by Parker Grey
Flynn winks at me, and I just blush harder. He laughs, because he loves getting a rise out of me.
“Well, it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again,” I point out. “And I wouldn’t see him again even if I had, you know, gone into the bathroom with him, so it’s for the best.”
Flynn just sighs dramatically, and I glance at the clock. It’s four-thirty.
Crap. I drop the silverware I’m holding back into its trays, and Flynn glances over.
“I gotta go,” I say. “You’re good here, right?”
He waves the rag at me.
“Which troll-beast needs you to pluck her nose hairs again because she can’t figure out which end of the tweezers to use?” he asks.
“Shhh,” I hiss, shooting him a glare. “Come on, don’t get me in trouble.”
“Everyone else is gone, you know,” he says.
“I’ve gotta make dinner, then make sure Peyton’s gown is pressed and ready,” I say. “She’s going to the opera tonight with some rich duke, I forget which one.”
“For her sake, I hope he’s blind,” Flynn says.
“Flynn!”
He just laughs.
“Go on, get,” he says, and I rush out the door.
I’m barely in the front door when the screeching starts, echoing down the wide foyer of my father’s mansion.
My deceased father’s mansion. Technically, that makes it my stepmother’s, since she inherited everything because he didn’t leave a will, but I still think of it as his.
There’s not a lot of his that I have left, so it helps.
“Ella! Where is my flat iron? The ceramic one? Did you borrow it again? I swear to God my hair is an absolute nightmare!”
Peyton’s voice feels like an icepick to my eardrums, and I take a deep breath while I close the front door, trying to collect myself.
For the record, I’ve never borrowed her flat iron. My hair is naturally straight to begin with, and besides, I’m not insane. She’d probably skin me alive if I even asked.
“ELLA!!”
“I think I saw it in the middle drawer of your bathroom counter when I was cleaning in there last week,” I call.
There’s no answer, just angry footsteps stomping around upstairs. She doesn’t shout for me again, so I assume she’s found the stupid flat iron and I can get on with my day.
As quickly as I can, I head to my own room, a small one attached to the laundry room, change out of my uniform and into regular clothes. I pull my hair back into a bun again, then head into the kitchen so I can make dinner.
Slade is outside, sunning herself by the pool in a bikini that doesn’t really flatter her figure, but she likes to think it does. When she sees me through the window, she waves at me, then crooks her finger.
My blood boils, but I go see what she wants.
“I need a margarita,” she says. She’s wearing sunglasses, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even open her eyes again.
I’m tempted to say then go make yourself a margarita, but I don’t. She’ll tell her mother, and then I’d be in big trouble.
“Sure,” I say, and head back into the kitchen. There’s a pitcher of margarita mix in the fridge, and I mix Slade up a strong one — the sooner she gets drunk, the sooner she’ll fall asleep and leave me alone. She could easily do this herself, but why do anything yourself when your stepsister is practically your indentured servant?
Finally, when both my stepsisters are happy, I can start making dinner. Tonight’s menu is hazelnut-crusted lamb chops, which my stepmother specifically requested even though I know for a fact she doesn’t like hazelnuts. She’ll just try it, push it away, and demand something else.
Still, even though I’m busy, as the nuts whirl in the food processor my mind slips to Prince Grayson one more time, and I close my eyes, imagining him behind me right now. His lips on the back of my neck, his hand in my hair.
The way he’d bend me over this counter, squeeze my butt. The sound of his zipper sliding down.
“Are you finally making dinner?” Livia’s voice says, sharp even over the din of the food processor, and my eyes snap open.
“Yes,” I say.
She looks me over, sharp gray eyes in a pinched face, bottle-blonde hair waved to hair-sprayed perfection. For one second I wonder if she somehow knows what I was just thinking about, but then she walks on.
“Good,” she calls over her shoulder. “Peyton’s got a big date with a very important man, and she doesn’t want to miss it.”
She leaves the room, and I allow myself a tiny smile.
Not as important as the man who propositioned me this morning, I think.
Sometimes it’s the small victories.
Chapter Six
Grayson
What the hell is this?” my father roars, slapping a tabloid onto his enormous mahogany desk.
I lean in, just enough to read the headline.
“I’m Pregnant With Prince Grayson’s Baby!”
It’s in screamingly bright yellow print over a picture of me and some girl, dancing in a nightclub. Or, rather, she’s dancing — bent in half at the waist, ass up — and I’m standing there with a drink.
“Who the hell is this—” he checks the magazine again, “—this Dakota Williamson?”
I squint at the picture, desperately trying to place it. Despite the headline, I sincerely doubt that she’s pregnant with my child. I may get my dick wet a lot, but I’m careful. I know perfectly well that half the women in the kingdom would love to bear my child for the support payments alone.
Call me old-fashioned, but I’d prefer not to have twenty different baby mamas.
“I’m not sure,” I say truthfully, and my father just glares.
“I’ll tell you who she is,” he says, his voice rising even more. “She’s some strumpet who’s the daughter of an equally useless brown-nosing earl who’s been a pain in my ass for years.”
