by Anne Marsh
So not happening.
I slap a hand over Elvis’s mouth.
“Do not.”
“Do.”
Funny how that one word, whispered in my ear, gets me so hot and bothered. It’s as if my body hasn’t gotten the memo that dominant males are bad for us. Smart women know that. Dare, the prince of bad boys, is worse for me than a deep-fried Twinkie on a stick. He’s fair food, a million calories of sweet wickedness that I’ll spend the next year working off at the gym.
“Do,” he repeats. Big hands find my hips, turning me effortlessly to face him. Is it childish that I don’t quite want to meet his gaze?
“I’m gonna be your king,” he growls.
And then I look at him, and I open my mouth because now I really have to say something—but I’ve made a fatal mistake.
He’s supposed to wait until the end, when the Elvis-in-charge declares you may kiss the bride, but he skips right ahead. Elvis is still revising on the fly, and I must nod my head, but who cares? Because Dare’s sliding a ring onto my finger and brushing his mouth over mine.
It’s our first kiss.
And it’s brief and precious. His lips are there and then gone, which is how our marriage is supposed to go.
Elvis is singing, Mr. Left and Mr. Right are frowning at the back of the chapel, and I think I just made the biggest, sexiest, scariest mistake of my life.
I married a prince.
“Mrs. Dare,” my prince whispers in my ear. Two simple words. No big deal. All sorts of people get married. The mailman, the construction worker building new homes behind your house and driving you crazy, the nice engineer who lives next door and fixes your Internet whenever it goes on the fritz. It makes perfect sense. It’s just that I’ve never thought of myself as someone’s Mrs. I didn’t think at all—and I always, always have a plan. A list. A backup plan or six.
I need to go home. I have clients, a project to photograph tomorrow. A portfolio to build, a life to live. Bills to pay.
The usual, unexciting stuff.
Dare’s mouth closes around my earlobe and his teeth sink ever so carefully into my skin. I suppress a shiver because I’m not supposed to want him.
Not really.
He’s the fantasy, the bad boy prince, the poster on my bedroom wall to which I jill off awkwardly. He’s not really supposed to be here, his big, warm palm pressing against the small of my back. My stupid, beautiful dress isn’t armor enough, and I want to rip it off anyhow and climb him like a monkey. I’ll lean up and he’ll lean down, and our mouths will meet perfectly and I’ll have my next, best kiss ever. It will be everything I’ve ever dreamed of—hot, sexy, dirty. We’ll forget all about our rented Elvis, the paparazzi stalking his footsteps, the stupid reasons for this pretend marriage. The only real thing will be us.
Let me ask you this: did you really see us ending up together? Joined in holy matrimony forever and ever?
Me neither.
Dare’s teeth graze my ear and I jerk. God. He’s good. Heat sears through me and I moan. An honest-to-god, my-panties-are-melting sound that carries to the back of the room. I never wanted either of my two boyfriends like this. Heck, I’ve never even lusted after a boy band or my neighbor Ledger or any random flirt like this. Dare tastes me, his tongue tracing some wicked message against my skin, and it’s better than any sex act I’ve ever been the recipient of. The man is magic.
He makes me feel . . . so much. I’m a normal, healthy woman. I have a fabulous imagination and I’m not ashamed to use it. But that simple touch, his mouth easing over my ear, his tongue licking the sensitive curve, sets me on fire. The kind of raging, out-of-control wild-land fire that consumes neighboring California once a decade and burns up everything and everyone in sight. I want to touch him. My hands itch to reach behind me and grab whatever I can. Hold on and bring him closer.
He makes me desperate.
He makes me—
Thinking dirty, dirty thoughts about a crowned head of state is probably a capital offense in a dozen countries. Not that my prince seems to mind. He makes a rough noise of his own, his big hands tightening on my willing body. He’s a prince. A someday king. He can’t ever be mine, not really, and that means I won’t end up his Mrs—I’ll just end up hurt.
Do I panic? Just a little. But I’m a mature, responsible, contractually obliged temporary princess. Not.
