The Exiled Prince

by Jeana E. Mann

For a brief interlude, his hand left my body. The wall gave way behind me. His arm slid around my waist to keep me from falling. The front of my body pressed against his hard chest. He walked me backward, his strong thigh between my softer ones, into a dimly lit, windowless room with shadowy corners. The tempo of the music gained speed. My pulse clambered to keep up with it. Once my eyes adjusted, I could make out the shapes of furniture and austere portraits on the paneled walls.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked, his voice deeper and rougher than before.

  “No. Should I be?” My own voice quavered the tiniest bit, not with fear but with the excitement of shedding my old skin and becoming someone new, someone adventurous and dangerous.

  “I would never hurt you. Not in a bad way. Not unless you asked me to.”

  My behind met the edge of a sofa. I curled my fingers into the plush velour covering. Questions fizzed in my brain like bubbles in champagne. What had I gotten myself into? Should I ask him to stop? No, I didn’t want this to end. I needed more.

  His hands smoothed over the curve of my hips and down my legs. He gathered the hem of my dress and slid it up to reveal the filmy white triangle of my panties. My pulse escalated. This was absurd. I was about to have sex with a man I’d known for less than a few hours. Actually, I didn’t know him at all. He could be anyone: a prince, a criminal, a—

  “Unzip my pants.” The terse command came from lips poised at the curve of my jaw and ended my thoughts. His breath scalded my skin in hot puffs. I ran a palm along the length of his zipper in exploration and found an impressive rod of steel behind the gabardine, thick and long. The zipper growled as I lowered it. Silk boxers peeked through the opened V of his trousers.

  “You like to be in control,” I said.

  “Always.” He pressed the first kiss to my throat and dragged his lips along the tendon running to my shoulder. “Nothing turns me on like obedience.”

  I shivered and swallowed around the lump in my throat, one born of anticipation. “Are people watching us?”

  His throaty chuckle reverberated against my skin, erupting in tiny explosions of desire along my synapses. “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s entirely possible. All the walls in this fortress have eyes.”

  The thought of someone watching us set fire to my lust. Would the unknown spectators touch themselves while spying? Would they feel the same heat and lust I’d felt watching the others in the great room? I rolled my hips against his. The unending desire in my core required release, and soon.

  “You’re my fantasies come to life,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. I liked this facet of my stranger. The threads of his self-control began to fray. I felt it in his hands, his lips, the hardness of his cock. “What should I do with you, my lovely?”

  “Use me,” I said and let my head tip back to bare my throat.

  The second kiss landed at the notch in my collarbone. One of his fingers traced the lace edge of my panties then slipped behind the barrier to stroke my folds. I moaned at the unexpected trespass. “Do you like that, Cinderella?”

  “Yes.” My heart was beating so hard and so fast, I thought it might leap out of my chest. One of his fingers slipped inside me and curled upward while his thumb circled the tiny bundle of nerves at the apex of my sex. The man had skilled fingers, but then, everything about him screamed of culture and expertise and knowledge. He knew the exact amount of pressure and the proper speed to bring me to a fever pitch within minutes. At the brink of orgasm, his fingers withdrew. I groaned in protest.

  “Easy, princess. Just putting on our insurance policy.” He withdrew a foil packet from his pocket, ripped the covering, and quickly sheathed his cock in the condom.

  Too many things happened in concert for my head to wrap around. He stepped between my legs, grabbed my knees, and tipped me backward. I gasped, certain I’d tumble over the other side. I spiraled into information overload—the luxurious scent of his cologne, the grip of his hands, the fabric of his pants against my inner thighs. It was all too much, yet not enough. I still needed more.

  The crown of his cock nudged my center. In one rough thrust, he was inside me. The delicious burning bordered on painful. He was too big and too long for me to take at once, so he withdrew a few inches then wiggled his hips until he was seated to the root. The deliberate truth of the act satisfied my deepest fantasies. This was what I’d longed for on all those cold winter New York nights.

  “Hold on,” he said against my mouth. “I won’t be gentle.”

