Long Live The King Anthology: Fifteen Steamy Contemporary Royal Romances

by Vivian Wood

  “You should be proud,” I comment. “Everything here looks amazing.”

  “Everything?” He presses. I smile, sauntering closer.

  He reaches out for me, and I sink helplessly into his touch. I tilt my head upwards, cupping the five o’clock shadow around his face, and just as I start to pull him towards me, he shakes his head, extending a sauce-covered finger to the tip of my lips before speaking, his husky tone turning into a silk-laced growl. He touches the skin along my bottom lip.

  “Taste.”

  And it’s the only word it takes.

  I suck gently on the tip of his finger, savoring the dark flavor. It’s a delight on my tongue, sweet to the taste, and as my tongue flicks out to try more, Heath lowers his mouth, descending on mine, turning my brain into mush.

  His kiss is soft at first—a tease of what’s to come. With the sweet sensuous acidity still on my mouth, I let Heath’s soft tongue stroke my own, needing his flavor more than anything else in the world.

  I sigh, stepping out of his kiss. “Now’s not the time, Heath…” I whisper.

  “Actually,” I watch as his autumn-colored eyes glow, “this is striking me as exactly the right time, Ms. Keats. I know something that tastes much better than anything in here…” He leans in, nipping my ear. “And it’s located right between those sexy thighs.”

  I shiver, shaking at the knees as he inclines forward, kissing my neck. The kisses don’t stop there. They trail to my collar and before I know it, Heath is lifting me onto his quartz counter, his fingertips skimming under the skirt of my red dress, his hands reaching for my panties. He lifts my hips before sending the pieces of silk sailing.

  His fingers descend to the middle of my thighs.

  The noise from the rest of the party is just outside the kitchen’s double doors, and I glance hesitantly at them, my vision going blurry as Heath strokes a finger against my slowly soaking slit, his thumb circling my clit as I gasp greedily under his touch. My mouth can barely move.

  “We-we can’t do this. Not here.”

  He chuckles. “That’s why I set you on a separate counter from the food.”

  “No, not here,” I whimper as his hands stroke and wind. “I mean, here. In the kitchen. Where anyone can walk in at any moment.”

  “It’s my kitchen. And I’m the chef.” He bites the dip near my neck, his teeth digging deeply. I moan out loud, and he keeps going. “No one has been in here all night. Except you. And I watched you lock the door behind Marilyn because of Tank.” He grins again. “Violet, this is my domain. My house. All these damn hangers-on should be glad I’ve let them in. Especially since this is about Brett and Elsie. And no one else.”

  “Right.” I sigh as Heath sinks to his knees. “About no else,” I agree, watching as he spreads my knees. I lean my head back on a groan. “If it’s about the bride and groom, can’t this wait?”

  I don’t want it to. God knows I don’t want it to. But I’m trying to be the sane one here… And it isn’t easy.

  Heath glances up at me with a wicked smirk.

  “Yes,” he says, savoring the sight of my nakedness under the skirt. “But it’s been a long day, gorgeous. And you know what they say about angry chefs?”

  I exhale loudly, blowing out a ragged breath. “What do they say?”

  “Even the best deserve a snack sometimes.”

  And then he puts his mouth on me.

  His tongue is slow this time—lovingly lazy. Tantalizingly tender and skilled, he sweeps the edge of it along my slit, circling me with its soft buds. His licks are twisted brushes, flying figure-eights under my dress, and as he lowers his lips, sucking hard, I almost see stars—veritable universes, until he stops suddenly, blowing over my pulsing pussy.

  My moan is almost scarily loud, a tired sound of sexual frustration. I stare at Heath’s handsome face as he lifts his head, the expression there twisting into a small scowl. My eyes can’t help but widen.

  I straighten where I sit. “What?”

  “You know…” he comments off-handedly, “A chef has certain rules, Violet… Rules he doesn’t like broken.”

  I nod. “I’m sure.”

