by Vivian Wood
“I’ll have what you’re having,” Cheri said as she sat down and crossed her shapely legs.
I wanted them open—wide. But that would come later.
“Silas?” I asked.
“The same, sir. Thank you.” The older man sat down wearily as if he had traveled for years on his quest to bring me my long-lost prize.
I signaled for three new bourbons since I could already tell I would need another simply to extinguish the flames burning inside of me. I was in the same room with her again. And just like that, she had my insides gripped in her hands, twisting them until I was nothing but a prisoner under her control.
“Why did you bring me here?” Cheri asked.
“I like Spiked Roses. So many of those other exclusive clubs are entirely too stuffy. Too many rules, too many old bloods—”
“I wasn’t talking about the club,” she interrupted with annoyance lacing every syllable of her words. “To New Orleans. To you!”
I glanced at Silas who was watching a waitress wearing a leather leotard dip elegantly down to her knees as she submissively delivered drinks to a nearby table. I could see the devilish twinkle in his eye. Dirty old bastard.
“Didn’t Silas tell you?” I asked as I took one last puff of the cigar and put it out so I wouldn’t blow the smoke into Cheri’s face.
“His reason why is absolutely ridiculous.”
“I wouldn’t say ridiculous. Archaic maybe, but regardless, it is part of royalty. You know this. You have always known this.”
“That was years ago. We were children. I’ve left. I haven’t been in this world for years.” Cheri paused when another waitress, dressed in red lace this time, delivered our glasses of bourbon. After we all took our drinks, Cheri continued by saying, “You can’t possibly be all right with this whole arranged marriage idea.” She glanced around. “You don’t seem like marriage material to me.” She took a swig of her bourbon. “Hell, I’m not marriage material.”
“You might think you aren’t marriage material. But you are definitely fucking material,” I stated bluntly. “And that is all that matters to me. I couldn’t care less about all the wifely duties or royal princess obligations that would be expected of you. That is everyone else’s job to be concerned about. All I care about is if you are fuckable.” I smiled at her shocked expression. “And yes, my sweet Cheri, you most certainly are fuckable in every way.”
“You are still the same asshole you always were.” She took another drink of her bourbon.
I had to hand it to her. She didn’t lose her temper. My crass words hadn’t upset her at the level I expected them to. In fact, she was so calm that I wondered if she was plotting her next move for the kill.
I raised an eyebrow before sipping my own drink. “And if I remember correctly, you were fuckable way back when. And I was fuckable to you as well.”
“Because we fucked?” she asked with a devilish grin. “If you call missionary position under the blankets with the lights out fucking,” she said, chuckling against the glass at her lips, “then I feel sorry for you and the sex life you must live now.”
Touché. The girl was still as witty as ever. And once again, my cock jerked with the knowledge that she too wanted more out of fucking than vanilla, concealed, bashful banging like two innocent, naïve teenagers would do. She just revealed to me that she wanted to really fuck. And I was just the man to give it to her.
Silas cleared his throat. “Sir, if you don’t mind. I think I will go find a seat at the bar and give you two some time to catch up.”
I nodded at Silas with a large smile. “Go right ahead, my man. Order whatever you want. Just add it to my account. Cigars, booze”—I cleared my own throat—“ladies. Whatever you want. You earned it. You delivered my soon-to-be wife safe and sound. There’s vodka and caviar in the ice room. Also, I have my own keep in the humidor room that you are free to utilize. I do know you enjoy those luxuries from time to time.”
I didn’t have to tell Silas twice. Before I could continue, he was up and excusing himself with as much etiquette as a dirty old bastard on a mission could do.
“I see you are still the spoiled rich boy you always were,” Cheri said as Silas left.
“Rich man,” I corrected with some force. “I am an extremely rich man. And it won’t be long until you’ll see how much of a man I truly am.”
“By forcing me to marry you? Or by forcing me to fuck you?”
“Oh trust me, my Cheri. I won’t be forcing the fucking. You’ll be begging for it.”
