Royally Hung

by Marsh, Anne

  I shut the door and lean against it, giving myself permission to breathe. Plus, Dare’s bathroom deserves appreciation even if I’m spending way too much time in here. Now that the drunk and awe have worn off, I have to give it its due. The walls are covered with dark gray artisanal tiles in an almost geometric pattern like a really expensive jigsaw puzzle. All that gray and white is soothing, but the pièce de résistance is the standalone tub that can hold two prince-sized bathers. I itch to fill it up and sink in. I could totally go for some bubbles therapy right now. It’s soothing and romantic, a discreet luxury that comes with a side of Turkish cotton. I feel like a princess standing here.

  Just in case I’ve been magically transformed, I close my eyes, pinch my arm, and open them. Nope. Not dreaming. I’m still standing in the bathroom of a penthouse suite with a prince waiting for me.

  A prince I puked on and then tried to get rid of.

  Honestly, it might be worth staying married for another night or two to get my hands on his tub. Or not. It’s hard to forget the paparazzi chasing us. I’d sneak out to buy a bag of Cheetos and find my guilty-treat-clutching self plastered all over the Internet. I’d have to give up leaving the house or reform, because I’d end up like those D-list celebrities you spot on the front page of the gossip sheets near the checkout in the grocery—the ones pictured with food babies or in cruelly unflattering bikinis.

  I give up and move to the ginormous sink. The woman staring back from the mirror looks less like a princess and more like an electrocuted hedgehog. My hair’s going in twelve different directions thanks to Dare’s insistence on sticking his fingers everywhere. I’m a less smooth version of Wendy after Peter flies her through the air. A mussed up Lois Lane after Superman sets her down. I don’t have a makeup artist and a team of stylists waiting in the wings to make me look perfect. So . . . fuck it. I like me just fine even if there are no hair product endorsements in my future.

  I need to return Dare’s rings. Trusting me with a monster-sized diamond is just stupid, plus it kind of feels like wearing a gigantic target for the paparazzi. I turn on the cold water and douse my ring finger. Ten minutes later, the skin around my wedding band is red and I’m no closer to getting the rings off.

  I shouldn’t have consumed that plate of nachos. La Salsa should probably be called La Salt the way I’m retaining water. I tug for the thousandth time and, like all the times before, the bands go nowhere.

  Soap. I need soap.

  Fortunately, if there’s one thing this bathroom has in abundance, it’s luxury beauty products. A quick rummage through the nearest drawer uncovers not one but three swank miniature soaps wrapped in gilt paper. Cedar, verbena, and cherry blossom—none of them do the trick. I try a dab of pomade from the bottles scattered across the country. I try spit. Yes, I am that desperate.

  I even sniff Dare’s cologne—although honestly that’s not because I think it’s the magic key to getting these stupid, ridiculous rings off my hand. I just love the way he smells. Don’t judge me. What I need are reinforcements. A better plan. Lube. Surely a certain playboy prince has a stock of personal lubricants somewhere, right?

  I pop open the door.

  Dare’s leaning against the bedroom wall, watching me. I do my best to duck his gaze because holy moly the man has serious bedroom eyes. I ignore the sleepy heat and the mischievous twinkle simmering behind it all that begs play with me. And I definitely pay no attention to the tension that radiates off him as I step into his bedroom.

  I absolutely don’t feel like a tasty virgin sacrifice staked out for a big, bad dragon to consume. I just need a little contribution from him, and then these rings will slide off, and . . . who am I kidding? He looks like a large predator, a cat about to pounce. He’s also lost his shirt yet again—the man seems constitutionally incapable of keeping his clothes on. His chest is a broad, muscled playground and my brain promptly shuts down.

  Why yes, yes, I would like to volunteer for staking.

  I might be drooling a little too obviously because he shoves off the wall, clearly intent on closing the distance between us. Bad idea. I throw up a hand in the universal back off gesture. You know—as opposed to the universal gesture for please, please take my panties off. If he gets any closer, I’ll tackle him to the floor. His jeans ride low on his hips, the denim cupping his royal assets. My dating life has never included such a pretty, pretty man.