  He replaces his lips with his fingers, pumping me with his hand instead. “And when a cook in the kitchen interferes with a chef in his duties, she must be punished…shouldn’t she?”

  Confusion contorts the expression on my face, I know, but the question on my lips dies under his touch, melts away under his motions. Heath continues talking.

  “I mean, if the cook is making something without telling the chef, that should be a problem. Especially if that chef had a hand in creating that very thing…”

  His voice sinks to a whisper—a sexy hiss. “Especially if the chef knows the cook is keeping a secret.”

  But I can’t think. Can’t talk as Heath continues his confusing story.

  With filthy fondles under my skirt, the man molding my body like dough makes me forget everything else. I can barely hear what he’s saying as he penetrates me with his fingertips, dipping and swirling into my swollen cavern. And when he lowers his mouth once again, gripping his hands into my hips, he is no longer loving me with his tongue.

  He is fucking me with it.

  His hold is relentless as he slides me back and forth. His fingertips squeeze into my skin and as my body sweeps across the counter, my pussy plunging around his tongue, it is all I can do not to scream, my senses scattering as Heath impales me with his soft pink tip, making me see heaven over and over again.

  I come so many times I fear I might crash and burn.

  I grip into my very own Greek god’s tousled hair, tangling my fingers. When I finally come back down to earth, Heath stands to his feet, fixing my skirt. His kiss is brutal as he crushes me towards him, his grip fierce.

  He pulls back, gazing into my eyes, his voice and stare softer than I’ve ever seen both. His words almost break as he releases me, his glare saying everything his eyes don’t.

  “Now, does the cook want to tell the chef about his little bun in her oven? Or not?”

  Thank you so much for reading Heath and Violet’s story!

  Read more now to find out what happens when Heath’s right-hand man, Jesse, takes on Heath and Violet’s case…and find himself sensually connected to the one woman he shouldn’t want…

  Heath’s sister, Marilyn.

  The Deal is live on all platforms now.

  Read a SNEAK PEEK from THE DEAL on the next page!

  SNEAK PEEK of The Deal

  JESSE

  “This is not just a party. This is one of my parties.” He returns my gaze. “Or were you that drunk all those times that you forgot the debauchery?”

  My hands stop moving.

  Like the sick fuck I’ve found myself becoming because of this case, I chuckle, thinking of the decadent fun we’d had just five years ago in one of the many lofts owned by New York City’s most dysfunctional tabloid fodder family.

  It seemed their destiny that Heath and his family-led law firm were constantly battling the press. A curse of their multi-comma’ed trust fund. They couldn’t catch a break.

  Less than twenty-four hours ago, the rumor mill had sucked Heath’s own sister, Marilyn, into another sordid story, releasing hacked nudes of the city’s infamous soap opera actress into the blog-o-sphere.

  Scandal swirled around the Sparrow family like crushed cookies in an Oreo shake.

  Decadent. Delicious. And seriously bad for your fucking health.

  I glance up at Heath, wondering if I should risk touching the swirling soup of madness. I shake my head, tapping my knuckles at the corner of my desk. My mind soaks in his suggestion.

  I exhale. “I don’t know, man. I just…”

  “Just…think about it,” Heath holds up his hands. “And don’t forget to swing by after your deposition.” He shoots me a pointed look. “I’d like to get in on this if you don’t mind.”

  I watch his back as he turns and leaves.

  I glance out
the wall-to-wall windows, only regretting one thing.

  That I’m not stronger.

  Not strong enough to not let the stress of my current court case drag me down in the dregs with it. The nightmares I’d had years ago are back with a vengeance. And as I look over the skyline of Manhattan—silver and black skyscrapers, dark and beautiful as ever—I can’t help but think of it as the site of so much joy, success…and sadness.

  This city is a devastating swirl of all three. Designed to put your willpower in a fucking blender and your privacy on display. And there are none who now know that fact more than Marilyn Daniels, Heath’s baby sister, whose own beautifully nude body was now scattered all over the Internet, just a phone touch away.