“Ha!” she snorted. “You are so full of yourself, Roman.” She shook her head, but I could see the smile she was struggling to hide. She’d always liked when I was an arrogant asshole. It had amused her.
“You miss me. Admit it,” I said as I reached out for her thin and delicate fingers.
She glanced at my hand but didn’t take it. “No. Not in the slightest.” Her lip quivered. It always quivered when she lied. She was still so easy to read. Some things never changed.
“You do. You may have left to play hobo in Mexico, but you miss this. You miss me.”
She shook her head again, but her lip still quivered. “Costa Rica. I was in Costa Rica, and no, I didn’t miss you one bit.” She looked around the club and sighed. “I definitely didn’t miss this opulent bullshit. That’s for sure.”
I watched her eyes as she perused the room again. “No, you never did like all the fancy shit. But I know you missed me.”
She glanced my way and shrugged as she finished the last of her bourbon in one sensual gulp. I couldn’t help but imagine her swallowing my seed instead.
“Welcome back to royalty, Cheri. Welcome back to me.”
Chapter Three
Cheri
Was it possible to hate a man but want to fuck him at the same time? I couldn’t blame tequila on this one, or the fact that he was a vagabond. Roman was definitely not a Costa Rican vagabond. He was simply an asshole. A sexy as fuck asshole. And the truth of the matter was, I didn’t hate him. I didn’t hate him at all. It practically killed me to admit that to myself. Things would have been so much easier had I truly hated the man.
And he was right. I did miss him. I hadn’t realized I did until the minute I laid eyes on his dark hair. I remembered how it used to curl at the ends after a day of hanging out at the pool sipping on lemon coolers squeezed from fruit we had picked fresh off the royal grounds ourselves. And his brown eyes. I remembered how they used to stare into mine with such a boyish naivety when we were young. And his smile. It had always been so easy to make him smile and laugh. There was no effort at all in getting Roman to release a big belly laugh that always made me giggle right alongside of him. He was my best friend. We sometimes would play with Roman’s brothers, but they were older than we were and always preoccupied with something else. We were basically all we had in the crazy and sheltered lives we were forced to live—almost as if we were rare birds trapped in a gilded cage. As children growing up—only two years apart in age—we knew we were arranged to be married. Everything was planned out for us to the finest detail. Not a single decision was to be our own. But we paid little attention to all that stuffy nonsense at that age. All we cared about was playing, having fun, and running wild while the palace staff had to chase us down. It had been the perfect childhood. Our idyllic kingdom.
Then we grew up. Friendship got confusing—really fucking confusing. We had sexual urges, and desires we couldn’t understand. Hanging out at the pool was different. It felt different. Our eyes wandered and lingered in places we both had never paid attention to before. We both wanted more. And eventually we had more. So much more. Prince Roman was my first kiss at the age of sixteen under a starry sky with the call of gulls and slap of waves in the background creating our soundtrack. He was my first sexual experience at the age of eighteen in one of the guest rooms in the palace during one of the many parties the palace hosted. We both had a little too much to drink, but it had felt right… it was right. Prince
Roman was my first everything.
And here he was—years later. Sitting in a leather chair with the twinkling chandelier above his head casting little rays of light that highlighted his perfectly chiseled face. No doubt that beneath his black suit, with his collar opened just enough to show his rich sun-kissed skin beneath it, his body was just as chiseled.
I wanted him. More than I had ever wanted a vagabond in a coastal bar in the midnight hours, and that was truly saying something.
“My mother. Why?” I asked as a lump formed in the back of my throat. “Silas told me you purchased the estate to save it from foreclosure, and that you are funding her lifestyle.”
The cocky smirk washed off his face as he took a slow sip of his drink. Was he buying time to come up with the right answer? “It’s no big deal.”
But it was a big deal. A very big deal.
