Royally Hung

by Marsh, Anne

  “Remember,” Carla says nervously. “Address him as His Royal Highness. Don’t argue with him. I need him happy.”

  Sucking up to the client was not part of the job description, but I can be flexible when it’s my paycheck at stake. My stomach chooses this moment to growl, reminding me that I’m hungry.

  I cover the loud rumble with an equally loud question. “Anything else I should know?”

  “He’s . . .” Carla jabs the button for the private elevator to the penthouse. I’m stupidly excited to see the penthouse—it’s not my native territory. I’m a goldfish happy to swim around in my little glass bowl, while Prince Darejan is some kind of exotic lionfish playing lord of the reef.

  “You have twenty floors to spit it out.” I nudge Carla with my shoulder. “And then I’m finding out for myself.”

  “He’s hosting his bachelor party tonight,” she says. “And he’s super hot.”

  His fiancée must be open-minded. Or maybe she just really, really wants to be a princess?

  “Got it. He’s Prince Charming. I still promise not to hump his leg.”

  Carla swats me. “He’s not so charming. He says whatever he’s thinking. He likes his fun. He replaced the pool water with champagne. Good champagne. The sommelier almost stroked out. Do you know how many magnums it takes to fill a pool?”

  Let’s take a moment to think about that.

  The man is so rich that he can afford to mix up the pool and the minibar.

  I’m still contemplating that shameful waste of champagne when the elevator doors slide open and two big, beefy bodyguards give us a very thorough once-over as we step into a marble and gilt foyer. The guy on the left holds out his hand for my camera bag. I hand it over. I’m not going to argue with that much muscle. While he rummages through my things, I look around. This may be my one and only opportunity to scope an honest-to-goodness penthouse and the lifestyle of the rich and probably famous, so I’m all eyes. The penthouse is definitely posh, with lots of floor-to-ceiling glass, chic modern furniture, and white leather. It’s downright blinding in the late afternoon sunlight. Right now, however, the entire place is vibrating from the bass beat coming from the pool area. Vegas is not precisely a quiet place, but I’m surprised we couldn’t hear the music from the hotel lobby. Or from outer Mongolia.

  Just in case I don’t realize that I’m not in Kansas anymore, a stunning woman wearing just a bikini bottom runs through the room, boobs bouncing up and down. I mean really, who jogs around without the proper support? Doesn’t it hurt to have the girls slamming up, down, left, right?

  Even if she does look pretty spectacular.

  The bodyguards don’t even glance her way. The guy on the left zips up my camera bag and hands it back to me.

  “Where is His Royal Highness?” Carla looks around the foyer as if the prince might be playing hide-and-seek with all the gilt. A wave of cheers and wolf whistles from the deck outside nearly drowns out her question.

  The guard on the right tips his head toward the deck.

  Naturally.

  “He’s playing cards,” the other guard volunteers.

  This is one of those moments that you think back on and realize that you should have asked a few more questions. This is a casino, after all, so why isn’t the prince downstairs gambling with the high rollers? And what kind of guy lives his life surrounded by muscle men in suits and topless women? It’s like a scene from a movie, except that my seat in real life is more ringside and less comfortable. It also lacks popcorn, which is a serious oversight on the universe’s part.

  Carla strides toward the French doors that have been thrown open onto the pool deck and of course I follow. Not only is it in my job description, but I’m dying of curiosity.

  “Oh shit.” She stops so suddenly that I plow into her. She’s staring at a group of people sprawled on a couple of ginormous Bali beds by the edge of the pool. I don’t think it’s the impressive mountain of empty liquor bottles that has her attention, however. Or even the rather staggering stack of bills in the middle of the bed. Those things are eye-catching, sure, but it’s the man slowly shucking his jeans that sucks all the air out of my lungs and shuts down my critical thinking skills.

  I peel myself off Carla’s back. “Tell me that’s not the prince.”