  I gripped the couch to keep from falling. He pounded into me, ruthless and unheeding. It was brutal and punishing, and just what I needed. The impersonal intimacy of the act suited me. There would be no hurt feelings or awkwardness at the end. Knowing this gave me the freedom to enjoy every second.

  When his hands moved to my hips, I clutched his shoulders. Somewhere to my left, I heard the slide of wood, the muffled intake of breath from someone other than the stranger. My orgasm rushed over me with unexpected violence. I stifled a scream, choosing to bite my lower lip instead. The flutter of my walls around his cock spurred him to double his speed. He rocked into me with selfish abandon, milking my orgasm to fuel his own. At last, he stiffened and spilled into the condom between us.

  Throwing back his head, he growled, the sound furious and triumphant. “Fuck, yes. Yes.”

  As the rush of endorphins receded, shock muddled my thoughts. Had I really just fucked a stranger in some secret room on Mr. Darcy’s estate? I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or insane. It had happened so fast. I didn’t even know this guy’s real name. Before, back in the hotel, I’d have laughed out loud at the idea, but now—God, I gloried in it.

  “That was amazing. Perfect,” he murmured, his lips against my ear. “You’re a dream come true, Cinderella. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome?” The response came out as a question, because I wasn’t sure why he was thanking me. Surely a man of his extreme good looks and magnetic personality had his pick of women. Another, bigger part of me, felt smug and satiated. Slowly, the fog receded from my brain. Everly was going to love this story, but I couldn’t tell her. It was too personal, too perfect to be shared with anyone.

  He continued to praise me in broken phrases. “So tight…slick…pretty.”

  We were still connected, his cock inside me, my dress pushed up to my waist. A series of aftershocks caused my walls to clench around him. He waited for the last flutter to recede then, with a small sigh of contentment, withdrew. I watched, my eyelids heavy, as he removed the condom and disposed of it. After tucking himself away, he helped me to my feet and smoothed my gown over my hips. I hesitated, feeling lost, wondering if I should go, uncertain if my legs would carry me to the door.

  Everly’s impeccable timing saved me from the unknown. The buzz of her incoming text vibrated the silence. The stranger arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment. I dug through my clutch for my phone with trembling hands. In my haste, the contents spilled onto the floor. I grabbed the phone to cease the vibration and shoved everything else back into the purse.

  Everly: Where are you?

  Everly: Are you okay?

  Everly: The car is here. Are you ready to leave?

  The stranger leaned over my shoulder and whispered in my ear. “Don’t go. Stay with me.”

  “I can’t.” As much as I longed to spend the night in his arms, there was no point. He had his life to live, and I had mine. This ended now.

  “I can have my car drive you home later.” His gaze stroked over my body, stoking the fire of need in my belly. “I’ll take you to breakfast in Paris.”

  “You have no idea how tempting that sounds, but I really can’t.”

  He pursed his lips. “I suppose it would be out of line to ask for your real name.” I shook my head. “You know, I could find out your identity with a few phone calls.”

  “Please don’t.”

  We stared at each for a long time. The magic of the night dissipated with each passing moment. At last, he n
odded. “Another time then. It’s been a pleasure, Cinderella.”

  I ran down the path to the manor house, my thighs slick with arousal and my pussy aching. Everly met me at the front steps, a worried frown on her face. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “It’s a long story,” I said. But once we were in the car, safely on our way home, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. I could scarcely believe it myself. Instead, I tucked the truth away to savor in the quiet moments between waking and dreaming and never spoke of it again.

  Chapter 8

  Rourke

  Everly’s wedding went off without a hitch. After many hugs and tearful goodbyes, she flew to the other side of the world to begin her life as a married woman, and I returned to New York City. The next three months passed in a blur. With the approaching end of the lease on Everly’s Manhattan apartment, I started packing my things and fought against the heavy weight of sadness. My footsteps echoed around the empty rooms. In her absence, I floundered in my efforts to create a new life.

