I grin. “They were delicious.”
Her plump red lips fall open and she shakes her head. “All of them? I was looking forward to one of those in the morning.”
“So? Just buy more.”
“I made them, you knucklehead.” The girl stares at me, eyes blazing, and all I want to do is bend her over the kitchen counter and drive my cock into her. I want to make those cheeks even redder as she screams my name. I want to grab fistfuls of her ebony hair and twist it as she comes all over my cock.
I take a step toward her, suddenly keenly aware that I’m still not wearing a shirt. She seems to realize that at the same time, her eyes drifting over my chest.
I lift a finger up, brushing it over her soft, round cheek. She stares up at me, unmoving, as if she’s frozen on the spot—just as she did outside when she watched me with Margot. The tension grows between us. Her lips call out to me, begging to be kissed. Her body is soft, and supple, and exactly what I need right now.
But it’s her eyes that make me want her. One is blue, and the other one is a pale green color, and they’re both full of pain and hardship and complicated history.
“Your eyes are different colors,” I say in a gravelly voice.
She snaps out of her stupor and jerks away from me. “Keenly spotted, Sherlock. Got any other revelations for me?”
Reaching behind me, the girl grabs the plate that used to have cinnamon buns on it. Her arm brushes against my side, and the blush on her cheeks deepens. She keeps her gaze averted, taking the plate to the dishwasher without sparing me a glance.
I grin. “Are you embarrassed that I’m not wearing a shirt? You can look, if you want. You can even touch. I won’t bite…unless you want me to.”
Finally, she lifts her eyes up to me. “First of all, ew. Second of all, I’m not in the habit of having my sister’s sloppy seconds, but thanks.”
“That’s disappointing.”
Her blush extends up to her hairline, up to the fading red mark on her forehead.
“What’s your name?” I inch closer to her.
She closes the dishwasher, throwing me a disgusted glance. “Ivy.”
“Ivy,” I repeat, tasting her name on my tongue. “Maybe I should call you Poison, because you’re killing me standing there like that.”
That dumb line makes her stare at me, and a surprised laugh falls through her lips. She shakes her head as I take another step toward her.
I need her. I need to feel her skin under my palms. I need to taste her, kiss her, make her mine. I need those two-toned eyes to drink me in, and I need to hear her moan in my ear.
Ivy’s jaw juts out and her eyebrow arches. “Do those stupid lines actually work?”
“You tell me.” I erase the distance between us, sweeping my arm around her back. My other hand runs up her delicate neck, cupping her cheek. I run my thumb over her red lips, dragging it across her full lower lip. Her breath teases the edge of my finger, and my cock throbs between my legs.
Ivy’s fingers splay over my bare chest. Her breath hitches. I can see the pulse thumping in her neck as her eyes widen.
Angling my head, I lean toward her. In a moment, I’ll taste those perfect lips between mine. I’ll curl my fingers into her dark hair and taste her silken, white skin.
I’ll kiss the only woman that I’ve actually wanted to kiss in almost a year…
…but at the last moment, she turns her head and pushes me back harder than I would have expected her to be able to.
Too hard.
I drank and smoked too much tonight—or maybe I ate too quickly. I took one too many painkillers. Maybe I’m still learning how to walk on these unsteady baby Bambi legs of mine, and I’m destined to fall over all the time from now on.
Whatever the reason is, I can’t hold my balance and I stumble backward. Arms flailing, legs unsteady, I take another step back, but it’s not enough. I twist, hoping to grab onto something, but the edge of the marble countertop is closer than I anticipated.
So close, in fact, that I don’t even have time to react until I hit the edge of my head against it, and crumple to the floor.
5
Ivy
Prince, down.
Blood, everywhere.
Ivy, panicking.
“Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit.” I scramble forward, reaching for a semi-clean tea towel as the Prince groans at my feet.
He’s making noise, so at least that means he’s not dead.
