Would Be King

by Kim Karr

  Fighting for what I want never felt so good.

  Being the spare never sounded so promising.

  “What’s the weather like there?” Gigi glances over her shoulder at me, all bedroom eyes with a wicked smile.

  “Hot, all the time, like you.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I,” I tell her gripping her ass. “You are hot, all the time.”

  Her giggle has been missed. “Ava says Alexandria has the most amazing pink and gold sunsets and turquoise waters.”

  “Screw Alexandria,” I say in jest. “Casanovia has the whitest sand beaches and best sun-filled sky.”

  “I can’t wait to see it,” she tells me.

  I haven’t been drinking; yet, I feel drunk.

  Drunk on her. She’s sunshine in a bottle. The sound of her voice. The way she moves. The laugh she expels when she can’t get her key in the door because her fingers are too cold.

  “Give me that,” I tell her, but when she pivots to hand me the keys, I take her fingers instead. Inserting them in my mouth, one at a time.

  She throws her head back and arches, and even in her wool coat, I can see how fucking beautiful she is, and every damn inch of me grows hard at the sight.

  Three weeks.

  Three long weeks without her.

  Fucking drove me mad.

  “You should probably unlock the door before your new bodyguard comes up and gets a show,” she says with a giggle.

  “He’s from the Diplomatic Protection Squad and is smart enough to stay in the car.”

  “The whole night?”

  I waggle my brows. “Am I invited to spend the night?”

  “I’m not sure. Can I let you know later?”

  I pat her ass. “Keep it up, and I’ll spank you.”

  “I dare you,” she rasps.

  My chest tightens and my dick thickens, begging for her attention. Shifting to insert the key into the lock, I growl. “You shouldn’t give those kinds of dares, Gigi, because I will follow through.”

  She bites her lip, but then glances down to my side. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  I consider slinging her over my shoulder but that might be pushing things. Instead, I take her hand and tug us inside, shutting the door and flicking the lock behind us. “Oh, I’m sure,” I tell her, yanking the tie of her coat free.

  Her eyes sparkle when she slips the material from her shoulders and lets it fall to the ground.

  As the promise of what’s to come fills the air, I remove my jacket and do the same before taking a step forward to erase any distance between us.

  Reaching out, I flutter my fingertips along the delicate column of her throat, and her pulse thrums an erratic, reckless beat that I swear I can hear in my ears.

  She kicks out of her boots, and I toe-off my shoes, while trailing my fingers up to the pout of those lush, full lips. “You are so beautiful, Gigi. And I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

  “I missed you, too, Max,” she whispers across my fingers, and then pushes me away so she can walk toward her bedroom.

  Her words send a spiral of need curling through me.

  Lust.

  Love.

  Admiration.

  I lean against the wall and just watch her hips sway. Every muscle in my stomach clenching when she tugs her top off and drops it to the floor.

  Halfway to her room, she peels off her leggings.

  Stopping at the doorframe, she unhooks her bra and lowers her panties. Naked, that mass of hair falls around her bare shoulders as she curls her finger in my direction. “Are you coming?”

  Staring at every delicious inch of her, I tell her, “Oh, I’m coming all right. All night long.”

  Her brows waggle in the most sensual way, and she gives me a come hither look.

  I won’t say I run to her, but I damn well sprint, and before she even moves from the space she occupies, I’m kissing her tits.

  Pink, perky, pebbled tits.

  It feels like a lifetime ago since I first tasted them and just yesterday at the same time.

  That fateful day I met her in a taxi cab because Gabriel fucked up.

  Gabriel.

  The one who leaked the photos. Hired that man to nearly run me over with his motorcycle and then scare me into hiring my bodyguard back. The traitor. The greedy bastard without a spine. The man who will spend the rest of his life behind bars for treason.

  She looks down at me. “I need to know that you’re truly okay.”

  Things turn serious. “I am, Gigi,” I murmur, knowing exactly what this girl is saying. Standing tall, I grip her by the back of the head, my fingers splaying wide, drawing her to me. “It was your voice on the phone, calling me baby, telling my you loved me, that kept me going, you know.”

  “I was so scared.”

  I kiss her slowly. Deeply. Carefully. “I’m here now, baby. It’s all over.”

  She wraps her arms around me, holding me, and I hold her just as tightly. Hold her the way I want to hold her for the rest of my life.

  Tonight, I’m not going to fuck her—I’m going to make sweet love to her.

  She may never officially bear the title of QUEEN, but to me, she already is one.

  And she deserves to be treated that way.

  Forever and always.

  IN OTHER NEWS

  The Casanovia Conquest

  Breaking News

  STILL A BAD BOY AT HEART

  By Ian Wesley

  Prince Maximus shows no signs of stopping his protocol-breaking behavior.

  Despite Casanovia’s royal family’s unspoken rule about not showing public displays of affection, he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off his American girlfriend on their way to meet his recently born nephew—Prince Rowan of Casanovia—at the hospital.

  And if what my sources tell me is true, I think we can expect only more PDA from him.

  Good for our bad boy chap.

  Don’t you think?