“May I have another drink?” I asked, not knowing what else to say. Should I thank him? I certainly couldn’t have saved the estate nor keep my mother in the lap of luxury. I had a trust that I’d sworn I’d never touch, determined I could make it on my own. But, even if I did liquidate it, the money wouldn’t have made a dent in what was no doubt owed. But then because of Roman’s act of kindness, he owned me. He had the control. He knew what he was doing. He knew. This was all a calculated plan. It was how the royals worked. Everything about them had always been calculated, and clearly Prince Roman was no different than the rest.
“So why? Why did you do it? So you could force me into marrying you? Blackmail of sorts?”
“Is that what you think?” he asked calmly. “That I would force you into marrying me?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
Roman didn’t answer my question but rather signaled for the waitress to bring us more drinks. This was dangerous. Bourbon and Roman were going to lead to bad things. Very bad things. I could feel it.
“Are you still writing?” he asked.
“Some.”
“Isn’t that why you left? To try to find your Hemingway? Why are you only writing some?”
I shrugged. “Does it really matter? Clearly I’m destined for other things.” I lifted my hands up and pointed at my surroundings. “I get to be here. With you, instead. Lucky me.”
“You are lucky.”
I snorted. “So you say.” I smiled at him and licked my lips. “Is that because I get to marry you?”
“No, because you get to fuck me. You don’t know how lucky you are. But you will. Soon.” His drop-dead smile returned.
“You’re a cocky son of a bitch.”
“I just speak the truth. You always liked that about me.”
God, there were so many things I liked about him. But he was right. I always had appreciated his straightforward honesty. I may not like what he’d say, but I did know that Roman would never lie to me. And through his arrogance, I could always see a genuine charm woven beneath his bravado.
I took a deep breath, not sure I wanted to ask the question I knew I had to ask. “So what’s the plan? How exactly do you see this all going down?”
The drinks arrived, and I watched as Roman laid a hundred-dollar bill on the waitress’s tray. Extravagant bastard, but I’m sure the young woman appreciated it. I also bet she would die to be in my place—destined to become a princess to a wealthy, handsome as fuck, prince.
“You’ve been gone traveling the world, but I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how this goes,” he said as he handed me my drink. “It’s the classic story. You and I are reunited lovers, finally settling down to spend the rest of our lives together. A believable story. The media will find our childhood pictures, document stories that our families and friends tell of us growing up, paint the perfect fairytale romance, and all will be wrapped up in a perfect package. You and I will dress the part, show up at parties hand-in-hand, charity events, pose for planted paparazzi, and do the tango we both know so well.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know this tango. I can’t dance. It’s why I left.”
“I’ll teach you. Remind you of the steps.” Roman smirked as he brought his glass to his lips. “I’ll teach you a lot of things.”
“Ha! Who says I need teaching? Maybe I have a thing or two to teach you. And this tango you speak of sounds uptight and boring. I don’t want to do dinner parties and pose for pictures my entire life.”
“Who said that is all that would be expected of you?” Roman asked with a raise of an eyebrow. “There is so much you don’t know. So much more that will be expected. That I will expect.”
The way Roman stared at me caused my blood to sizzle. A small twinge of excitement beat against my core. He always had that power over me. One look. That was all it ever took. Warmth flooded my face, but even more between my legs. Clenching my thighs tighter, to try to contain the hunger building inside, I glanced away, attempting to see if I could find Silas amongst the patrons sitting at the bar. I wanted the old man to join us again. Anything to break up the sexual energy flowing between Roman and me. A few more sips of bourbon, one more seductive look from this sexy alpha, and it was very likely I would mount that prince’s lap and fuck him in front of all who wanted to watch. I needed old man Silas to babysit us. To babysit me.
“Cheri,” Roman said, drawing my attention back to his handsome face. “Do you want to know what the first thought was that went through my head when I saw you walk through those doors tonight?”
I smiled. “Do tell.” I was sure whatever compliment he gave was going to melt my panties. Roman always had a way with wooing the ladies with his sensual language.
“That I wanted to see your pussy.”