Farcliff Almighty, I almost killed the visiting Prince of Argyle because he tried to kiss me. I can’t even imagine how I’d explain that one. Who in their right mind would believe me? Not even Georgie and Giselle would think I was telling the truth.
“Can you sit up?” I step over the Prince, bending over to help him lean against the cabinets. He slumps a bit, so I kneel down and straddle him to offer more support.
I don’t even have time to think about the fact that I’m straddling royalty right now, or that his very hard erection was pressed up against my stomach just moments ago. Or, indeed, the fact that I’m pretty sure we were a few milliseconds away from kissing.
Kissing.
Me, the virgin, with him, the Prince of Argyle who happens to be in some weird arranged relationship with my sister.
Right now, all I can think about is the blood pouring out of the gash on his head. I press the tea towel against it to try to stem the flow of blood.
The Prince’s hands drift up my thighs and come to rest on my ass. I try to ignore the electric spark in my stomach responding to his touch, or the fact that my panties are soaked—and did I mention I’m straddling him?
Did I mention I’ve never straddled a man, ever?
“This isn’t so bad, you know,” he says, his voice slightly muffled. “I’d gladly suffer an injury if it meant I could bury my face in your tits.” I look down to see his nose shoved between my breasts as I try to keep pressure on his wound.
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m only human.”
I round my back to put a bit of distance between his face and my boobs, even though deep down, I don’t really mind his face being shoved up against my chest.
At the very least, if his face is occupied, he can’t look up and see how red my cheeks have gone. I can feel the burn of embarrassment all the way up to my hairline.
Swinging my leg over to put some distance between our crotches, I take his hand and place it on the tea towel on his head.
“Keep the pressure on.”
“Yes, ma’am. I like a woman who orders me around.” His lips quirk up in a grin.
I roll my eyes. “Give it a rest. I’m trying to avoid you bleeding out on my kitchen floor.”
Pulling a drawer open, I find a clean tea towel and swap it out for the blood-soaked one. Then, I take another clean tea towel and wet it. I start mopping up the blood on the Prince’s face.
I can feel his eyes on me, but I focus on the task at hand. I mop up the blood on his cheeks, noting how strong his jawline is. He has a bit of stubble—more than I’d expect from royalty, to be honest. It gives him a rugged, kind of roguish look.
I wipe the blood from his smooth, wide brow, and try to get it out of his hair. It’s dark, thick, and a bit coarse. There are half a dozen grey hairs poking through on his temple. I feel his hair with the tips of my fingers as I try to wipe a bit of blood out of it, and I start to wonder what it would feel like to twist my fingers into it.
The Prince’s lips are full and almost feminine, and he parts them ever so slightly when I wipe the blood off them. His tongue slides out to lick his lower lip, and a jolt of heat passes straight through my stomach.
Once or twice, I glance at his eyes. They’re dark, stormy, and utterly sinful. The way he looks at me makes me want to squeeze my thighs together. It makes me want to know what it feels like to have his lips on mine, his hands around my waist, his…
I shake my head. A few hours ago, I was watching him kiss my sister. Now, I’m fantasizing
about him being my first?
Get a grip, Ivy.
When I start mopping up his chest, my heart is racing. I take care to not let my skin touch his, but even through the tea towel, I can feel the heat of his body. His chest is hard, muscular, and impossibly broad. I wonder what it would feel like to lay my head there, in the crook between his shoulder and his chest?
I clear my throat.
“I never would have taken you for the nurturing type when you walked in here, guns blazing,” the Prince says to break the silence. I flick my eyes up to his.
Big mistake.
My panties are pretty much ruined at this point.
“No?” I manage to say, focusing on the blood that has dripped down to his navel.
“No, you stormed in here like a tough biker chick, all leather and attitude, but you’re actually really gentle.” The Prince’s hand drifts up to my hip, and I don’t want to tell him to move it. I like the feeling of his hands on my body. I like the heat of it, and the coiled power that I can sense in every part of him.