I turn and bolt down the aisle.
Chapter Six
Dare
Some people seek out the bright pop and flash of the cameras. For them, if the moment’s not caught in HD, it didn’t happen. Like my great-great-aunt who stores two million corgi pictures on her phone and scrolls through them one by one at every family dinner or my distant cousin twenty times removed who hosts a YouTube channel where people pay him to climb stupid shit, secretly hoping he’ll fall off. I’ve donated to that cause, myself.
Other people hide from paparazzi, but you have to give the photographers a bone. An angle. Something to capture in their shots. Otherwise, they’ll never back off.
Ask my dad how well running off worked for him.
Wait. You can’t. Because he ran, the paparazzi chased, and his chopper slammed into the ground doing one hundred twenty knots an hour. Speed didn’t work out so well for him, and the other passengers shared his unhappy ending. I lost my mother and father; Queenie lost his wife. The other bird pursuing them broke off its pursuit, but the damage was done. No one, not even a crown prince of Vale, can walk away from that kind of damage. The funeral was televised worldwide and my uncle pursued the photographers in court when what he really wanted was to run them through with a sword. Or toss them off Vale’s tallest mountain (my suggestion). Ever since then, I’ve had a no-photographers rule. I do a handful of carefully staged photo ops each year to keep the press off my back, and otherwise they chase and I elude.
So when Elvis declares us to be really, truly hound dog wed (whatever that means), I turn, resting my hand on the small of Edee’s back. Or at least that’s what I intend to do. Because as a flash goes off from the back of the room (son of a fucking bitch), she lurches around, and for a moment I think she might be about to hurl on my feet. She’s been drinking ever since we got engaged, and I should have taken better care of her. That’s okay. I’ll do better. From now on, I’ll be the best pretend husband ever. I’ll be the prince of her dreams. I’ll pretend to be someone far better than I am. I’ll—
My brain shuts down just like that. I blame the way I can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin layer of silk. It’s distracting. I need to press myself against it, to somehow get us skin to skin. Or maybe that’s just because I can feel the teasing edge of something else beneath my fingers, a soft outline of what’s probably her panties. Jesus, I hope she’s wearing a thong.
A thong.
Please God, let it be a thong. I love thongs—they’re the perfect runway for my tongue, a lace landing strip, the sexiest of arrows announcing lick me here. So hell to the yes, my brain (in both my big and little head) starts pumping out dirty images. Edee in hot pink. Or black lace. Or plain, practical cotton that’s wet because she’s entertaining a few wedding night fantasies of her own. My fingers curl, the silk of Edee’s wedding dress bunching up ever so slightly against my palm. One good tug and I could see for myself. Or I could waltz her stage right and use one of those charming faux Grecian pillars as discreet cover while I ravage her sweet body.
She looks up at me, and something expression crosses her face. Regret. Panic. Gas. Since I’m not Mr. Relationship, I’m out of my element here. I know how to read a woman’s O face but feelings . . . not so much.
She probably just realized she could have sold the pictures of our wedding for a shit ton of money. When I was fourteen, Nik and I snuck into a ball Queenie was hosting for the King of Somewhere Not Important. The party itself wasn’t important—it was the lesson I learned t
hat night. That being a prince was the golden ticket in the dating world. Would you have said no? I kissed my way through an entire bevy of ladies-in-waiting because sharing is important and there was plenty of me to go around. It’s good to be a prince, and even better to be a rich prince this side of thirty. We’re in short supply.
So . . . no.
Edee can’t possibly regret becoming Mrs. Prince. Whatever’s bothering her has to be something else and I’ll just have to distract her. With my tongue. Or my dick. It’s her wedding day, so I’ll let her choose. She leans back against me ever so gently, clearly reading my mind. God, she’s perfect. Pretty on the outside, dirty on the inside.