  FINALLY

  The Casanovia Conquest

  Breaking News

  THE COUPLE KNOWN AS MAXIG HAS ANNOUNCED THEIR ENGAGEMENT

  By Ian Wesley

  Just a few short hours ago, the royal engagement between Prince Maximus (famously Casanovian) and Gigi Gatsby (famously not) was announced, and already, everyone has something to say about it.

  From the ring to her dress to speculations on who will attend the wedding, the announcement has anyone remotely interested in these Royals in a tizzy.

  Me for one, I’m going to go ahead and be happy about the announcement and revel in the reactions taking up cyberspace on Twitter.

  In other words, I have nothing but hope for these two, and I’ll leave it at that.

  Congratulations to the new Royals.

  WILL THERE BE BELLS?

  The day has finally come to get it writing.

  No matter how badass I want to think I am, though, if my father refuses to give his formal consent for Gigi and me to marry, I would have to abdicate to do so.

  This should be a slam dunk after he rescinded the marriage decree to Beatrice, but then again, with my father, nothing is ever a slam dunk.

  I’m about to knock on his door when I hear voices inside his office. “He’s otherwise detained,” comes the voice of my evil step-mother.

  I curse under my breath as I whirl around. I really don’t want to deal with her right now. “Genevieve,” I say in an airy tone.

  “Maximus,” she returns. “Good to see you.”

  My jaw clenches and I say nothing because I doubt it’s good to see me. I mean it’s never good when we see each other.

  Her hand goes to the cross around her neck. “Your father summoned me to his office. That’s why I’m here.” Her voice is cordial, not filled with the haughtiness I typically hear from her.

  I shrug. “Then I’ll come back later.”

  “I’d like to apologize.” she says, just as I’m about to step away.

  “For what?�
� I ask in shock. This is the Queen, a woman who assumed the role that belonged to my mother as if it had been hers all along.

  “For assuming Beatrice was the right woman for you. After seeing you with Gigi this past year, I know I was mistaken. And for that, I’m sorry.”

  Hmmm…did my father finally grow a set of balls when it comes to her and demand her to apologize or is she doing this on her own. I’m tending toward the former.

  Before I can respond, Post Malone blares from the other side of the door. “What the hell?” I say out loud, pushing open the door.

  As soon as it swings wide, I grin a mile wide. Genevieve, though, she isn’t smiling at the sight.

  Gigi is holding a pen to her mouth and pretending to rap the chorus, while at the same time teaching my father some dance move that he’s actually attempting.

  The sight almost puts me on my ass with laughter.

  King Winston Alfred Montgomery is doing the Cabbage Patch. No way. Just no fucking way. Where the hell is my brother? He has to see this.

  Genevieve clears her throat. “Alfred, you wanted to see me.”

  Without pause, he motions her inside. “And you too son,” he says as he finishes his lesson.

  Gigi blushes a thousand shades of pink.

  Unable to resist, I march right up to her, grab the pen, and take over the chorus. “I think the Humpty is actually a better move for my father.”

  “How do I do that one?” my father asks.

  Just then, Leopold strides in with Rowan in his arms. “Let me show you, Father,” he says. “Max sucks at dancing.”

  “I do not.”

  He hands Genevieve the baby and hip-hops all the way over to Gigi, taking her hand and twirling her around before getting down.

  Grinning at the sight, it isn’t until the song ends that we stop the shenanigans. I can’t remember having fun with my father since my mother died.

  This is the start of something new—or I hope it is.

  Genevieve’s eyes are the size of saucers. It could be because the baby spit up all over her silk dress, but I think it’s more the sight.

  “Yes, well, very well,” my father says. “I’m glad you all could join me. There’s an order of business I need to attend to, and I needed everyone here.”

  Petunia knocks softly on the open door. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  “Not a problem,” my father tells her as Genevieve hands the baby off to her and Leopold rushes to his wife’s side, kissing her on the cheek.

  My father holds up a document and looks toward me. “This is the Instrument of Consent allowing you to marry Gigi.”

  This time my eyes go wide. I didn’t even have to ask? I think Gigi might have this man wrapped around her finger and she doesn’t even know it.

  Due to the Royal Marriages Act, the Monarch has the right to veto the marriage of a member of his family and is required to give formal consent to any family marriages in order to guard against those that could diminish the status of the royal house.

  “Thank you, father,” I say, taking Gigi’s hand in mine and pulling her close.

  As the crested pen hits the paper, and he scrolls his signature on the dotted line of the Instrument of Consent, he recites what the document reads: “I declare my consent to the contract of matrimony between my most beloved son, Prince Maximus Napoleon Montgomery and Gianna Natalia Gatsby.”

  Leopold claps his palms together. “Great, now that that’s done, can we have lunch? I’m starving.”

  Everyone laughs.

  Even Genevieve.

  Who knows, maybe she’ll come around.

  HERE COMES THE BRIDE

  The air smells of roses and lilies and rings with soft voices and light footfalls.

  A quick glance in the mirror causes tears to come to my eyes. In my pure white, bow-neck, sleeveless silk gown designed by Kate Snow and topped with the tiara Max’s mother wore at her wedding to his father, I feel like the princess I’m about to become.