  He ignores my slow-down signal. Or maybe he ignores me because I’m busy staring at his thighs—and the enormous monster dick he’s hiding behind his buttons.

  I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you have any K-Y Jelly?”

  A grin curls his sinful mouth. “What are we doing?”

  I hold up my ring finger. “This.”

  Big bare, muscled arms come down on either side of my head. “Where are you planning on putting your finger, Edee?”

  “Filthy boy,” I whisper, doing my best to not list possibilities for him. So many possibilities.

  His grin gets wider. “I’m happy to help you.”

  “Such a giver.” I put some space between us out of self-preservation. This just puts my back against the wall, which is not a good position from which to defend my quickly melting virtue.

  And like any good predator, he senses my weakness. He hooks a finger in the loop of my jeans and tows me back into the bathroom. And while the tub may be built for two, the doorway isn’t—so he rubs against me as we squeeze through.

  He steers me back toward the bathroom counter and opens a drawer. Guess I should have done some more searching. The Royal Palace Resort has thoughtfully provided dozens of single-use tubes of lube. What, exactly, do they think is going to happen in this bathroom?

  “Are we hosting an orgy?”

  His eyes dance. “Would you like to?”

  I randomly choose a tube. Oh goody. Fruit scented and self-heating. My finger is in for such a good time. “I need to get this stupid ring off.”

  His forehead crinkles. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I squirt lube on my finger and tug at the ring. The stupid thing still doesn’t budge.

  “Liar.” He steps into me.

  “Rude,” I counter. “Don’t they teach you manners in charm school for princes? Or were you out loafing that day?”

  “Do you know what the penalty is for lying to your king?” He’s teasing me, but his words . . . God, his words. I want to whip out my phone and record them so I can replay them over and over. Later. When I’m alone and have my hand down my panties.

  His arms come down around me again. He does this quite a lot, as if it’s his favorite position and he can’t get enough of it. I like it more than I should, too. He’s not quite touching me, just his bare skin brushing against my arms. Stupid cardigan. It’s like an arm condom cutting off sensation. I consider my options. I can move forward, but then I’m pretty much impaling myself on his dick and that’s a big step forward (hah) in our non-relationship. Or I can scoot backward and hope the hotel vanity is sturdier than it looks.

  I go with option B. I scootch my butt up onto the vanity with a well-timed but awkward hop. Dare has to shift quickly so I don’t accidentally nail him in the royal jewels. He has great reflexes—I’ll give him that. Plus, he immediately takes a step toward me and that means my legs open up. My knees hug his hips. It’s that or make a second attempt to knee him in the groin. Knowing him, he’d ask me to kiss him better—and I’d do it.

  His face darkens, as if he’s seriously bothered by my perceived unhappiness. It makes my stupid heart sit up and think I’m not just another face, that I could actually matter.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  He’s so cute when he goes all dark and broody on me.

  And even though I want to hit him with the truth, I don’t. “I’m fine.”

  He nods slowly. “Dinner with your friends wa
s fun.”

  “Yes?”

  “Although your taste in margaritas seriously sucks.”

  I shrug. “Mango margaritas count as a serving of fruit.”

  “Is it the photographers lying in wait?”

  I do some more shrugging. “That wasn’t fun, no.”

  Too bad life doesn’t come with a rewind button. I could pick and choose my favorite moments and play them over and over. Waking up next to Dare was nice. Or hey, if the universe is giving me a way back in a time machine, maybe I can revisit our ceremony.

  “It’s not nice to lie to your prince.” Those words, hoarse, husky, bedroom words—I don’t want to hold back anymore when I hear them. This marriage was supposed to be a sham. I’m an Uber in the world of relationships and he’s just taking me wherever it is he wants to go. I’m getting paid.

  I don’t get to want more.