  Including on mine…

  Find out what happens when Jesse hops behind the wheel of Heath’s court case on Chris Jackson…and takes Marilyn along for the ride.

  Start reading THE DEAL right now!

  About the Author

  Natalie Wrye is a reader, writer and tequila lover best known for writing suspenseful big city romance and characters whose HEA's you'll love rooting for.

  A notebook hoarder whose books have been featured on USA Today's HEA and PopSugar, when she's not watching Netflix re-runs or yelling at college basketball games on TV, she's usually crafting sexy suspenseful stories about hard-bodied, take-charge heroes and the strong-willed women who crave them.

  She loves it when people get weird with her on IG, NatalieWrye.com or NatalieWrites@NatalieWrye.com.

  Beasts & Bourbon

  Alta Hensley

  Chapter One

  Cheri

  The sunlight of a new day has a way of changing how you once viewed something the night before in the darkness. This could be a good thing when you fall asleep feeling as if the whole world is crumbling down upon you, but then the morning brings new hope and a fresh perspective. Or this could be a bad thing when you meet a man in a bar, think he is the sexiest thing you ever laid eyes on, bring him home for a night of incredible but casual sex, and then look over and realize that the sunlight is not your, or his, friend.

  Shit. When would I learn that two margaritas, followed by too many tequila shots, would make any man appear hot in a small Costa Rican dive bar? Sure, he was a tan, lean surfer, still sandy and damp from the salty water of the sea. Sure, he wore a man bun, which for the life of me I could never figure out why I found that attractive, but I did. Sure, he seemed to have the free spirit gypsy soul I found so enticing in a person. The type of man who traveled from one adventure spot to the next, never taking root in any one town for long. And yes, I melted into a pool of goo when he said my name with that thick accent that I simply called ‘European,’ because I never could figure out which country these surfer boys came from. Yes, my panties dropped for men like that.

  Vagabonds. I liked to fuck vagabonds.

  Was my situation helped by the fact that, in my alcohol-induced haze, I’d told the man I wanted to lick his nipple?

  Well I did.

  I own it.

  Should I have tried to examine his appearance closer, past the shadows of the local hangout, and through the blurry booze goggles? Glancing over my shoulder at the man snoring lightly in my bed, I knew the answer was a big hell yes.

  What had I been thinking? Where was his sexy man bun now? All I saw in the light of day was greasy, unwashed hair. Where was his muscled chest that I’d so desperately wanted to bathe with my tongue the night before? The man in my bed now looked thin, borderline emaciated, and in need of a meal that wasn’t vegan and organic.

  The poor guy needed a damn cheeseburger.

  But vagabonds who wore man buns and surfed in Costa Rica didn’t eat burgers. It was some unspoken rule—the vagabond rule.

  I looked at that pec I’d so hungered for the night before and cringed when I saw the ingrown hair bumps circling his nipple. Really? Really! My tongue caressed that plucked-feather flesh last night?

  Reaching down for my crumpled panties on the tiled floor, I shook my head in disgust. The purple lace of my underwear contrasting with the decorative Spanish clay tiles reminded me that I was in a foreign exotic location, yet making the same foolish mistakes of my past. I should have known better when he’d compared my hair to the golden rays of the sun, and my eyes to the blue of the sky. He’d actually said the thick curls in my long hair reminded him of the ribbons on a holiday present. The man had no game. But I’d stupidly wanted to lick his damn nipple and had been willing to overlook the fact that he seemed in awe of my every move—the creeper, stalker type of awe that should have sent any sane girl running.

  But sane girls don’t do tequila shots with strangers in random bars in Costa Rica all alone. No, I was far from a sane girl.

  So, now the time had come when I had to decide if I was going to be a bitch and simply kick him out, which is what I really wanted to do. Or if I would just give him some bullshit answer that would spare his feelings. I knew all I had to do was give him some line about needing to go write poetry under a palm tree while eating mangos or something bohemian in nature. Then he would feel like he was aiding my artistic soul and gladly go on his way, assured he was part of my enlightenment. Total bullshit, but I knew it would work.