  “God, he’s gorgeous.” The only other time I’ve heard Carla sound so breathy was when we decided we’d go for a five-mile run after hitting the bars all night. My empty stomach is suddenly swooping up and down like it did that morning, but not because I feel the need to hurl. I actually check to make sure my jaw’s not hanging open because drooling would be unprofessional.

  The prince has made an attempt to tame his hair, but dark red waves and curls escape everywhere, and I’m pretty sure he’s tunneled his fingers through the whole lot more than once. It’s just long enough for me to run my fingers through and hold on while he goes to town on my lady parts. And if through some horrible turn of fate it turned out that the man had no skills in the oral department, I could just look at him. When I tear my gaze upward from the hard, rippling chest he’s displaying, I’m treated to high cheekbones and more sun-kissed, golden skin. Really, his jaw should be some kind of national monument. It’s all scruff and morning-after stubble even though it’s past four o’clock.

  He looks like he just rolled out of bed—and that he’d roll right back in for the right woman. He’s all sunshine and smiles, this prince, the perfect Icarus if Icarus had been six feet three inches tall and built. How does a pampered prince end up with all those muscles? And how do I not lick each and every one?

  He’s red hot.

  And totally off-limits.

  Which of course is when he looks right at me, winks, and drops his jeans. Denim and my jaw hit the floor at about the same time. This was not in my job description. He abandons his jeans like it’s not a problem that he’s standing outside in a pair of boxer briefs that cling to every inch of him.

  There are a great many inches.

  The man’s anatomically gifted. I think I can practically feel my head exploding. I know this guy is just celebrating his upcoming marriage and he didn’t ask me here to judge him, but I’m not perfect. On a scale of one to ten, this man’s assets score one hundred—and his confidence is off the charts.

  He saunters toward us.

  Even if he wasn’t mostly naked, there’s just something about him that demands attention. If he weren’t a prince, he’d be a billionaire or Johnny Depp’s hotter, younger, badder brother. There’s no way not to look at him, and I’m practically drooling. Fuck, I’d like to be all cool about meeting my first honest-to-God prince but . . . just look at him.

  “He’s like a lethal weapon,” I whisper to Carla.

  “I know, right?” She’s hanging onto my arm now. I suspect her knees, like mine, aren’t 100 percent in working order. “I keep thinking he can’t be real. I think we should touch him. Just to be sure.”

  “We need to stay professional.” My fingers itch to shoot him, to look at him through the lens of my camera. He puts underwear billboards to shame.

  Carla scans the prince. “I know.”

  She sounds mournful, and of course this is the moment Prince Hot and Charming winks at us.

  “Ladies,” he says, sweeping us a bow that should look ridiculous seeing as how there’s no dignified way to pull off the boxer briefs look. Except he makes it work.

  My insides melt faster than ice cream in the Vegas heat, and I kind of, sort of, really hate him for it.

  Dog, I remind myself. This prince is a dog just like all my other clients.

  Chapter Three

  Dare

  My stag party rocks. I’m congratulating myself on having party planning as a fallback career if the whole royal monarch of a country gig fails to work out for me when two someones charge onto the deck. The first one is female and dressed in
the hotel uniform. The second one, however, is both female and . . .

  The first adjective that comes to mind is mine.

  I’d also be willing to give you stunning, fuckhot, and should get naked now. Those might not all be adjectives, but you understand where I’m going with this. I look at her and I heat up faster than the Vegas desert. She slams to a halt, tits and front glued to the ass of the hotel lady while I enjoy the show.

  Even fully clothed, she’s spectacular, and frankly that’s saying something because she’s dressed head to toe in black like one of the elderly babas that throng the plazas outside the palace in Vale. The tight expression on her face is equally familiar. She doesn’t want to like me, she absolutely doesn’t like what I’m doing, and she hates that she can’t share that with me. That expression makes me think of Nik—he’s never approved of my extracurricular activities—so I mentally strip her to distract myself. Maybe she’s just not a fan of parties? I’ve filled the palatial penthouse suite with guests. The rooftop pool has been drained and refilled with champagne, and I’m currently engaged in a high-stakes game of strip poker. The only thing between the crown jewels and the evening breeze are my Calvins.