My thumb strokes up and down, and all I can think is that this is just the first place I’m touching her tonight. She’s—temporarily—mine and I can’t wait. I brush my palm over the sweet spot at the base of her spine before I cross an unspoken line and I’m touching her ass. I could go lower. Women let me. They love me, and it’s only partly the princely gig that gets them going. They want my title, my money, my celebrity. I’m a trifecta of attractiveness—and that’s before they get a good look at my amazing dick and learn firsthand that I know exactly what to do with my best part.
The DJ cues Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” and we’re supposed to turn, face our nonexistent guests, and walk down the makeshift aisle. I expect Edee to smile. I expect her to be happy because she’s just married a prince even if it’s a temporary arrangement. Her bank account’s about to inherit a windfall, after all.
Naturally, Edee doesn’t stick with the plan. I’m not quite sure how to interpret the expression that crosses her face. In theory, it might be pain. Or gas. I could ask her, but let’s be honest. I’d rather ask about her panties.
She holds her hand out in front of her face, the ginormous diamond on her hand catching the light better than any disco ball. I picked out the blingiest ring of them all for her because she deserves to shine.
I lean down until my mouth’s brushing her pretty ear. “Nothing but the biggest and the best for my princess.”
She snaps her hand down and inhales. Not a breathy, do-me-now sound, but an indignant huff of air. Pity. She’s not feeling playful.
“Do you ever think about anything but sex?” she asks as the music crescendos and Elvis shifts behind us. He can’t leave until we do, and from the stale whiskey fumes wafting our way, the man has some catch-up drinking to do.
Since my bride’s asked me a question, however, I give it some thought. For about two seconds. This is an easy one. “Priorities, princess.”
“So that’s a no.” She purses her lips.
How cute. We’re having our first marital disagreement.
“No,” I agree cheerfully.
She sighs, sounding a little sad—and more than a little drunk. “I haven’t had sex in years.”
And even though I’m a prince, which means life is practically required to rain nubile maidens and sexpots on me, I’m also an opportunistic bastard. Remember that.
“I’d be happy to help you with that problem.” I slide my arm around her waist and tug her back against me so she can feel exactly how much I’m on board with being her own personal Boy Scout and assisting her in her hour of need. I’m a helpful guy and the whole world knows it. The truth, sometimes helping others out results in deep personal satisfaction.
The kind of deep that comes when I’m balls-to-pussy and my companion is making a particularly world-famous part of me her own personal hobbyhorse. So Edee can complain all she wants about the lack of sex in her life, but the truth is, I’m well equipped to help her fix that problem.
“Generous of you,” she says dryly.
See? She’s totally thinking about it.
She also makes me grin. Edee’s smart and she’s funny. Honestly, if I have to be temporarily married to make my point to Queenie, Edee’s perfect. She’ll keep me entertained, plus she’s gorgeous.
I take a step down the aisle. Rose petals drift down from somewhere—the hotel really is impressive. “Ready for happily-ever-after?”
She looks up at me.
And I think I’m in more than a little trouble here.
Which totally explains the words that fly out of my mouth. “Ready for the honeymoon, Mrs. Dare?”
I like her. Just a little.
And I’d like to fuck the hell out of her.
Which is about all I’m good for, if we’re being completely honest. I’m not husband material, no matter what Queenie believes. I’m a quick fuck, a hot date, and a grainy photo in a tabloid.
Edee makes a small sound. A high-pitched noise, kind of like Sam’s favorite toy when I accidentally step on it. Sam’s my dog. He’s a Whoodle, part Wheaten Terrier, part poodle, and there’s no easier-going dog in the world. Plus, he’s loyal and 100 percent mine.
Loyalty doesn’t appear to something Edee’s feeling, however. Fantasies aside, I’m not sure what I expected to happen after Elvis finished joining us in holy matrimony. Hot sex, dirty sex, a cocktail . . . I’m open to suggestions, but Edee manages to surprise me. She hightails it down the aisle without waiting for me. Pretty sure my bodyguards are laughing their asses off.
Elvis slaps his hand on my shoulder. “Tough luck.”
Never let them see you at a loss.
I wink. Never let them see you sweat. It’s the cardinal rule of royal PR. Whatever happens, pretend it was all part of the plan. “She can’t wait for the wedding night.”
