by Marsh, Anne
“Puke bag,” I suggest helpfully.
She doesn’t hesitate. She grabs the jacket and holds it tight.
We race up and down roads, the Escalade doing a fine imitation of a carnival ride. Cinderella’s coach couldn’t have gone any faster right before her time was up and everything went poof—and then splat when her pursuers ran over her pumpkin. There’s an important lesson there.
Edee throws up into my jacket, shoulders heaving. I steady her, holding her hair out of her face.
“Water.” I shove a hand over the seat. Mr. Right passes a cold bottle to me and I press it against Edee’s forehead.
“Being a princess sucks,” she moans.
“Not a news flash.”
After a brief consultation with Mr. Right and Mr. Left, we head back toward the Strip. I don’t want to lead the paparazzi straight to Edee’s house, and there’s a chance they still don’t know exactly who she is. And since Edee’s carsick, she needs to get out of the car. My place it is.
The Strip looms up in front of us. Ordinarily it’s just one big princely playground, but tonight I’m hoping it’s cover. I consider our options. We could pull over fast and get lost inside one of the many casinos. It’s unlikely that the locals would recognize me. But Edee’s not feeling good and I’m not sure she’d really enjoy watching me bet a small fortune in the high rollers’ area.
So it has to be the penthouse.
I give the order and Mr. Left brings us in the back entrance, taking us through the parking garage to the casino entrance. Mr. Right shrugs out of his suit jacket and hands it to me before I can ask. I’ve never met someone who could read my mind so well and yet disapprove of me so much.
His taste in suit jackets is excellent, however, and while I could buy one off the doorman, I’d rather not. I pick Edee up and drape the jacket over her face. Even if she weren’t sick, she wouldn’t want her picture plastered all over the Internet.
“There are horror movies that start this way,” she mumbles.
“Think of it as insurance. Or a turtle shell.” I scoop her up into my arms and jump out of the Escalade. Our tail won’t be too far behind but I’ve got just enough of a head start thanks to Mr. Left’s talented driving.
The doorman holds the door for us and I stride through, the noise of the casino washing over us. The Royal Palace Resort and Casino picked—wait for it—a royal theme. This basically means they’ve ransacked multiple historical periods from around the world for royal inspiration. Downstairs, on the casino’s main floor, they’ve gone for a Castle of Windsor effect, complete with moat and crown jewels. Upstairs, in the hotel rooms, however, the decorators went for a King Tut theme—I’m probably lucky I’m not sleeping in a sarcophagus.
I’ve got long legs and two determined bodyguards—no one gets close to us before we’re in the private elevator. I set Edee down on her feet as soon as the doors close behind us and tug the jacket off her head. “You can come out. Mission accomplished.”
She blinks and looks around. Not being stupid, I slide between her and the mirror. I think she looks cute, but she’s going to disagree. Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I’ve gotten around.
Women. Sex. Good times.
Edee looks like she’s just rolled out of my arms. Her hair’s messed up from our mad dash from the car to the elevator, little strands flying in every direction and clinging to my fingers when I smooth them down. There’s a zing and a crackle that shouldn’t surprise me because the one thing we have for sure is chemistry.
Kiss the girl, my brain suggests. Three guesses as to whether that’s the brain in the big head or the little.
She doesn’t need this right now. She was just sick, I remind myself. Kissing anyone will be a distant second to finding a toothbrush and even my ego can only take so many hits. Sure enough, as soon as the elevator reaches the penthouse and the doors slide open, she kicks off her shoes and bolts toward the suite’s master bath.
“Sorry,” she calls over her shoulder. Her cheeks are rosy pink again, and not because she’s been wrapped up in a jacket this time. I pick up her abandoned shoes and follow after her.
She’s embarrassed because she puked in the car. I wish she wouldn’t be, but there’s no Magic Eraser for the shit we do. Getting carsick is beyond her control, I’d tell her. We drove too fast, turned too sharp. Hurling was simply a biological reaction and not a statement of weakness. Edee likes being in control and that’s another thing. When you’re a prince, almost everyone has less power than you. We’ve come a long way since Tudor times when a man like me could just snap off with her head and move on to the next female in his life, but I can still make things happen. Even here, even outside of Vale. Watching Edee get sick made me feel sick, too—because I couldn’t fix her, couldn’t give her what she needed.