Taking care not to look at his eyes, I shrug. “I drive a Vespa, so I’m not exactly a bad-ass biker chick. More like dinky little scooter girl.”
Prince Luca chuckles, and the noise makes my stomach clench. I swallow hard, standing up to wring out the tea towel. His eyes are still on me. I can feel them, and it takes everything inside me not to stare back. I’ve pretty much been wearing a permanent blush ever since I walked into the kitchen.
The Prince groans as he stands up. I focus on the tea towel, throwing out the bloody ones and moving to wipe down the counter. The kitchen looks like a crime scene.
I stop when I see Prince Luca’s hand extended toward me.
“I’m Luca, by the way. I never introduced myself.”
“I know who you are,” I say, dragging my eyes up to his. I slide my palm into his hand, and my whole body turns electric. Heat licks the inside of my stomach as my hand feels like it’s burning against his. My mouth goes dry and I struggle to swallow. I’m blinking too much.
Kiss. Straddle. Erection. Panties. Lips. Eyes. Hands.
What were we talking about?
“What’s going on here?” We both turn to see Hunter in the doorway. His face is dark, flicking from me, to the shirtless Prince, to the bloodbath on the kitchen floor.
My instinct is to shrink back, but not Prince Luca. Instead, he puffs his chest out and takes a step forward, as if he owns the ground he walks on. Even in my own house, he feels more at home than I do.
“Who are you?” Luca asks, stepping sideways to shield me from Hunter.
My heart flutters the tiniest bit.
Okay, fine—it flutters a lot.
I step forward, putting a hand on the Prince’s bicep—a very firm bicep, by the way—and I glance at the Prince with a slight nod.
“This is Hunter, Margot’s agent. He’s…” I glance at the wiry man in the doorway. “What are you doing here, Hunter?”
“I just came to check in. Do you need to go to the hospital? That’s a lot of blood.”
Luca waves a hand. “I’ll get one of the doctors at the castle to look at it. I’d better go.” He turns toward me, his gaze making me burn up. “It was nice to meet you, Poison.”
“You’re not actually going to call me that, are you?”
His grin is intoxicating. How is it possible for one man to be this handsome?
…and why does he have to be promised to my sister?
Prince Luca leans down and brushes his lips against my cheek. His breath tickles my neck and he moves his mouth closer to my ear. My pulse jumps, and sparks fly between my thighs.
“I’ll see you again, Poison Ivy.”
Before I can respond, he throws me a knee-weakening grin. Holding a tea towel against his head, and still sans shirt, the Prince strides out of the kitchen as if nothing at all is amiss.
Hunter stares after him, and then at me. His eyes narrow. “I’m watching you, Ivy. You’d better not mess this up for Margot, or else you’ll have hell to pay.”
“I was helping him.” I gesture to the blood on the floor, on the cabinets, on the countertop. “I’m not messing anything up.”
“Why wasn’t he wearing a shirt?”
“I don’t know, maybe because you pimped out my sister and made her hook up with him? Why are you asking me this? Can you leave? You don’t even live here, pervert.”
Hunter rolls his eyes and walks away. When I hear the door close, I jog over and lock it, even though Margot’s agent has a key. I tiptoe upstairs and make sure my sister is still okay. She’s on her bed, sideways, still wearing her dress and heels.
My heart thumps. Maybe they didn’t have sex after all?
Why does that make me so happy?
I sigh, taking Margot’s sparkly stilettos off. I throw a blanket over her, and then I head back downstairs and clean the kitchen. As I mop up the last of the Prince’s blood, I blink back tears.
He was probably just upset that his first choice passed out before he could have sex with her, and then I walked in. I was the second choice, as usual. The fool who enjoyed the attention.
I won’t cry tonight. I won’t.
I’m sick of crying over everything that my sister is given, and everything that I’ll never have. I don’t know why the Prince was interested in me tonight. Maybe that’s just what he does. He hooks up with girls, and then flirts with their sisters.