  Glancing at the man in my bed, I wondered why I was so disgusted. He hadn’t even opened his mouth yet, and I was already condemning him as a shallow-minded hipster. Poor guy. But the fact remained that I still wanted him out of my small bungalow, and I wanted it to happen now.

  Pulling a simple black tank top over my head, and then yanking up a pair of loose-fitting denim shorts, I leaned down and shook his arm. “Hey.” I shook him again with more force when he didn’t even budge in the slightest. “Hey, it’s time to wake up.”

  Rolling over to his side, he reached for my hand. “Why the hurry?” he mumbled, not really opening his eyes as he tried to pull me into bed with him.

  “I need to go.” Here came the bullshit. “The waves are great this morning, and I really want to wake up with the ocean.”

  He stretched his arms above his head and yawned so big I could see that each one of his molars had a silver cap on them. His tongue was white. The man needed to brush his teeth in the worst way. “Okay, give me a second, and I’ll go with you. I’m always up for a good surf.”

  I walked over to a small wicker desk in the corner of the room, pulled a notebook and pen off of it and placed them near my brown leather bag that rested on a chair by the door for effect. “Oh, I don’t want to surf. I need to work on my writing.”

  The last part really wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t turned out a short story, an article, a poem or anything since arriving in Costa Rica. Being a freelance writer sure did have its perks when it came to freedom and flexibility, but it required a lot of discipline to be able to actually feed yourself. Discipline was not something I had, although fortunately for me, I had somehow won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry earlier in the year, and the $15,000 award helped float my dry spell.

  “You write?” he asked, still not getting out of the bed. “That’s cool.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, sometimes.” I walked to the small bathroom and attempted to tame my curly locks by pulling them into a sloppy bun. “But I really need to get going.” I peered out of the corner of my eye as I applied deodorant and then reached for my toothbrush. “I don’t mean to rush you or anything, but you know how it is. When inspiration calls…”

  Continuing on with my morning hygiene duties and brushing my teeth, I sighed with relief when he finally flung his legs over the bed and rubbed his face. He was taking his sweet ass time, but at least he was moving.

  “Yeah, I get it. I write songs.”

  I simply raised my eyebrows in feigned fascination and nodded like we had some deep connection. Satisfied, however, that he was at least moving to put on his pants, I just brushed away to allow the sudsy toothpaste dripping from my mouth to be my excuse for not asking about his songwriting. I couldn’t care less, which was awful. But I
really didn’t give a damn whether he wrote, or sang, or painted, or spoke philosophy, or considered himself a gourmet chef all because he could cook paella. I was so over that type of man… well, at least in the sunlight and when sober. Mr. Tequila unfortunately changed everything.

  Damn Mr. Tequila.

  Reaching for his shirt, he said, “Well, I had a really great time with you last night, Cherry.”

  “Cheri.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Cheri—the ‘sh’ at the beginning. Not Cherry.” Not that I cared that he didn’t know my name. I had no idea what his name was nor did I bother to ask.

  “Oh, sorry. I thought you said your name was Cherry like the fruit. So, like the drink Sherry. Got it. My grandmother loved drinking that shit.”

  Lovely. Like I gave a fuck about his family.

  I sighed. “So I really need to get going. Maybe I’ll catch—”

  There was a knock on the door, breaking my annoyance. Having no clue who could even be at my door, I walked slowly across the room and opened it cautiously without bothering to ask who it was. If this was a robbery, my hipster fuck buddy wasn’t going to be much help in protecting my ass, so my safety was all on me.

  Peeking around the wood, with my heart beating due to my overactive imagination, I saw the man who should have made me slam the door in his face right then and there. But I didn’t. My fucking past was paying me a visit. A robbery would have been better. Fuck me. A hipster, a hangover, and The Past knocking on my door. Could my morning get any shittier?