Because I want her to be happy. Don’t read more into it than a desire to get into her panties. Or under them. I’m not particularly fussy. Everything I’ve done tonight has been part of my master plan to get Edee naked and start our honeymoon. Nothing more.
So while she worships the gods of oral hygiene, I check in with Mr. Right and Mr. Left and confirm security plans. I check my phone and ignore another text from Queenie. I keep half an ear on Edee, though. The shower runs for a long time, fueling a number of wet-girl-in-shower fantasies on my part, and then drawers open and shut while she noisily ransacks the hotel’s supply of toiletries. More water runs and I think about reminding her that Vegas is a desert and there’s probably a drought.
But it’s not like I can’t afford whatever outrageous water tax the hotel tacks onto my bill, so I leave her to it and get busy ordering up some room service. Chicken soup, a nice risotto. I toss in a bottle of champagne, two crème brûlées, and a mint sorbet. White food’s supposed to be bland and easy on the stomach according to my Google-fu, and since it’s my fault that she got carsick, it’s my job to provide the aftercare. Mostly because I like kissing everything better. If I had to do tonight over, I’d have snuck out the back door of La Salsa, but only so we could skip straight to the sex parts.
I’m just wrapping things up with the food order when the bathroom door opens and a Gobi-desert-worthy cloud of steam comes billowing out, followed by Edee. She’s wearing the same clothes she wore to La Salsa, the curve-hugging jeans and the little camisole beneath a cardigan big enough for a linebacker. Her hair is twisted up on top of her head like some kind of gravity-defying soft serve twist.
She’s gorgeous, although my first choice would have been naked. A hand towel would have been my second.
“Hey.” She gives me a careful grin. “Sorry about that.”
“Never be sorry. Not with me.”
Afterward, I’m never sure who moves first. Maybe we both started toward each at the same time. I like that idea. But somehow we end up pushing ourselves together, her arms reaching for me as mine reach for her. We’re all tangled up together and holding on. I want to shove her pants down and put myself inside her just so we’re as close as possible. I want to feel her absolutely everywhere I can. Her slim arms holding me, her thighs pressed up against mine, her silly, flyaway hair tickling my nose as I take her down onto the bed.
I want to learn which touches make her smile, which make her moan. If she’s a screamer, a moaner, or a breath holder. How she tastes and where she’s ticklish. I want to know all of her.
We hug for a long time. Such a simple thing, so complicated. People hug to say hello, to offer comfort, to say I am here. For you. I want to tell her all of those things and more but I’m a fucking idiot and serious words, the kind of shit that rhymes or makes for epic Hallmark verse or just conveys meaning of any kind? Nope. Not in my bailiwick. So I hold her against my heart because maybe she’ll figure out what I can’t say. Stay with me. Be with me. And no, I don’t have a plan beyond tonight or tomorrow. I don’t know where we’re headed but I’m not ready to go home without he
r.
I run a finger up the bridge of her nose and to her hairline. Her lips part, so I do it again. She’s not saying no. She’s not saying stop. And right now that’s all the green light I need.
Somehow my hand ends up tangled in her hair. It’s damp from her shower and smells like citrus. I draw the strands through my fingers, find her scalp and draw small circles there. Her breathing changes, growing deeper. Her heart beats harder against my chest. And I don’t know why I do what I do next. Maybe it’s because getting her naked too fast would be bad and my dick needs a distraction and differential calculus is failing me. After all, what’s calculus but a comparison of the rates at which quantities change? I’m a known quantity, of course, but Edee.
She’s a fucking, wonderful, awesome mystery.
I hum. My singing repertoire is surprisingly limited, so I go with Disney and that “A Whole New World” song from Aladdin. Aladdin’s the kind of guy who deserves to become a prince. He’s a fighter, but he’s also smart about which battles he picks—and he’s got awesome taste in girls. Jasmine is hot. She starred in many of my adolescent fantasies.