I swallowed hard, trying desperately not to show that his words were making my pussy, which he wanted to see, throb in need.
“I never took the opportunity to really see your pussy before. I plan to change that.”
I sat speechless. What could I say? What could I do? I didn’t even know if I liked what he said. My pussy liked his words… that much was for sure.
“Spread your legs for me,” he ordered, stunning me with the way his face went serious and his tone even.
“Excuse me?” My heart skipped, and I wondered if I’d heard him correctly. Would he be so bold to ask something like that of me?
“Open your legs right there. Where you sit. Now.”
I glanced around our surroundings, as if the only reason I wouldn’t follow his command was because someone would see me.
“No one is up here right now. No one will see. Just me,” he assured.
“You’ve got to be kidding, I’m—”
“Now,” he interrupted. “I want to see your pussy. Spread your legs.”
What the fuck was wrong with me? His dominance. His command. Everything about the way Roman said the words, the way he sat, and the way his hungry eyes waited for me to comply turned me on like I had never been turned on before. I wanted to do what he asked. As crazy as it sounded, I wanted to spread my legs. I wanted him to see my pussy. I wanted him to see what I had to offer—remind him of what he once had.
“The waitress—”
“Isn’t here,” he countered. “Unless you would like her to be. Do you want to show her your pussy too?”
“Roman…” I said, barely louder than a squeak.
His look changed, and that was all it took. His eyes darkened. His face hardened. Something about the way he glared into my eyes told me he was serious, and I was to follow his sexual command. He expected submission.
And fuck me; I wanted to give it.
Very slowly, I eased my legs open. My black dress bunched high on my thighs as I revealed the fact that I wore no panties beneath the dress. Had I done so on purpose? Maybe. I liked not wearing panties. It was a dirty secret that only I knew, and I liked it. It was my secret… until now. Roman could clearly see I wore no panties as I spread my legs before him.
I could see his chest heave as he took a deep breath. His eyes drank in my sex, no doubt glistening with my desire. The cool
air of the room made contact with my wet flesh, heightening my arousal even more.
“Like that?” I teased. “Is this what you wanted?”
“Wider,” he commanded, never breaking his glare from my needy sex.
I did as he asked, spreading my legs as wide as the tight fabric of my dress would allow.
“Do you like what you see?” My voice came out low and husky. I couldn’t believe I was engaging in such a wanton act, but it thrilled me, heightened all my senses, and made me want to do more. I wanted to be a very bad, bad girl. Roman brought a lustful harlot out from my etiquette-trained good girl self.
“Stand up,” he said as he stood and placed his glass on the table near us.
I closed my legs, feeling as if I were in a daze induced by his masculinity. Who the fuck was this man? And what a man he was. Roman took my glass and sat it next to his as he reached for my hand, pulling me to standing. I brushed down the material of my dress so it covered all my private parts again, though a part of me was disappointed that my voyeuristic act had come to an end.
“Come with me,” he said as he led me toward a hallway in the far corner of the upper level. I hadn’t noticed it before, but with all the shadows of the club and the nooks and crannies, I was pretty sure I had only touched the surface. I assumed there was so much more to Spiked Roses.
“Where are we going?” Did I even care? Not really, but it still felt like a question one would ask when being escorted down an unfamiliar hallway.
Roman didn’t answer my question, but led me to a door and swiped a card into the keypad. There was a click of the lock pad, and he opened the door to what appeared to be like any other five-star hotel room, but on steroids. A large king size bed mastered the room. Floor to ceiling windows looked out onto the skyline of New Orleans, acting as the only needed art in the room. Damask wallpaper kept with the baroque feel of the club, but the reds and blacks were offset with golds and warmer tones. A crystal chandelier, like the ones in the club, hung over the lush bed, beckoning me with its jeweled ambiance. It smelled of money. If felt like riches. The room would give any capitalist an instant hard-on. It figured this members-only men’s club would have rooms of this magnitude. Clearly, no expense was spared for its patrons.