  After practicing my wave one more time (for the procession in the horse and carriage after the ceremony), I pick up my lily of the valley bouquet and smile at the taxi charm the jiggles on my wrist.

  Keeping our engagement a secret until Max’s nephew was born was easy. Not wearing my ring was just as easy. But not being able to claim Max as mine in the public eye—not easy at all.

  Today, I finally get to do that.

  Outside, a breeze ruffles the trees, and the sea moves back and forth as easily as a baby’s cradle.

  Glancing toward the entrance, I can clearly see the crowds snaking along the street, sheltering beneath a canopy of umbrellas to avoid the afternoon sun. Among the sea of colorful cellophane-wrapped flowers, Casanovia flags, and congratulatory banners, I can also make out the paparazzi.

  I’ve become good at spotting them.

  Some are on ladders, their lenses trained on the church entrance, eagerly awaiting the first glimpse of Prince Maximus and his new bride (me).

  Moving to Casanovia, so Max can be closer to his brother and newborn nephew, has been the easiest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

  Things are different here.

  Not so chaotic and crazy.

  Not bigger or better than Texas, but just right.

  I even got Max to watch a Nicholas Sparks film or two, and even if he won’t admit it, he loved them. He also couldn’t wait to binge Season 2 of the Crown.

  We stay busy, though, and it isn’t all downtime for us. Max has his mother’s charity work, which takes a huge amount of time, and this we do together.

  He also works, his newest venture an on-line startup for Kate Snow, whose dress I’m wearing today. The designer who went viral when I wore her dress and Max was snapped with his hands up it.

  And I work, too.

  After all, I might have pursued fashion as some warped false connection to my mother, but somewhere along my path, it became a part of me. I had correlated being successful in fashion with proving that I was worth fighting for, but now I know I am worth fighting for.

  I.

  Am.

  Worth.

  It.

  Despite my mother leaving me, taking off on me, I never gave up on love and I guess I owe my dreaminess to her.

  So for that, I thank her.

  Now, I have two great loves in my life—fashion and Max.

  Virtual stylist is my title. I’m a start-up that Max is managing. Managing quite well, I might add. This he reminds me about daily.

  Seriously, though, I assemble outfits for my clients online and they purchase the pieces themselves from the sites I direct them to.

  It’s fun.

  And leaves me time to spend with my soon-to-be husband.

  Bombshell is a hit in the States. Its circulation tripling in a year’s time. Julia now runs it, and Scarlett is back as Creative Director, Ava having recently retired to prepare for the birth of her and Hunter’s baby.

  She and Hunter visit often.

  Max and I live in a small guest house on Palace grounds right near the ocean. On the weekends, we sail and swim and make love and avoid Genevieve at all costs. No matter what she says, it’s clear—she still disapproves of me, us being together.

  It’s doubtful that is ever going to change; however, the King is so dear, and seems to adore me. He even told me he knows his deceased wife (Max’s mother) would have loved me and thought me perfect for their son.

  “Are you ready?” Ava asks, tugging at my train.

  It is still hard to believe that the King signed the Instrument of Consent (the official document granting his son permission to marry me) and did so with a smile on his smile.

  He wants me in his son’s life.

  I belong here.

  I take a breath and turn around.

  Light streams through the grand church windows in lovely beams and shafts, and glitters on the lavender and lace that surrounds me. “I am,” I tell her, smiling at her round belly and huge diamond ring.

  Mrs. H
unter Tigress of three months is with child. Turned out, when she finally decided to have sex with the man, he wasn’t prepared with a condom since he thought the day would never come. However, he wasn’t turning the opportunity down.

  And hence a baby was made.

  “Are you feeling okay?” I ask her.

  In her purple gown, her eyes glow and she nods vigorously. “Oh yes. Definitely.”

  I squeeze her hand with the fingers not holding the flowers and step outside the bridal suite to find my dad, brother, and niece.

  Dima. Tatiana. And my father.

  Here, in Casanovia.

  I love having them here so much it makes my heart squeeze with glee.

  They actually met Max when we went to Texas at Christmas. Dima came around, but it took hanging out with Max more than once. The first time he was assessing, testing. Then, the second time, when Max took Tatianna horseback riding, and she came back smiling and happy, Dima decided he was a good guy. You know, in Texas, how much we love horses, and the fact that Max could ride definitely helped.

  A small part of me wonders what my mother would think of this day, but that small part is overshadowed by the joy I see on my family’s faces. Whereas my mother left us, they are here, for me, with me.

  My father holds out his arm, and I wrap mine around it. “I’m so happy for you Gianna,” he smiles.

  “I love you, Dad,” I smile back, knowing to him I will always be his Gianna, not Gigi.

  The chapel is filled with branches of beech, birch and hornbeam, and white garden roses, peonies and foxgloves from the gardens around the Palace.

  Guests in black morning coats and full military dress fill the pews.

  The organ music cues.

  Everyone stands.

  The wedding party leads the way, and once they’ve taken off, Max comes into my field of vision.

  So regal in his blue frockcoat uniform with golden braids on the right side, that my heart leaps, every part of me swooning over the smile he gives me. The way he bites his lip. How he looks at me like I’m the only one in the room.