Edee looks up at me and giggles. “You own a flying carpet, too?”
“If you want one, I’ll get you one.” She can have whatever she wants.
“We can improvise,” she says dryly. And then she surprises me. She grabs my hand and starts singing. Loudly, full-on, balls-out singing about the wondrous shit we’re going to see. She’s not bad, either, although she’s claimed the boy part. She pokes me in the ribs when it’s time for the princess to chime in, and I do. I belt out the words in my best falsetto Prince-like croon with her and swing her into my arms because singing means dancing.
And as corny as it sounds, somewhere around the fifteenth round of the chorus, our eyes meet and everything changes. The laughter’s still there, and the fun, but there’s heat, too. I can’t look away. A few days ago, I’d have laughed if you told me I could possibly . . . fall.
I urge her forward, a hand on the small of her back. And fuck this noise. I fist her shirt, we’re home free from prying eyes, and I swing her gently against the wall. Kissing her—here, now, in front of my bodyguards or the entire world—is my new plan.
“Dare?” So many questions in that one word. Her eyes stare into mine. Is she feeling what I’m feeling? Do I leave her breathless the way she does me? Why do people want to have all these feelings when they could be touching, kissing, screwing instead.
No, I don’t know what I’m doing. No, I don’t understand these feelings that seem to come not from my dick but from somewhere more north and unfamiliar. Head, heart—these are terra incognita but I’ve lived my life balls out, never holding back. Never following the goddamned rules. So why start now?
I kiss her.
Fuck it all. Fuck. That’s my new motto—I’ll have it engraved on the Avalioni coat of arms. And . . .
My fingers find hers, threading through the slim digits as I draw them up beside her head and lean in so I can press my mouth harder against hers. Her fingers clutch at mine, not to push me away but to pull me closer. My tongue traces her lower lip where she’s soft and plump. She tastes like mint from the toothpaste but she also tastes like Edee, which is so fucking perfect that I want to howl.
Transferring her hands to one of mine, I cup her head with my other hand, angling her mouth so I can devour her. Her hands close around my wrist, and then she’s giving as good as she gets. Our kiss isn’t soft or gentle. It’s not a kiss for a Disney princess—it’s my kiss for my princess. I kiss her deep and hard, covering her mouth with mine and owning every inch she gives me. Tongue, teeth, nipping, fucking biting—she’s the perfect surprise.
Edee kisses me senseless.
Breathing becomes an impossibility. She’s a marauder, a sexy fucking pirate, the best. She kisses me playfully and I can’t hold back. I kiss her hard, pressing between her thighs. Not close enough. Not nearly. My chest pounds, my dick demands immediate attention, and goddamn this is good.
It’s the heavy beat of rotor blades that yanks me out of the kiss. There’s a helicopter. Right outside my fucking window. The pilot guides the bird in so close that I swear I see the bulletproof glass shimmy from the backwash. The fool could kill us all.
It can happen so quickly. It—
I shove Edee behind me, placing my body between hers and the window. Splintering glass can do a hell of a lot of damage, but I’m big. She should stay safe. Unless there’s fire. An explosion. Fuck, but this has all gone to hell.
Mr. Right materializes seemingly out of nowhere—it’s like a ninja had a baby with a ghost—and sprints toward the enormous panes of glass. I try to remember if they’re see-through or not. Usually, we book me into hotels with advanced privacy options. Right now, I just want to kill someone.
Unfortunately, Mr. Left appears to possess mind-reading abilities. He takes one look at me and motions for me to step away from the windows. As if he is worried that I’m about to strip and run toward the cameras in slo-mo with my dick out and waving. So what if there was that one time? I’ve never lived it down. It cost Queenie a small fortune to buy back those pictures.
“No killing,” he orders. “No mayhem, no scenes, no decoys, and definitely no daredevil stunts.”
“You’re no fun,” I mutter. Edee shoves at my back, wanting out. Too bad for her—I shepherd her into the main room as the roar eases off.