  Calvins that promptly get a whole lot smaller.

  Don’t blame me that my dick’s a sucker for our newest guest. She’s fucking gorgeous, all sweet curves from her face to her amazing tits and her freckles . . . those freckles beg me to play connect-the-dot with my tongue. Demanding she strip down and come right on over here and make friends with my royal dick suddenly tops my to do list. I’d like to say the sour expression on her face is what stops me. I open my mouth to ask what she’d like me to kiss better—and then I stop. Remember how I’m turning over a whole new leaf? Becoming the new and improved Prince Dare? The 2.0 model isn’t supposed to lust after random women because he’s getting married.

  He’s off the market.

  Celibate.

  Fuck, my life sucks.

  It’s just that she’s hiding in plain sight.

  She’s put out the biggest, most obvious No Trespassing on the Grass sign and that makes it so very, very hard to resist touching just a little. With a finger. A toe. The tip of my extremely hard dick. She doesn’t want to be looked at. Her clothes make that perfectly clear. My new guest is wearing a black V-necked T-shirt, black jeans, a black cotton blazer, and a pair of very sensible black flats. She totes an enormous black bag with more zippers than my party has guests. Every inch of her outside is designed to deflect attention, to make her blend into the background. She’s the drabbest of peahens where I’m the showiest of peacocks with the biggest of . . . tail feathers. My plumage is spectacular.

  She, on the other hand, is like the world’s best sandwich wrapped in brown paper instead of something flashy. I’d be happy to eat her up—or out—if she’d let me.

  My new favorite snack steps around the hotel lady and skids to a halt in front of me as I applaud her eagerness to get over here to me. “Can we talk?”

  Okay.

  Those three words are not my favorites.

  It’s not that I’m opposed to exchanging words with her, but there are so many other, more enjoyable activities we could be engaged in. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be off the market and my dick will be the exclusive property of one of the binder girls. Whichever one she is. I haven’t picked yet. I’ve been procrastinating, but let’s be honest. When you’re prince and you’re offering a diamond ring that comes with a country attached, all it’s going to take is one text, one phone call, one crooked finger. Whichever girl I choose will be happy to hop on my private jet and rush out here to marry me.

  You’d like to point out that I came out here to Las Vegas for one last party and not a quickie Elvis wedding? Get in line. Halfway through my fifth shot, I had a genius idea. Or maybe it’s an evil genius idea. Queenie probably expects me to do the deed in the big cathedral near the palace. That’s what princes do—get married with pomp, circumstance, tulle, and a shit ton of diamonds. Two out of four isn’t bad, and it’s all Queenie gets. He forgot to make the details of the ceremony mandatory.

  The hotel concierge in the no-nonsense navy blue suit with the ridiculous gold braid melts away.

  “Edee Jones.” My sexy black crow shoves a hand in my direction.

  I raise a brow because I can already tell that fucking with her is going to be my new favorite activity. And since she’s offering touching privileges so soon in our brand-spanking-new acquaintance, I wrap my hand around hers and try not to think about spanking and Edee in the same sentence. It’s hard, all puns intended.

  “Your Royal Highness.” She appends the honorific to the end of her sentence. She hates doing that, and I immediately decide that I love making her. She also tries to repossess her hand, but I’m not giving her back.

  I drop down onto the closest empty seat and pat the lounge chair next to me with my free hand. “Sit down, darling.”

  “Ms. Jones,” she snaps. Feisty, isn’t she? Me likey.

  Her gaze sweeps downward, stopping on my best part, and I’m forced to make an emergency adjustment. I reluctantly let go of Edee so I can roll over and grab a towel off of one of the blondes draped around the pool. Edee just looks at me expectantly while I stride over to the edge of the balcony. We can admire the Vegas view while I wait for my inappropriate hard-on to subside. She follows me like a stubborn, pissed-off duckling, explaining why she’s come here: to take pictures of my stag party. Right. The final meal of this condemned man—the prewedding festivities.