  But . . . I might.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.” His mouth brushes mine. Tentative, as if he’s either teasing—or not sure of his welcome.

  I don’t know how to explain it to him. When you go to the fair and play one of those stupid games where you toss tennis balls into fishbowls so you can win cheap prizes, no one asks the goldfish if it wants to go home with you. If it wants the whole world looking at it and hurling missiles at its house. It just gets carted around the fair in a plastic bag with nowhere to hide and nowhere to go.

  “I can’t live like this,” I tell him. “Not in a fishbowl. Not on public display. You have helicopters buzzing you. People actually chase you at high speeds just because they want a picture of your pretty face. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “No choice,” he says. “Although my pretty face is at your disposal.”

  “Your life sucks,” I tell him. Huh. All that money and he’s no happier than the rest of us.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me.” I’m about to, of course, but then he freaking nips my bottom lip. Hard. Oh no. He did not just do that. I open my mouth to protest—or bite back—and he presses a finger against my mouth. “You want me to kiss everything better?”

  Yes. Yes, I do. But I’m not making this man, pretty as he is, into my personal dildo. Because he’s more than just a prince or a pretty face, he’s a man, one I like when I don’t want to kill him.

  “It’s better when you don’t talk.” Yes, I sigh. I might even cross my arms over my chest because I’m out of words, too.

  Dare gets a mischievous look in his eye. “I’m not hearing a no, Edee.”

  I’m so weak.

  “Fuck self-control,” I mutter.

  “Totally overrated,” he agrees solemnly.

  I smile at him. There’s no stopping the big, goofy, face-splitting grin curving my mouth. He’s so bad for me and I already know how this story ends. No matter what happens here in his bathroom—or on his bed or up against the wall or in any one of a dozen other sexable places—we’re going to part at the end. Orgasms for all, but don’t let the door hit my ass on the way out. He warned me this was temporary, and he’s not Mr. Longevity anyhow. Me? I’m Ms. Monogamous. I don’t share.

  Dare kisses the tip of my nose.

  Okay. Wait.

  I scrunch said nose up. It’s a fine nose, it works, and it’s neither obnoxiously large nor stupidly perky, but it is also not an erogenous zone. “That’s your big sexy times ploy? I thought you had a reputation.”

  “Shush.” He shifts tactics, grasping my hips with his hands and yanking me to the edge of the vanity. This is marginally better, but I’m thinking I should have stuck with recording his dirty banter and going for the gold in self-pleasuring later on.

  Maybe I’m the first to complain? Maybe it’s an off-with-her-head offense to critique a prince’s seduction skills? “Somebody needs to work on your flirting skills.”

  “Shhh.” He winks devilishly. “One of us is busy.”

  And then God, he totally does get busy. My heels go flying across the bathroom and I don’t even care those are the three hundred dollar Stuart Weitzmans that I got on sale for a steal. He goes to work on my jeans and panties next, stripping them off. It’s possibly the least sexy undressing ever, but I have to give him props for efficiency.

  “What are you doing?” Okay. So I have a pretty good idea, but I like to know what to expect. I mean, it’s possible I misunderstood.

  “Kissing you better,” he says and drops to his knees.

  Oh God. He’s going from zero to sixty, just like that? “Most people start with something a little less personal,” I point out.

  He’s on his knees. Which puts him on eye level with—well, you can figure it out. Let’s just say I’m not quite ready for this kind of close up. Plus, the position is awkward because the vanity’s only so big and the marble top is cold. And what if I get cum on it? Or—

  Dare drags my legs over his shoulder. When he exhales, I can feel him. Right there.

  And I can’t—

  I—

  Big hands slide under my butt and cup me.

  “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. I feel those words, too, and okay, maybe I can get on board with this plan.

  I wiggle, trying to get closer and the bastard laughs. He cradles me, holding me still so he can look at me. Please, please do something. Awkwardness be damned. I don’t care. The anticipation is killing me.

  “So pretty.”