  I’d lived with her since the age of nineteen, so I’d had no idea how expensive real estate was in the city. Rent for the smallest efficiency apartment was way above my means. Unless my next employer had live-in accommodations, I’d have to consider moving to the suburbs, enduring a longer commute, or living in a place the size of a postage stamp. In addition to the costs of moving, I had the additional financial burden of full-time care for my aunt to consider. Her welfare superseded my personal needs, and I’d do whatever necessary to keep her happy and comfortable, even if that meant living in the projects.

  “You’re welcome to stay with me until you get on your feet,” Mena said at our luncheon one day. She’d been Everly’s publicist for the past year. We’d worked closely during that time and continued to have lunch in Manhattan once or twice a week.

  “I still have a week left on the lease.” The sidewalk outside the café teemed with people hustling along the sidewalk, on their way to jobs, to loved ones, to friends. I envied their sense of purpose. With a smile, I forced a note of positivity into my voice. “Something will come up.”

  “Of course. Things always have a way of working out.” Although her tone was soothing, reproach hovered in her eyes. “What about Winchester? He made you a nice offer. Maybe he’s still looking.”

  Everly had given me six months’ advance warning, but I’d been too busy planning her wedding and tying up her loose ends to purse a job until now. I’d passed up two offers, thinking more opportunities would present themselves. Several had seemed promising but had required relocation from New York City, and I couldn’t leave my aunt. “No. I already checked. He hired someone last week.”

  She patted my hand. “You can always do temp work for me, running errands, odds and ends. I know it isn’t ideal, but the offer is there if you need it.”

  “If something doesn’t come up soon, I may take you up on it.” Although I smiled on the outside, inside I cringed with self-recrimination. Why, why, why had I gotten myself into this predicament? I should have made the job search a priority. “I appreciate the offer.”

  Sunlight caught the auburn streaks in her short brown hair as she gathered her laptop and purse. “Jiminy, I’m late for a consultation.” A frown creased the pale skin of her forehead. “You know, I wasn’t going to say anything, but my friend knows someone who’s looking for a personal assistant for her boss in Manhattan. I told her you probably weren’t interested.”

  “Really?” My spirits perked. I sat up straighter. “Why would you say that?”

  “The guy is a real asshole. I mean, he’s gone through eleven assistants in the past year.” Her long fingers scraped through her hair, giving it the perfect touch of messiness. “The pay and the perks are off the charts if you can deal with his lack of personality.”

  “Oh.” I slid down in the chair. Although I needed employment, I didn’t want to take a job that wouldn’t suit me. I also didn’t want to wait until my funds dried up or Aunt May was evicted from the nursing home. “It might pay the bills until I find something else.”

  “True.” The contents of her smart red purse jangled as she dug through its depths. “I’ve got her card here somewhere. Where is that thing?” At last, she smiled triumphantly. “Here it is.”

  I turned the small black card over in my hand. The front held two words in delicate silver print. “Blue Sapphire,” I said aloud. On the back was a woman’s name and email address. “What’s Blue Sapphire?”

  “As in Blue Sapphire Cosmetics? Blue Sapphire Records? Blue Sapphire Airlines? Blue Sapphire Railways?” She rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Rourke, sometimes I wonder if you lived under a rock most of your life. But I know that’s not true, because you’ve been traveling the world with Everly.”

  Automatically, my gaze drifted to the billboard on the opposite side of the street, high above the traffic and midday bustle. A scantily clad model reclined on a velvet sofa, one arm draped across the back. The gold plume of her black silk mask sent an immediate shiver down my spine, transporting me back to the Masquerade de Marquis. Across the bottom of the billboard, the slogan read, “Indulge in luxury. Indulge in Blue Sapphire Cosmetics.”

  Mena shouldered the strap of her purse and pushed her chair beneath the table. The legs screeched over the tile floor. “Crap. I’ve got to run. Just email your info to that address, and I’ll tell my friend to put in a good word for you.”