I scrub the kitchen of any evidence of his presence—as much for my own sake as anyone else’s. By the time I’m done, my back is sore, my hands are raw, and all I want to do is collapse into bed.
But when I get into my room, my hands ball into fists. Anger flares in my chest, burning me as I try to breathe.
He was here.
It smells like him. I can sense him here, like a whisper in the wind. The bed is messed up. There’s ash on my bedside table.
I repeat: ash on my bedside table.
What the actual fuck?
My ears burn, and it feels like my head is going to explode. Was he just toying with me that whole time? He snuck into my bedroom, and he thought he’d pretend to be into me? He flirted with me and trespassed into my space just because he thinks he can?
I rip the blankets off my bed and ball them up, tossing them to the floor. Opening the window, I fling the water out of the glass, sending his ash away with it. I wipe my bedside table, but it’s still not enough.
I can’t sleep here. Not until I clean it of his presence.
He’s too dangerous. Too addictive. Too damn sexy for his own good—or mine.
Tonight, I’ll sleep in a guest bedroom. Tomorrow, I’ll purge my room of him, and then I’ll stay the hell away from Prince Luca.
6
Luca
The royal doctor stitches me up, and then I jerk off in the bathroom while I think of Ivy. When I come, the wound on my head throbs like hell. I probably shouldn’t have done that, but I haven’t been that turned on in months.
Feeling Ivy’s tight, lithe body on top of mine was almost too much. If she’d have stayed on top of me for much longer, grinding her hips against me without even realizing she was doing it, I might have exploded right there. Her tits smelled like magic. She fitted on top of me like we were made for each other.
How the hell am I supposed to date her sister?
I collapse into bed and dream of the dark-haired beauty with the dimpled smile and two-toned eyes.
When I lived in Singapore, I forgot what it was like to be on a Royal Tour. Every day is full of events from morning until night. On account of my fall, and the fact that I’m still required to do two hours of physical therapy for my back every day, I’m able to skip most of the next day’s itinerary, save for the evening meal.
Unfortunately, my brother makes it abundantly clear that I’m expected to attend dinner, at least. It’s an intimate meal with only the Farcliff royal family, our family, and a few dignitaries. My date will be here, too.
I pop a coup
le painkillers in my mouth and wash them down with a gulp of wine. Roughing my hand through my hair, I glance around my room and find my black tie. Slipping it around my neck, I don’t have time to tie it when a knock sounds on the door.
When I open it, I’m surprised to see Princess Dahlia standing outside my bedroom door. She smiles at me, flicking her baby blue hair over her shoulder.
“Your Highness,” she says. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all.” I step aside and motion for her to come into my chambers. The Farcliff royal family have been kind enough to provide each of us with our own bedroom, living room, and bathroom. I motion to one of the sofas in the ornate living room, and Princess Dahlia steps over to it. Her gait is soft and almost fairy-like, just like the rest of her.
“I wanted to speak to you before tonight’s event,” she starts, smoothing her hands over her navy dress. Tilting her head, she stares at me with sharp eyes.
“Okay,” I respond, a little bit apprehensive.
“My husband and I were talking about our upcoming tour through Farcliff. You may or may not be aware, but Damon has become a bit of a spokesperson for mental health.”
I incline my head.
Dahlia smiles at me. “We were hoping you’d join us.”
“Me? I’m not exactly a model for a healthy mind,” I snort, shaking my head. My knee bounces up and down and I scratch the back of my neck. It’ll be a few more minutes before the pills I took take effect, and an itching sensation is crawling up my spine.
The need.
The addiction.
Her Highness doesn’t seem to notice. She tucks a strand of pale blue hair behind her ear and smiles wider. “Of course you’re a model for mental health! You survived a debilitating spinal cord injury, and not only lived, but learned to walk again. You’re an inspiration, Your Highness.”
Royally Unexpected 2: An Accidental Pregnancy Collection (Surprise Baby Stories) Page 4