The two bodyguards move about the penthouse, checking out the helicopter that is apparently flying around the resort like a toy train on a track. I make a mental note to order champagne for the other guests if we can’t force the paparazzi to move along soon. Just when I think it might be safe to step out of the shadows, however, the buzz of the rotors fills the room again. The Royal Palace clearly did not invest in quality soundproofing.
“This is crazy,” Edee announces.
She’s not wrong.
She pulls her fingers free from mine, craning her head to see out the window. “How can anyone live like this?”
The chopper comes back for another shot at us and I brace Edee against the wall. Yes. Let’s pretend that this is because my gentlemanly side is coming to the fore, all ready and able to protect her from the evil helicopter full of photographers. Never mind that I’ve got Smurf-colored blueberry balls because my wild honeymoon sex was interrupted by a flying menace. Now that I think about it, every time I have Edee alone, there’s an interruption. It’s almost as if fate is attempting to send me a message. That, or Queenie’s already got to the bitch and pulled royal rank.
“Let’s act married,” I suggest.
Edee gazes out the window at the helicopter. “I think I’d prefer to have a real life, thank you.”
“Too late.” I lower my head until my mouth is almost brushing hers.
The real answer is that you don’t live when you’re a prince. Not loud and wild and free. Not really. For all the money in my bank account, my life is sometimes a golden, gilded cage.
Edee pushes my chest gently.
“Enough.” She blinks at me more than a little owlishly. La Salsa isn’t stingy when it comes to tequila and apparently all that hurling in the car wasn’t enough to clear it out of her system.
I press a kiss to her knuckles and let go. I may be an asshole, but this asshole has limits.
She starts tugging on her rings. “I’m giving these back. I’m leaving.”
La Salsa may be generous with its tequila pours, but it’s equally generous when it comes to the salt shaker. And between the chips and salsa and the margaritas, Edee’s consumed a fair amount—and her fingers are ever so slightly swollen. My rings don’t budge. I resist the urge to fist pump at this evidence that fate might be on my side after all.
“Huh.” She glares down at her hand as if she can somehow magically unstick a quarter million dollars’ worth of diamonds.
�
��I could suck on them,” I offer. “Or anything else you’d like sucked.”
My new wife throws up her hands. I think she might be looking around for missiles or wishing that helicopter came armed. “You are the Prince of Pigs.”
I reach for her. “I—”
“Stay,” she snaps and marches off.
And since at least she’s headed for the bathroom and not the elevator, I let her go.
Chapter Eleven
Edee
If the helicopters hovering outside the penthouse have made me feel like an animal in the zoo, Dare’s swank bathroom is now my private cage behind the public enclosure. It’s going to require a Taser or something equally un-ASPCA-friendly to pry me out of here.
Because holy shit, who is this guy? Not only has he somehow become my husband (I split the blame between Elvis and far too much champagne), but he’s the heir-in-waiting to a throne. Photographers chase him in helicopters when normal people can’t even afford a ticket for one of those sightseeing tours that flies over the Strip and sneaks a peek at the Grand Canyon. I can’t begin to fathom how much money the paparazzi have spent chasing Dare, but I’d estimate it at roughly a crap ton. And yes, my heart beats just a little faster at the thought of having all his attention focused solely on me.
Or maybe that was the way he kissed. He may be the Prince of Pigs, but he’s also the King of Kisses. Corny? Get used to it. Dare brings out the best and the worst in me, and I kind of want to stick around and see what he’ll do next.
It’s ridiculous, seeing as how he’s a blue-blooded aristocrat and I’m not, but I think we have something in common. Because something tells me Dare spends most of his time running, hiding, or fighting—and he’s picked me. In that respect, we’re not so different from each other. Neither of us wants to be the center of attention. It’s just that we’ve developed different coping mechanisms. I hide behind my camera, and Dare . . . I don’t know what to think about him. But the crazy stunts and the way he draws the paparazzi out into a game of chase? I’m not sure any of it is accidental.