take care of in the lavatory while ten thousand feet above the ground if it weren’t for Julia sitting across from us.

  Watching.

  Wondering.

  Waiting for us to come out.

  Breathing in deeply, the car still smells like sex and that makes me smile even wider. The memory ever present.

  The growl he made when he closed the privacy glass. Him reaching for the fly of his slacks and quickly unfastening it. A second later, pulling out his long, beautiful cock and stroking it just once because that was all he needed. Of him commanding me to suck him. Then me pulling up my jersey wrap dress and climbing on his lap to straddle him. Of him sliding a single finger inside me and then showing me how wet I was for him before slowly licking his tongue up one side of his finger and down the other. I nearly came on the spot. Of me riding him. Hard and fast at his command. Of him and me fucking as we drove through the streets of Paris. I came quickly, and so did he.

  “You’re a dirty girl,” he whispers in my ear.

  “I am not,” I rebuff.

  “You’re thinking of earlier. I can see it in your eyes.” He glances at his watch. “We only have five minutes, but if you’re interested in a repeat performance, I’m always ready.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, this dirty girl wants to stay clean.”

  “You sure?” The huskiness in his voice causes my breath to catch.

  “I’m sure.”

  “On the way home, then.”

  Although his voice oozes sex and the promise of pleasure, I have to remind him, “You said we’d go to the Eiffel Tower first, so I could buy a snow globe. Remember?”

  I want something to remember this trip by.

  Something to remember him by in case his meeting with his father doesn’t go as planned.

  Shrugging, he opens his jacket and pulls out a gold wrapped box. “I do. But how about this to hold you over until I can take you there later this evening?”

  I struggle to find air. “What is it?”

  “A gift. Open it and see,” he says, giving me that world-stopping grin.

  Taking the rectangular box, I unwrap it with shaky fingers and then open the Cartier red lid. It hits me then—he has a lot of money, and yes, he spends it lavishly—but he doesn’t flaunt it.

  It’s a rather respectable quality, I have to say.

  A bracelet so shiny it glitters inside the box as it is staring back at me. The item is bright enough to send me back against the seat. It’s exquisite. On a platinum rope chain sits a single charm—one of a yellow diamond cab with black diamond wheels and a white diamond windshield.

  “Something to always remember when we first met,” he whispers.

  I look into his eyes and see everything inside his gaze.

  The future.

  Hope.

  Love.

  The three things we have but aren’t sure we can hold onto. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

  He takes it out, and I offer my wrist. When he fastens it, the platinum warms quickly to the temperature of my skin and the charm sparkles in the sunlight. “After tonight, you’re going to be all over the press. If you feel nervous or uncertain, just look at this and remember fate brought us together for a reason.”

  “So philosophical.”

  “I’m serious, Gigi, this isn’t going to be easy for you. Going public with me, even though we’re making it seem like business, means your entire life will be out there for the world to see. If you think that isn’t for you, you need to decide now.”

  “I’m not backing out, Max. I want you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to have you in my life.”

  He smiles again, his eyes glowing with warmth, and then he tilts my chin up with his finger, his mouth melting over mine, hot and breathless.

  When the car stops, we finally pull away. “Thank you,” I tell him as I clutch the bracelet and then glance out the window. We’re in front of the entrance to Silencio, and I feel my palms go sweaty.

  This is happening.

  Not only are we arriving to the first fashion show, we’re arriving together. While giving the appearance that we are platonic, we are also announcing to the world that we are together.

  The driver is dressed in a pin-striped suit with slicked-back dark hair. He looks more mafia than French. He walks around the back of the car and then to the side to open the back door.

  I squeeze Max’s knee, my nerves a bundle of fireflies.

  “You’ve got this,” he grins, and then steps out wearing the most handsome Tom Ford tux I’ve ever seen.

  After all the pomp and circumstance, he turns back and holds out his hand for me. Now my nerves are doing the jitterbug.

  I take a deep breath.

  I can do this.

  Just like he told me.

  Ignore everything going on and look straight ahead, or at him. Carefully turning, I keep my knees together, swivel my hips, place my feet on the ground, and smoothly stand tall.

  I’m wearing the most exquisite gown. A delicate layer of pure silk organza, which is embellished with shimmering beads and tiny sequins that catch the light just so and send sparkles in every direction.

  It was designed by Kate Snow. Ava rang her and told her we needed a dress that would wow the most elite designers, and she delivered.

  Liquid silver in color, the dress has a plunging neckline and gathers at the waist to fall t
o the ground with a slit all the way up the side of my leg. It’s riskier than I would have liked. However, once I put it on, I knew it was perfectly designed just for me.

  “Don’t forget to smile,” were Ava’s last words to me before leaving the hotel, and now I can see why. I can’t even remember to breathe, let alone move the corners of my lips upwards.

  Being here like this is something I never could have imagined—mobs of people are everywhere, lines and lines of cars, cameras and videos and lenses, so many lenses. And fashion. Lots of fashion.

  This is the first time Max and I will be seen together in public since the hand-up-the-dress picture, as it has notoriously become known, much to my embarrassment. Although privately we have vowed to be together, for now, we have agreed to allow the public to see our relationship as platonic. A working relationship. Which is what this appearance will look like.

  By the way, my brother had a lot to say about that picture. And nothing good. Luckily, my father is oblivious to the gossip train and never saw it.

  The staff at Bombshell either never saw the image or are upholding their NDA’s and not gossiping. Whichever way, I’m thankful for that. The photo was explained away by the Casanovia Palace as a private conversation photoshopped to be more.

  Flash. Flash. Flash.

  “Who are you wearing?”

  “Is it couture?”

  “Who styled you?”

  “Can you twirl so we can see the back?”

  “Where did you get that bracelet?”

  “Can we get a close-up of your shoes?”

  Flash. Flash. Flash.

  I can’t believe my life right now.

  I’m at Fashion Week in Paris. On the red carpet. Being asked questions I never thought I would. And I’m an attendee. Arriving with my boss (who is also secretly my lover and a Prince).

  Reminding myself to keep my feet on the ground and my head out of the clouds, I glance around.

  121 Rue Montemarte is on a narrow street and the venue is in a very old limestone building. The place was inspired by Club Silencio in the movie Mulholland Drive and belongs to the iconic film-maker David Lynch.