I look at the picture again, and finally that night clicks.
Dakota gave great head, but I didn’t fuck her. There’s definitely no way she’s pregnant by me.
“She’s lying,” I say, and tell my father why, though I leave the details vague. It doesn’t seem to make him less angry, though, and he launches himself to his feet.
King Maxwell is still an intimidating man. Even though we’re the same height, same build, and I’m thirty years younger, he’s still got that aura of authority and power that comes with being king.
“I’ve had enough,” he proclaims, pacing back and forth on the expensive rug.
I don’t answer. I don’t think I’m supposed to, really.
“It’s time you settled down, Grayson.”
The sentence hits me like a punch in the face. Settle down? Is he kidding?
The longest relationship I’ve ever had lasted two weeks, and that was only because the girl and I didn’t speak the same language. It was purely, purely physical, though I do still know how to say fuck me deeper in Russian.
But I got bored of Svetlana. It’s what I do, I get bored of girls and want to move on to the next one.
“Father, I—”
“It’s not up for discussion,” he says, turning sharply in his tracks and glaring at me. “I’ve had it with your behavior, Grayson. At first, when you were more discreet, I could handle it. But now, like this—”
He gestures furiously at the tabloid.
“This is a drain on the kingdom, the royal family, everything. And I won’t have it.”
I jump to my feet, fists balled at my side.
“You can’t just decree that,” I say.
He stops and just looks at me.
“Yes, I can,” he says coolly. “Just like I can decree that if you don’t stop bringing shame on our family and nation, you can be disinherited and your sister Aurora can become queen someday.”
He wouldn’t. He fucking wouldn’t.
But the look in my father’s eyes is telling me he’s not kidding. He might really do th
is, because as my father, he’s the only person I know more strong-willed and bull-headed than I am.
“We’ll do this the old-fashioned way,” he says when I don’t respond. “What do you say to a proper ball. We’ll invite every eligible woman in the kingdom, and you can pick your bride from there.”
The kingdom is very small, because otherwise there’s no way that would work.
“I’m supposed to choose after one night?” I ask, a sarcastic undertone creeping into my voice.
“No,” my father says, unperturbed. “You’re supposed to narrow down the pool of possible candidates after one night. I’m well aware that we’re no longer living in medieval times.”
Out of nowhere, I think about the waitress. I don’t know a thing about her — she wasn’t even wearing a name tag — but if she’s eligible, she’ll be there.
Fuck it. I’ll decree that all women have to come, just to make sure she’s there.
I still hate this plan. I don’t want to settle down with the waitress, I just want to fuck her once, make her writhe with the kind of pleasure that I’m somehow certain no one’s ever shown her before.
I want to see her pretty pink lips around my cock, those blue eyes looking up at my shyly while she takes me in her mouth, her blonde hair wrapped around my hand.
“All right,” I say, and for once my father looks surprised, like he was expecting a fight.
“Excellent,” he says, though he sounds suspicious. “We’ll set a date. The sooner the better. How about one week from tonight?”
An image flashes through my brain: the waitress in an evening gown, low-cut and low-backed, hugging all her curves. A week can’t go fast enough.
“One week sounds good, Father,” I say.
He levels one finger at me.
“If a tabloid so much as prints your name between now and then, I’ll—”
I hold both my hands up, palms out.
“They won’t,” I say, even as annoyance twists inside me.
The World Cup this weekend is definitely out. Goodbye beautiful Italian girls, goodbye eager stewardesses sucking my cock. Goodbye watching one girl ride me hard while her friend plays with her nipples from behind.
But strangely, I don’t feel that bad. I’m not sure I’ll miss it all that much, and I’m not sure why.
“I’ll have George start making the arrangements,” my father says. “And thank you for being so reasonable, son.”
I duck my head once, unsure what to say. My father rarely thanks me for anything.
“My pleasure,” I say, and then I leave his office.
Chapter Seven
Ella
Peyton is a nightmare. She doesn’t want to eat the dinner I made because she says walnuts make her bloated, and then she blames me because she can’t get the zipper of the evening gown she wants to wear all the way up.
“Try harder,” she demands, looking at herself in a full-length mirror.
She’s fully done up, hair piled on her head, fake eyelashes, ruby-red lips. The gown she chose is a shimmery blue.
Peyton’s not an ugly girl. She’s actually kind of pretty — at least she is before she insists on spackling makeup onto her face with a trowel and wearing a dress that’s a size too small for her. Every time she goes on a date I’m tempted to remind her that no one’s going to be looking at the number on her tag, but I never have.
“Try holding your breath,” I suggest.
“I am,” she insists.
I tug. The zipper’s not going up, and I’m worried that I’m going to break it.
“Is there another dress you could wear?” I ask. I know she’s got a closet full of them, but I also know that’s not necessarily good enough for her.
“The Duke likes blue,” she insists. “And I like how this one makes my cleavage look good.”
I sigh silently, to myself, looking over Peyton’s shoulder at my own reflection. I look tired and bedraggled. I just want her to go on her stupid date so I can go do the dishes and then read in my tiny room while no one bothers me.