Morning.
I have no idea what the clock says, but it’s definitely playtime.
We in Vale have a few marital customs that are holdovers from a much earlier, more medieval century. For example, we still practice bride abduction. Today it’s all dressed up in legal documents and written permission slips, but two hundred years ago, my ancestors simply rode up to the church steps, grabbed their brides, and tossed them over their saddles. Many a long-lasting relationship was built on a saddle. Too crude for you? We’re not assholes on horseback. I promise you that. I promise to ask for permission.
I saunter after my bride.
I’m playing it cool. Okay, so I’m picking up the pace just a little as I hit the door. Edee’s too much fun to lose. She jiggles in all the best spots as she drunk-runs-staggers toward the elevator. Her tits bounce, the dress pulling around her ass. If the dress suddenly rips off her body like tissue paper in the next step or six, I’ll know the dressmaker channeled all my favorite fantasies. Or maybe the fire sprinklers will go off and we can add the wet-T-shirt contest to my spank bank material.
Edee leans hard to the left.
Shit. Possibly, I feel a prick of concern. I definitely pick up my pace. This is virgin territory for me, so I’m not certain.
I hate being uncertain.
Worse, I think that prickle of concern means . . . I want to take care of her? Uh-oh. I’ve taken care of bills, killed wolf-sized spiders, and cured the odd plumbing leak with a wrench and a liberal application of duct tape. I’m happy to spread my cash around because, like my amazing dick, I’ve got plenty to go around and I don’t believe in being selfish. Caring, however, isn’t something I’ve partaken of. Why would I help myself to the Brussels sprouts on the sexual smorgasbord when there are so many delicious cakes for me to eat?
I contemplate my unexpected character development for the three steps it takes me to catch up with her. Overthinking has never been one of my flaws. “Going somewhere without me, brown eyes?”
“I’m—” She frowns and lists to the right.
I’d prefer a complete sentence, but that sideways pitch? Yeah. That’s my cue to sweep her up in my arms. Too caveman for you? Yes, I should have asked. But then my blushing bride might be planted face down on some very ugly hotel carpeting. Plus, there’s always video of moments like this. You’d be amazed at how many of my shenanigans have ended up on YouTube.
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br /> My Valeian ancestors believed in marriage by abduction—they’d go out, chase down a likely mate, and toss her cute ass over their saddles. The apple apparently doesn’t fall far from the tree, because I run after her, toss her over my shoulder (horses being in short supply in the Royal Palace Resort and Casino), and hotfoot it down the hall to the private elevator.
“Hey.” She slaps my ass and not in a fun way.
Not that I’m really into spanking. I’m happy to tie a girl up and use my imagination, but anything else is begging for the kind of lawsuit and National Enquirer expose that no prince can afford.
“I’m going to puke,” she warns.
Good to know. I flip her off my shoulder and drop her into my arms. I like this position better anyhow.
Brown eyes glare up at me. “Put me down.”
“Taxi service.” I flick a finger gently against the tip of her nose. Putting her down wouldn’t be nearly as fun as carrying her.
She protests, or tries to. The words come out in a soft slur and her lashes are already drifting down. White stuff bunches up around us as I wrap my arms around her more tightly. It’s like we’ve been plunged into a snowstorm of epic proportions. I can barely fight way to the elevator panel to punch the button for our floor.
“I want to go home.” Edee makes a last-ditch effort at escaping as she tries to lever up in my arms, but she’s as stymied by the mountain of her dress as I am. We should have picked an A-line number. “Take me home.”
She stabs her finger into my chest. Bull’s-eye.
“I will,” I promise.
I’ve told you that I’m a prince. What I haven’t mentioned is that we princely types have a code; once I give my word, I keep it. Although, in this case, it’s going to be hard to give the lady what she wants tonight because it occurs to me that I don’t know where she lives. That seems like an important detail, doesn’t it?
The elevator doors slide closed. She’s totally trapped with me for the next ten seconds or so, and I intend to make the most of them. “Tell me where you live.”