  Prince or no prince, I’m considering strangling him. I don’t know whether to close my eyes or just keep on staring down at the top of his head. His dark red hair is tousled and all messed up. Some shameless hussy must have run her fingers through it and he looks so freaking beautiful. He totally looks like he should be a king. Possibly of demons or imps from hell because he looks up and winks at me. And that naughty, happy look lighting up his eyes makes me want to start singing gospel music because there’s a whole chorus of fucking hallelujahs singing through my body.

  I tighten where he’s looking at me until I’m all quivery.

  He says something. Don’t care. I smack his shoulder.

  “Stop teasing.”

  “So demanding,” he says, voice dark with need.

  It’s so nice to have a man understand me, but I feel the need to clarify because we either need to get to the good part or I’m going to die of embarrassment on top of this very expensive vanity. “Now,” I command.

  “As you wish.” Five o’clock shadow rasps my inner thigh. I might have to ban daily shaving. And then he covers my sex with his mouth and it’s game over for me because yes, yes, he does know what he’s doing.

  His tongue tickles my clit.

  My hips shoot up into the air, my heels digging into his back as I try for more leverage. He chuckles and holds me down effortlessly. And then he goes to town on me. Or maybe it’s an entire state. A fucking country. He is a prince, after all. His mouth and his tongue are everywhere, licking and stroking. He spreads me wide with his tongue and I ride his face like there’s no tomorrow. He makes me feel so freaking amazing. The pleasure twists and grinds through me until I’m bucking. I might do some whimpering and cursing, too, but I don’t care.

  Don’t care.

  Because—

  I squeeze his head hard with my thighs, dignity and grace abandoned because I’m coming so hard that I see stars. An entire, obscene, amazing galaxy of supernovas. Heart drumming in my ears, legs quivering, I let everything go and trust Dare to catch me. Oh God. A tear leaks down my cheek, or maybe that’s because my head lands hard on the mirror.

  Again? Don’t care.

  I collapse however I can because moving would require a miracle and I’m pretty sure I just experienced the Rapture. I’ve got just enough brain cells left to start worrying about whether I’ve suffocated the prince of Vale with my enthusiasm and to summon enough energy to look down.

  He turns his head, resting his cheek on my thig
h. I’m sure it’s not my vagina’s most flattering angle, but I can’t bring myself to care.

  A smile curves his gorgeous, wet mouth. “All better?”

  The temptation to lie is strong so I can take a second dose of Dr. Dare’s cure for unhappiness.

  “Getting there,” I compromise.

  “Good.” He flows to his feet.

  God, he’s beautiful. He’s also wearing way too many clothes. I reach for the buttons on his jeans. Reciprocity in a relationship is important. Or maybe I’m just grateful for the first non-solo orgasm I’ve had in almost a year.

  His hand covers mine. “Stay with me?”

  There’s only one possible answer and I give it. “Yes.”

  After all, how do you say no when Prince Charming goes down on his knees before you? And turns out having the world’s most amazing oral skills. You wouldn’t think his dick could live up to that, but it does. Trust me, it does.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dare

  Edee tastes amazing.

  She sounds even better.

  Feels best.

  Fuck, but I need this woman. Her fingers work the buttons of my jeans trying to get her hands on the massive bulge I’m packing for her, her scent filling the air around me. And just this once, I don’t stick to the script. I should be kissing her, taking control of what happens next, building her up to the next orgasm but instead . . . I give myself a moment to breathe her in. Sometimes, it’s good to savor my treat and I don’t want to rush this.

  She pops my topmost button. Bingo. Her fingers skim beneath my Calvins and rub the top of my dick. The breath I’m holding hisses out between my teeth and waiting any longer to claim my princess would be torture. And while the military trained me in interrogation tactics—and how to resist them—Edee’s mine.

  My wife.

  Wife. That word doesn’t quite compute. We’re married but not really, so I decide not to think about it any longer. I don’t have to call her wife. Not when I can call her mine. Or maybe I should come up with a pet name for her? Baby, darling, sweetheart—