  When I got back to the apartment, I typed out an email to Julie Baker of Blue Sapphire and attached my resume and letters of reference from Everly and her father. After that, I had nothing to do but wait for a response to the dozens of resumes I’d already sent out. It wasn’t like I could go door to door in search of employment. My type of work hinged on referrals, word of mouth, and a high-priced headhunter.

  Two days passed. I finished boxing up my things and made arrangements to stay with Mena in Brooklyn for a few weeks. Between job searches, I browsed the internet. When that grew too mind-numbing to continue, I did the one thing I’d vowed never to do—I ran a search on Roman Menshikov. Although three months had passed, I still thought about the tryst at the masquerade when I couldn’t sleep, under the cover of darkness. My palms perspired as I scanned through the hits. For a man of his status and infamy, he had a surprisingly small web presence. No Twitter account. No Instagram, Facebook, or Snapchat. There were, however, a few pictures from society blogs and scandal rags.

  I clicked on the first picture of Roman as keynote speaker at a business luncheon. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit. The enlarged photograph revealed chiseled features and full lips. I studied his face, looking for similarities between this man and my Prince Charming. Since leaving the masquerade, I’d begun to think of him as my prince when I touched myself in the lonely, late night hours. Prince Charming had collar-length hair, wavy and black, and a thick, neat beard on his jaw. Roman Menshikov was clean-shaven and had close-cropped hair, but his coloring was the same. They could be the same person or not. It was too hard to tell. Part of me wanted this enigmatic dark prince to be my prince, and part of me wanted him to remain anonymous, mysterious, and unreachable.

  My phone rang. I jumped like I’d been caught spying and giggled at the absurdity. The phone number was unfamiliar. I answered anyway, thinking it might be an interview request. “Hello? This is Rourke Donahue.”

  “Hello. Ms. Donahue. This is Julie Baker with Blue Sapphire Group. How are you this evening?” A husky female voice spoke in a smooth southern drawl, North Carolina maybe, or Virginia.

  “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?” Meanwhile, my head stumbled to wrap around the caller’s identity. Blue Sapphire? I glanced at the clock. Seven o’clock on a Sunday evening. I hadn’t expected a response at this hour on a weekend, or at all for that matter.

  “I’m sorry for calling so late, but I received your resume, and your qualifications are quite impressive. We’d like to offer you the job.” She pau
sed, waiting for my response. “Can you start tomorrow?”

  “You want to hire me? We haven’t even met yet.” I pressed a hand to my stomach, hoping to calm the swarm of butterflies inside.

  “Given Everly Martin’s glowing recommendation and a letter from the former Vice President, an interview is unnecessary.” Her pause allowed my brain to catch up with the information. “We’re really eager to have you on our team.”

  “I—I—I need salary details and benefit information before I can make a decision,” I stammered.

  “Of course. I just sent an email with the employment contract and all the information. I think you’ll find the salary more than generous.” As she spoke, the email notification popped up in the right corner of my computer screen. I gaped at the six-figure salary, full health benefit package, clothing allowance, living expenses, six weeks of vacation, and bonus structure. “And, of course, you’ll be given an apartment suite for the length of your employment.”

  If I hadn’t been sitting down, I’d have fallen over. I blinked rapidly, certain my eyes had failed me. “Is this for real?”

  For the first time, her professional façade broke, and she laughed. “Yes. It’s absolutely true. Blue Sapphire pays its employees very well. The company also expects a lot in return. You’ll be on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, unless you’re on vacation. And the job can be quite…demanding…at times.” In retrospect, her pauses around the word demanding, combined with Mena’s warning, should have sent up red flags. The money and perks, however, dazzled my mind. I pursed my lips, thinking. An offer this late on a Sunday evening, sans interview, reeked of desperation.

  “This is a respectable offer, but I’m afraid my salary requirements are a little higher.” I held my breath, hoping she’d take the bait. “I’ll need at least another five hundred per week.”

  “Um, well, okay. I’ll adjust the contract, and we can go over it tomorrow.” Her rapid response meant I should have demanded more money. Either way, the sum was still way above what Everly had paid me.