  She launches into a babbling discussion of possible shots, who should be in what, timing, sunsets, blah blah blah. And then she asks the million-dollar question.

  “Where’s your bride? Is she here?” She stares around the crowded pool deck, clearly trying to pick out Mrs. Princess to Be. She makes a good point. I need to get on this right away.

  I hold out my hand. “Come with me.”

  “Excuse me?” The look on her face says I should probably put on my pants, but this is the most fun I’ve had since Queenie dropped his bombshell on me. So instead of hunting down my jeans, I grab her hand, threading my fingers through hers.

  “I still need to pick a bride,” I whisper into her ear. Although my people will have made sure that she’s signed an NDA, trusting her is stupid. Fortunately, no one would believe her if she tried to tell the truth. And frankly, I’m not sure she believes me. Her mouth sort of opens and closes like she’s trying and failing to make sense of what I said.

  I tow her down the hall, but when I throw open the door to the master suite, she digs her heels in.

  “I’m not going into your bedroom,” she announces at full volume. Somewhere behind me, one of my bodyguards snorts. Since Mr. Left and Mr. Right have come with me from Vale—and have known me for years—they feel entitled to add a few editorial comments.

  “Why not?” I prop myself up against the doorframe while she tries to come up with an answer.

  “You’re almost married.” She props herself up against the wall with a hand. She’s not wearing rings of any kind, and I don’t spot a telltale white band of skin, either. “You can’t go in a bedroom with me. The media will have a field day pretending you’re doing . . . things. With me.”

  It’s so cute the way she can’t bring herself to say the word sex.

  “Or with myself,” I suggest helpfully. “I’m definitely not opposed to self-abuse.”

  She blushes, a cute, tomato-red tide washing over her face. It makes me want to say something even more outrageous, just to see what she’ll say. But since I’m newly reformed, I leave the bedroom door wide open. Not that an audience would deter me, my dick points out. It’s happy to perform in public.

  I ignore it and throw myself on the bed. The hot pink binders are right where I left them. I grab the stack and pat the spot next to me.

  My sweet little duck hesitates. “You’ll
keep your hands to yourself?”

  “My hands are a favorite with the ladies.” I smack the duvet harder. “Sit.”

  “Obviously, you’re not Prince Charming,” she says. She’s still hovering in the doorway, and I need her closer.

  “A common misconception.”

  And since she’s not budging, I’m going to have to DIY. I suppose I could wait for my bodyguards to show up and order them to do the heavy lifting for me, but I actually prefer to do things for myself. I hop off the bed, scoop her up in my arms, and toss her gently onto the mattress. This is where I’d like to land on top of her and show her exactly how I’ve earned my royal reputation, but the New Me just settles in beside her like some kind of freaking saint. He’s a good guy. Completely hands off. Even if he’s still rocking a boner in his Calvins.

  * * *

  * * *

  Edee

  I’m in bed. With a prince.

  A totally hot, mostly naked, underwear-baring prince.

  Okay. So we’re on the bed rather than in it, but he’s definitely not wearing pants and watching him saunter around having a nothing-gets-between-me-and-my-Calvins moment is a fantasy come true. For a second I can’t even summon any outrage about his high-handed lifting and tossing of my person. I can practically feel my ovaries spontaneously combusting. Fortunately, he keeps right on talking and the words coming out irritate me so much that my girl parts stop singing hosannas, drowned in the chorus of outraged WTFs issued by my much more sensible brain.

  “I need to pick a bride,” he announces.

  Is he serious? He starts flipping through a ridiculously large pink binder, as if he can order a girl the way he would takeout. I mean, he totally can’t. From the smirk on his face, however, I’m starting to think that princes play by a whole different set of rules due to a nice, long swim in that champagne-filled pool outside. I’m not sure if that’s the most decadent thought I’ve ever had or the least sanitary.