But instead I hear Livia coming up the stairs.
“Peyton!” she shouts, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Are you ready yet?”
“Ella can’t zip up my dress!”
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at Peyton acting like this is my fault as Livia storms into the room and gives Peyton a once-over.
“Either put on a corset or change your dress,” she commands.
Peyton pouts, but she doesn’t disobey her mother. She tosses the blue dress into a heap on the floor and grabs an aquamarine one from the closet. This one zips up perfectly.
I breathe a quiet sigh of relief.
After that, there’s drama about Peyton’s shoes and drama about Peyton’s purse, but then the Duke’s limousine finally pulls up and she leaves. Slade’s had a couple of margaritas and she’s watching TV in her own quarters, and Livia’s probably got souls to steal somewhere, so I’m finally left alone.
I do the dishes. I clean the kitchen, the dining room, and pick up after the three of them in the downstairs of the giant mansion. It’s work, but I do this every night — by now, the rhythm is kind of soothing, to be honest.
After all that, I head to my bedroom. It’s a smallish room in what was once the servants’ quarters, which isn’t lost on me, but since it’s so plain and simple, my stepfamily almost never comes this way. And it’s not like I live in squalor — my room is on the small side, but well-kept, with a bed, a dresser, a comfy chair, and a window that looks east that I can watch the sunrise from.
Right now, there’s a family of hummingbirds who’ve made their home in a bush right outside the window, with three tiny eggs waiting to hatch, though I can’t see them right now since it’s dark.
I pull the curtains, take off my shoes, grab my book, and finally flop into the comfortable chair. It was deemed too out-of-fashion for the living room several years ago, but I still like it. I curl up, turn on the light, and start reading.
I get about two paragraphs in before I’m distracted again, thinking about the prince. I keep thinking about him, whether I’m cooking or doing the dishes or helping Peyton get ready, and it’s... uncomfortable.
I’ve never felt this way before, not in the least. I mean, I’ve had crushes but I’ve never wanted anyone to do the things that I can’t help thinking about now.
Stop it and read your book, I order myself. I get through one more paragraph.
Then I realize I’m thinking about Prince Grayson’s hand slowly making its way up my thigh, under the skirt of my diner uniform, and I bite my lip. In my fantasy, he’s got me up against the table, my hips pressed into the formica, and he’s grabbing my hair with his other hand, pulling my head back just hard enough.
I swallow, the words on the page swimming in front of me.
There’s something thick and massive against my ass, and a jolt of heat shoots straight through my core at the thought, my entrance suddenly wet as fantasy-Grayson shoves his hand all the way up my skirt, still pushing me against the table, and strokes me through my panties.
I gasp, and realize my eyes are shut. I open them just as my book falls from my hands, forgotten, and I just look at it on the floor.
Then I unbutton the jeans I’m wearing and slide one hand underneath them, beneath my panties. I’m slick and wet, and when I find my sensitive nub I sigh with relief, rubbing it quickly beneath my fingers.
I think about Grayson, doing the same. About him shoving my skirt over my hips. Smacking my ass and laughing in my ear. Pinching my nipples and making me moan.
My finger moves faster as I bite my lip, forcing myself not to make any noise, but I need more. This isn’t enough.
I move my hand lower and slide two fingers inside myself, moving them gently in my tightness, feeling myself clench and flutter at the delicious thoughts I’m having.
I think about him shoving my panties down, the sound of his zipper, the feel of his cock as it rubs along my ass,
one hand still in my hair. I move my fingers inside myself harder, faster, biting my lip as I imagine Prince Grayson’s cock at my entrance.
And then I fuck myself even harder, biting my lip, and my back arches and my toes curl as I finish hard to the thought of him sinking his huge cock inside me to the hilt and the way he’d groan as he did.
I’ve never fantasized like this before, never wanted a man to bend me over and fuck me like that. I slowly pull my fingers out and my pants back up, buttoning them with trembling hands.
What’s gotten into me? I wonder.
And then immediately, I think: I guess I know what I want to get into me.
Just the thought makes me blush stop-sign red, and I practically run to go wash my hands.
Chapter Eight
Grayson
I don’t know her name,” I explain for at least the tenth time. “She works at the Tremaine Diner, over on Fourth and Saint Fleury Boulevard. She’s blonde, blue-eyed...”
I trail off, because the three women opposite me at this table have just gone silent.
“So you have no name, no address, no phone number, no nickname...” the first one says. She’s very no-nonsense, with short brown hair and big brown eyes.
“No,” I admit.
“And even though we’ve found pictures of everyone who’s listed as working at this diner, she’s not among them,” the second woman says, a slightly chubby girl with crazy red hair and a button nose.
“How sure are you that she exists?” asks their boss. She’s in her fifties, outfitted in an elegant business suit, and wears her gray hair like a helmet. The kind of woman that simply seems incredibly competent.
“I’m not crazy,” I say. “Try checking the employees who have quit recently, or just started? How up-to-date were the records you looked through?”
“Very,” says Competence Herself.
“You’re sure it was that diner?” says redhead.